Lord of the Isles

Duncan set her suitcase beside the four-poster bed. “It’s chil y in here,” he said as he crouched beside the stone fireplace across from the bed. “I’l get a fire going and leave you to freshen up. You can take a wee lie-down if you’d like, Ali. You’re probably tired from your long jour

ney. Afterwards you can join my wife and me for supper and then I’l take you over to the hotel, if you’d like.”

“If you’re sure it’s no trouble I’d love to.” Her gaze was drawn to the window and the breathtaking view. Dunvegan sat on top of a rocky hil with a rain-swept lake at its feet and cloud-draped hil s beyond.

“There, you’re al set, lass,” Duncan pronounced, rub

bing the soot from his palms onto the sides of his brown corduroy pants before heading for the door. As soon as the door closed behind him, Ali stripped off her wet clothing. She laid them over the chintz-covered chair, but not before retrieving a white towel from the foot of the bed to protect the obviously expensive piece of fur niture. Everything in the castle looked as though it be

longed in a museum. Ali gave a rueful grin. It was a museum, and if she planned on using her paycheck to pay off her loan, she’d better not damage anything. Settling her suitcase on the big bed with its opulent scar let coverings and mounds of pil ows, Ali flipped it open. She pul ed out a long black T-shirt—her nightwear of choice—

and slipped it over her stil -damp head. Anxious to warm her chil ed bones, Ali walked to the fireplace and sat on a smal

LORD OF THE ISLES

11

area rug in front of the roaring blaze. Tugging a brush through her hair, she studied the tapestry that took up most of the white plastered wal on the opposite side of the room. It depicted a battle in al its gruesome glory, and Ali was thankful she hadn’t been born back then—an era when bloodshed was an everyday occurrence, and life, at least in her opinion, held little value.

The shiver that ran through her had nothing to do with the cold. Ali couldn’t abide violence of any kind. She turned away from the tapestry, afraid she’d have nightmares if she didn’t. Running her fingers through her hair and finding it dry, Ali walked to the bed and crawled beneath the crisp, cool sheets. She sighed—heavenly. Ali snuggled into the warmth that enveloped her and drifted off to sleep.

“Uhmm,” she murmured when a heavy hand caressed her thigh. Sliding the stretchy fabric over her hips, the man kneaded her bottom, pressing her to his long, powerful body. Ali groaned. This was one dream she didn’t want to wake up from. Al she wanted to do was get rid of the ma

terial that bunched between her and the man in her dreams, Rory MacLeod. It seemed he had the same idea. He tugged the T-shirt over her head, and she lifted her arms to help him. Free from the confines of her nightshirt, she wrapped a leg over his, stroking the taut muscles beneath her hand. A deep, husky voice whispered in her ear words she didn’t understand, but she didn’t care, not with his big hand cupping her breast. Ali arched her back, her body begging for more. She heard a low chuckle, and gasped when he squeezed her breast, tweaking the puckered nipple between strong, cal oused fingers. She nuzzled his chest, inhaling his heady, masculine scent before she lifted her face for a kiss. His mouth closed over hers—hot, so very hot—and he swal lowed her moan of pleasure. His tongue dueled with hers, exploring with a tenacity that left her weak with desire. She 12

Debbie Mazzuca

quivered with anticipation when he trailed his fingers over the heated flesh between her thighs, inching his way to her moist core. Ali shuddered. She’d never had an erotic dream before and was afraid to open her eyes, not wanting him or his fingers to disappear. She didn’t want to wake up, not when it felt so good. She’d rather sleep forever. He raised his mouth from hers. “Ah, Bree, my love, I’ve missed you.”

Ali stiffened. What the hell did he just say?

It was bad enough the men in her life wanted someone else—what was wrong with her that she couldn’t even sat isfy them in her dreams? Before she had a chance to mul over her ineptitude with men, he took her nipple deep into the heat of his mouth and suckled. Ali shifted, pressing her breast to his lips, rocking her hips against the hard, banded muscles of his thigh. She was close, so close. Rubbing harder, faster, she anchored herself with a hand to his side. Her dream lover cursed, loudly, and shoved her aside. Ali blinked, and slowly turned her head. In the dim light of the flickering candle she saw him: big, powerful, and grimacing in pain. She scrunched her eyes shut and took a steadying breath.

He wasn’t real.

He couldn’t be.

It’s just a dream, Ali. You were thinking about the man before you went to sleep, that’s all it is—an illusion. Ali opened her eyes one at a time. Biting the inside of her lower lip, she pinched the big arm that lay on top of the covers, jumping when a guttural curse exploded from his lips. He was real, and he was in her bed. Ali screamed and tried to scramble from the bed, tug

ging her entangled foot from the sheets. Thud.

She fel onto the cold, hard floor.

Chapter 2

Ali didn’t have time to contemplate the damage to her lower anatomy, not with the pounding of running feet coming closer. The last thing she wanted was to be caught bare assed on the floor by Duncan Macintosh. She scanned the room for somewhere to hide. Seeing no other choice, she scurried beneath the bed in time to hear the door crash open. Beneath the heavy canopy of timber, she saw two men rush into the room. Duncan Macintosh was not one of them. Afraid if she could see them they’d see her, Ali shuffled far

ther into the shadows. The men spoke in hushed tones at the entrance of the room. Certain she was soon to be discov

ered, Ali felt around for her T-shirt. Relieved when her fin

gers came in contact with the stretchy fabric, she careful y pul ed it toward her. Her muscles tightened as cold from the floor seeped into her skin.