Chapter Seven

Heather couldn’t get away fast enough. “That was a close call,” she muttered. She’d have to be faster on her feet to outrun this insane attraction she had for the hunky Scot. The man was simply luscious, sitting there with everything exposed. Although she’d noticed some frightening scars, shoving from her thoughts how he must have gotten them, the rest of him beckoned for her to touch—to taste.

“Smells great.” Burt’s sudden appearance jerked her from the heated images building in her mind.

He grabbed a plate and filled it with meatloaf and salad, then took a seat at the table.

“Let’s hope you think it tastes as great, too,” she said, and placed a glass of milk in front of him. “And after dinner, I want your dirty clothes. I thought I’d do a load of laundry tonight.”

“I thought ’twas up to us to do our own washing?” Erin appeared wearing a clean pair of lounge pants and a t-shirt, both belonging to his uncle, no doubt, and an infectious grin.

She reminded herself that he was totally off limits and took a slow breath to steady her resolve. “I’m afraid of what either of you might do to the washer or your clothes. Borrowed clothes, that is. And where did you find those?”

“There was a wee cubby of clean clothes in the bathing chamber.” He moved beside her where she stood at the sink, his voice low. “And ’twas for the best, for I didna think you could bear seeing me in just a bit of drying cloth, sweeting. No’ with how you looked at me before.” With a wink, he took a plate and filled it, then seated himself at the table.

She sucked in a breath while he wasn’t looking and plucked a beer from the fridge. It really galled her how much he noticed, but she refused to let him get to her.

She plunked the beer down in front of him. “You have one enormous ego, MacLean. And don’t call me sweeting.”

He snatched her hand before she could spin away and placed the faintest kiss upon the back. “I thank you, Heather, for a fine meal.”

“You haven’t even tasted it yet.” She hated the lack of bravado in her voice. She was practically melting at the man’s feet, for pity’s sakes. Maybe after dinner she should just go out and stand in the blizzard. That would shock some sense into her…she hoped.

“It doesna matter. You did this for me, for us, and I am grateful.” He kissed her hand again and let his fingers slip away, torturing her skin with the sweet caress.

“Yeah, thanks, Heather,” Burt said.

Lifting her gaze to his, she smiled. “You’re welcome, honey.” She moved to sit down, and Erin jumped up and pulled out her chair for her. “Thank you.”

“You are most welcome, sw—uh, Heather.”

She grinned at his stumble, while he chuckled. Once he was seated, they began to eat and chat a bit about the workout. She did her best not to let them see the faint shiver at the thought of the kind of injury one of those swords could do to a person. But was thankful they’d not had any accidents.

Afterward, Erin cleared the table while Burt took the hint from him and loaded the dishwasher.

“Well, thanks, guys,” she said.

“Hey, you cooked, we clean.” Burt shrugged. “Seems fair to me.”

“Aye, ’tis a fair and just repayment for your work.”

“But you never had to do dishes before,” she reminded him.

“Nay, but that doesna mean I didna work. I may have servants for such things as cooking and dishes, but my life wasna filled with idleness. There was much work to be done.”

She leaned back against the counter and grinned. “So no bon-bon popping for you, huh?”

His brow furrowed, and she and Burt let out a laugh. “No sitting around eating sweets,” she explained.

He shook his head. “Nay. There were borders to check, grievances to be settled between clansmen, and my brother-in-law was—is building a new gate with a stronger wall.”

She shook her head. “A new gate? Why on earth would he do that? I mean, it’s not like you’re preparing for invasion or anything.”

He stilled in washing the stainless-steel bowl she’d used to prepare dinner, then looked at her, his gaze solemn. “’Tis the life of a clan in the seventeenth century. There is naught else I can say.”

They studied one another for several moments, and she knew there was more. “You mean, there’s a lot more you could say, but you choose not to. Is that it?” she asked.

“Aye. For now.”

“Alright. But someday I want the whole story.”

“And you will have it.”

After she gave him a lesson on how to operate the dishwasher, they relaxed a bit in front of the television, with Heather getting up to check on the laundry from time to time. Erin had done everything he could to have her sit next to him upon the soft cushions, but she curled her sweet form into a large chair, complaining that he and Burt took up all the room on the couch.

