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Authors: Allie Mackay
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delicious molten heat. Despite her aggravation. The dark-frowning scoundrel was simply that gorgeous, his deep Scottish burr that potently seductive.
Mara frowned, bit down hard on her lower lip.
Could she have imagined the whole thing?
The sinfully handsome Highlander she'd caught lounging in her bed? His bold and sexual stare?
The way his heavy-lidded gaze had slid over her body? Arrogant and knowing, each assessing, intimate sweep across her breasts or down her legs outraging her and making her feel… naked.
Undressed and exposed.
As if he knew how long it'd been since she'd enjoyed an orgasm. Maybe even that she'd never even had a real one. The world-stopping, heart-pounding, and rollicking release she suspected he gave every female he treated to the erotic thrills of his hard, beautiful body.
Yes, that was it.
The true reason for his searing, soul-piercing stare.
He'd not only wished to lay claim to her bed; his indecently brazen perusal declared he could have her as well.
In his bed, and beneath him.
Any way he wanted her.
Mara shuddered and touched cold fingers to her brow, pressed hard against her temples. No, he couldn't have been real. Hadn't been there one moment only to vanish the next. Truth was, she'd been through a lot lately. After all, it wasn't every day that a girl from Philadelphia inherited a castle.
Especially a girl from the wrong side of Philadelphia.
Frowning, she plucked at a loose thread in the bed coverings. Then, ready to blame the disturbing episode on exhaustion or an overactive imagination, she blew out an irritated breath and leaned back against the pillows.
Unfortunately, her gaze fell upon the nightgown.
The goonie.
A trickle of apprehension slid down her spine. If she'd imagined the incident, there wouldn't be a rip in the nightgown. A careful inspection of the material would prove whether or not the hottie Scottie from Dimbleby's back room had or hadn't been in her bedchamber.
Slowly, as if the crumpled white gown might turn into a snake and bite her, she inched her hand across the bedcovers, reaching for the goonie before she lost her nerve.
Then she pulled the thing onto her lap for a thorough examination.
Her probing fingers didn't have far to seek.
Four two-inch rips marred the gown. Two slashes at chest level, one on the front and one on the back, and two at thigh level, also on the front and back.
And the tears matched perfectly, as if a dagger had been thrust right through the folded gown.
Mara felt a stab of panic. She stared at the goonie, the morning's brightness spiraling away. Even the piper ended his jaunty tune, the lively skirls fading to nothingness as hot and cold chills swept her.
She swallowed hard, her heart thumping. She shouldn't be surprised. She'd known the dagger wouldn't be there. Just as she'd known the rips in the nightgown would be. But she also knew she'd be damned if she'd spend the day hiding under the covers.
She certainly wouldn't cower.
There had to be a logical explanation.
But without her morning coffee, she could think of only two possible courses of action.
First she'd search the room. If she found the dagger, she'd have to admit that hunky had been there.
If not, and she liked this idea best, the goonie was already torn before someone placed it on her bed. In that case, she'd simply ask the maids to verify the gown's condition.
That decided, she sent another glance into the corner and slipped from the bed. She made straight for the oaken wardrobe, but her eyes widened the instant she opened the double doors. Someone had arranged her things. Everything had been painstakingly folded or hung on padded hangers.
The scent of heather streamed out from the tidy shelves, and on closer inspection she saw tiny sachets tucked between her clothes. Like the padded hangers, the sachets boasted the MacDougall colors.
Staring at the familiar tartan pattern, a never-before sense of ancestral pride filled her. Ravenscraig was her new
Mara frowned, bit down hard on her lower lip.
Could she have imagined the whole thing?
The sinfully handsome Highlander she'd caught lounging in her bed? His bold and sexual stare?
The way his heavy-lidded gaze had slid over her body? Arrogant and knowing, each assessing, intimate sweep across her breasts or down her legs outraging her and making her feel… naked.
Undressed and exposed.
As if he knew how long it'd been since she'd enjoyed an orgasm. Maybe even that she'd never even had a real one. The world-stopping, heart-pounding, and rollicking release she suspected he gave every female he treated to the erotic thrills of his hard, beautiful body.
Yes, that was it.
The true reason for his searing, soul-piercing stare.
He'd not only wished to lay claim to her bed; his indecently brazen perusal declared he could have her as well.
In his bed, and beneath him.
Any way he wanted her.
Mara shuddered and touched cold fingers to her brow, pressed hard against her temples. No, he couldn't have been real. Hadn't been there one moment only to vanish the next. Truth was, she'd been through a lot lately. After all, it wasn't every day that a girl from Philadelphia inherited a castle.
Especially a girl from the wrong side of Philadelphia.
Frowning, she plucked at a loose thread in the bed coverings. Then, ready to blame the disturbing episode on exhaustion or an overactive imagination, she blew out an irritated breath and leaned back against the pillows.
Unfortunately, her gaze fell upon the nightgown.
The goonie.
A trickle of apprehension slid down her spine. If she'd imagined the incident, there wouldn't be a rip in the nightgown. A careful inspection of the material would prove whether or not the hottie Scottie from Dimbleby's back room had or hadn't been in her bedchamber.
Slowly, as if the crumpled white gown might turn into a snake and bite her, she inched her hand across the bedcovers, reaching for the goonie before she lost her nerve.
Then she pulled the thing onto her lap for a thorough examination.
Her probing fingers didn't have far to seek.
Four two-inch rips marred the gown. Two slashes at chest level, one on the front and one on the back, and two at thigh level, also on the front and back.
And the tears matched perfectly, as if a dagger had been thrust right through the folded gown.
Mara felt a stab of panic. She stared at the goonie, the morning's brightness spiraling away. Even the piper ended his jaunty tune, the lively skirls fading to nothingness as hot and cold chills swept her.
She swallowed hard, her heart thumping. She shouldn't be surprised. She'd known the dagger wouldn't be there. Just as she'd known the rips in the nightgown would be. But she also knew she'd be damned if she'd spend the day hiding under the covers.
She certainly wouldn't cower.
There had to be a logical explanation.
But without her morning coffee, she could think of only two possible courses of action.
First she'd search the room. If she found the dagger, she'd have to admit that hunky had been there.
If not, and she liked this idea best, the goonie was already torn before someone placed it on her bed. In that case, she'd simply ask the maids to verify the gown's condition.
That decided, she sent another glance into the corner and slipped from the bed. She made straight for the oaken wardrobe, but her eyes widened the instant she opened the double doors. Someone had arranged her things. Everything had been painstakingly folded or hung on padded hangers.
The scent of heather streamed out from the tidy shelves, and on closer inspection she saw tiny sachets tucked between her clothes. Like the padded hangers, the sachets boasted the MacDougall colors.
Staring at the familiar tartan pattern, a never-before sense of ancestral pride filled her. Ravenscraig was her new
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