It wasn’t long before they all made for bed. Burt was most pleased by his new digs, as he called it, but Erin had not missed the boy’s look as Erin watched Heather disappear into her room. His desire for her, for a woman he’d known for less than a day, was growing with every passing minute, and was plain to see. He hoped the lad would not challenge him, should he think he was dishonoring her, for that was a challenge, the first of Erin’s life, that he would have to forfeit.

With a quick goodnight to the boy, he closed the door to his chamber and went to bed, knowing his dreams would be filled with her. It was both plague and pleasure.

****

A faint murmur, almost a soft cry, bore its way to Erin’s ear and brought him out of a most interesting dream. He’d looked about the room with a frantic start, not remembering where he was, then the unusual happenings of the past few days floated to the surface of his foggy mind.

The moan sounded through the door again, and he went to find its source, thinking perhaps it was Burt and one of his odd games. He needn’t fear there were intruders, as such a thing was not common in this time or place.

With a chuckle, he made his way to the door. He was the intruder, as were Burt and Heather. No, it was likely one of the games, or the television. Mayhap even something as simple as the wind.

He opened the door and eased into the hall. A small cry pierced the silence, and his heart stuttered in his chest. That was no wind, and there was no light under Burt’s door.

Pausing at Heather’s room, he placed an ear to the door. The sounds of a struggle, although faint, crept through the wood. Although he preferred to have his sword, if not his dagger at hand, he turned the handle with a silent twist and peered into the shadowy room.

It was as he thought. The lass was having a nightmare. She struggled with the bed linens as she flailed her arms and kicked her legs. She would not care for his assistance, but he could not bear to see her suffer the workings of whatever nighttime demon stalked her.

He moved closer to the bed on soundless feet, thinking of anything but the bare skin of her leg sticking out from beneath the covers, or the way the moonlight caught in her fair hair. Each stride was a difficult one, but when she shouted out, he froze in mid-step.

She was pleading with someone, begging them in Gaelic. How in heaven had she learned that? Even he rarely spoke the old tongue any longer.

He placed a hand on her forehead. “Heather, lass, wake up. You’re dreaming.”

She clutched his hand and pulled him close. “Nay! Doona hurt her!”

He gently slid into the bed near the top and held her against his bare chest while murmuring softly. “Hush, lass. I willna let anyone harm you.”

Tears fell from her closed eyes upon his chest, and he ached for whatever torment she was reliving. Whatever was in her past, it haunted her in her sleep, but why in Gaelic? Why with a Scottish lilt to her words? Had his presence altered her dreams so much?

“I canna leave ye,” she whimpered, then calmed to soft weeping and various mutterings, some in Gaelic, others unintelligible, and all with the sound of the Highlands in her voice.

As she continued to mutter, much of what she was reliving became clear, and he knew, deep in his soul that her dream was not of this time, and not just a dream. Someone fearing for her safety had sent her away. But who and when, and how had she come to be here, lying in his arms in this century?

Several minutes passed, and her weeping ceased as the dream released her. He knew the moment she realized where she was and that she was holding tight to him.

She jerked upright and looked at him through tear soaked lashes. Before she had a chance to explode, he placed a single finger to her soft lips. “You were dreaming, lass. Crying out.”

She sat back and glared at him. “So you just thought you’d climb into bed with me?” she asked, her accent gone, and her speech as it was before.

Instinct told him he should not mention what she had dreamed. “Aye, when you pulled me in.” It was the truth, more or less.

She opened her mouth, then snapped it closed.

“Fear not, sweeting. I only held you while you worked your way through it. ’Tis all.” He eased from the bed to stand beside it.

“What’s going on?” Burt said, as he appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes.

She looked between them both, a dark crease between her brows. “I had a nightmare. Go back to bed, Burt.”

The lad glanced at him, then with a hesitant nod, returned to his room.

With a silent thanks to the Heavens that the lad had not seen him in her bed, Erin turned toward the door. “I wish you pleasant dreams, sweeting.”

“Don’t call me sweeting!”

He stopped in midstride and looked back at her. “Verra well—leannan.”

She cast him a scowl so comical, he had to choke back his laugh as he closed her door behind him. Perhaps she would learn that it meant sweetheart, but only if she remembered her Gaelic, he thought with a wide grin that fell almost as fast as it came.

Was she truly of a different era? And if so, why did she not remember? And was that in some way why he came to this particular place and time? To meet her, to help her—to love her?

****

Heather didn’t sleep well after Erin left her bedroom. It was just as well, after the nightmare she’d had, she wouldn’t have slept anyway. It was still far too fuzzy, but she’d been so afraid. All she could remember was running, but from whom or from what?

She rubbed the back of her head, testing the small bump on her head from her fall the previous day. She’d fallen in her dream too and smacked her head on something. Maybe the fall in the kitchen had stirred up a memory, one long buried.

They’d said she’d been hurt when she was little, that she’d had a concussion. But she didn’t remember any of that. All she could recall of her childhood beginnings was the orphanage. Maybe she’d knocked loose a few memories with her fall. It was possible, she supposed, even if it did sound sort of cliché.

Hours later as she dressed, she remembered waking to the sight of Erin’s handsome face, and his bare chest beneath her cheek, the warmth of him, the rich scent that seemed his alone, and his powerful arms wrapped snugly around her.

She let herself have one long appreciative sigh, then shoved it all aside. He was off limits, regardless of how good he felt, or how kind he was. She needed no entanglements with the handsome Scot. After all, he was always calling her sweeting, which she hated. And yet, he’d called her something new as he’d left her room. His low voice, the faint burr rolling from his lips as he spoke sent renewed tingles down her spine.

Leannan.

What did it mean? She knew it was Gaelic, although she had no idea how she knew that. She’d never heard it spoken before. Or had she?

She closed her bedroom door behind her with a firm tug. “It sucks not to remember where you came from,” she muttered, as she made her way to the kitchen.

Neither Erin nor Burt were up yet that she could see, so she started the coffee and made a little toast for herself while she ran the word over and over again in her mind. Leannan. Leannan.

“Hey there, sleepyhead,” Burt said, coming in from the outdoors.

She glanced at the clock and realized she must have lain in bed much longer than she thought trying to remember, because it was almost nine. “Not sleeping, just—thinking.”

“’Bout what?” he asked, his mouth full of a bite of apple.

“About my nightmare, and don’t talk with your mouth full.”

He made a face. “Geez, you sound like Miss Stemple.”

“In this case, the old bat is right. No one wants to see your half-chewed food. Keep it to yourself.”

He shrugged and grabbed a soda from the fridge.

“So what were you doing outside?” she asked. “It’s freezing out there.”

“Me and Erin were looking around in the garage. We found a pair of cool snowmobiles and a really sweet ride under a tarp. But Erin said we can’t touch the stuff.”

“I remember. He promised his uncle he wouldn’t drive his SUV.”

“Does that include the snowmobiles?”

“Well, I suppose it’s all in how you look at it.” Which was a familiar angle from her handy playbook. She’d managed to justify everything considered wrong she’d ever done by looking at it from a different perspective. It was key to her survival.

But there was one thing she couldn’t get a good angle on, she realized, as Erin walked through the kitchen door and her face heated.

“Look at what?” he asked.

“We were talking about the snowmobiles,” Burt said. “Do they count as not driving? I mean, they’re not really cars or anything. You don’t have to have a license for them. Think your uncle would mind if we went for a ride on those?”

Erin looked at Heather. “I doona know. I could call and ask him. But I have ne’er driven a snowmobile. Have either of you?”

Heather took her cup to the sink, unable to bear Erin’s steady gaze. Could he read her mind? Did he know she was thinking about last night, about them together in her bed?

Who was she kidding? Erin was no fool. She’d bet her butt he’d made enough women blush back home to know what was on her mind.

“It can’t be much different from the tractors and stuff at the orphanage,” Burt said, breaking the path of her dangerous thoughts.

“Tractors?” asked Erin.

She turned and faced them, wishing her heart would slow down and follow the strict instructions her common sense was screaming at the rest of her body.

“The orphanage has a farm. All the kids take turns tending it. Those that are big enough are taught how to run the small tractors. They’re used to turn the soil.”

She looked at Burt and figured he was due a thrill now and then. He’d had it harder than her at the orphanage. His parents had dumped him there when he was old enough to remember them and to understand what was happening.

“Burt can handle a snowmobile, but you definitely should ask your uncle,” she said. She started for the library across from the living room. “I’ve got some things to do, so you boys have a good time. I’ll make some chili for lunch.” As she disappeared through the doorway, she called back over her shoulder. “Wear warm clothes and be careful!”

Opening the library door, she laughed at herself. “I sound just like a mother.” But Erin was no little boy that needed tending.

Shaking her head, not wanting to go down that rabbit hole again where he was concerned, she began a fervent search for a book about Gaelic, doubting she’d be successful.