Tempting the Highlander (Pine Creek Highlanders #4)

Chapter Nineteen

C atherine woke up expecting that she was home in her bed, that the breath she felt on her neck…and the weight across her legs…and the hand tucked inside her pajamas between her breasts…all belonged to Nora.

But she opened her eyes and discovered she was still locked in her fantastical dream, that Robbie MacBain was the one taking such intimate liberties with her body, and that Ian MacKeage had nearly rolled into the dying fire and was snoring loudly enough to wake the dead.

So, what would Dorothy do upon finding herself still in Oz—not with a tin man and a lion and a scarecrow but with an owl, an aging warrior, and a handsome knight who wanted her to believe they had traveled through time?

“Are you second-guessing your promise not to run?” Robbie whispered in her ear.

She turned her head to look at him. “I keep my promises.”

He kissed her cheek and pulled her more firmly against him. “How’s the dream working out for you this morning?”

“Pretty well, actually,” she said, covering his hand between her breasts, pressing it closer instead of pulling it away. “Because if this were real and I found myself waking up with you wrapped around me, I’d likely have a panic attack.”

His eyes sparkled in the rising sunlight, and he moved his thumb just a bit, just enough to brush the inside of her left breast. “So you’re saying that since it’s only a dream, I could make love to you and you wouldn’t be afraid?”

Catherine had to think about that.

What an intriguing idea.

She turned in his arms, leaned in, and boldly kissed him on the lips, then smiled up at him. “They didn’t have condoms in the thirteenth century.”

“But pregnancy is of no consequence in a dream,” he said, his own smile making his eyes crinkle at the corners. “Or are you worried we might truly be making love, even though you’re dreaming? Like sleepwalking?”

That got rid of her smile. “Thanks,” she said with a snort, pulling his hand out of her plaid and sitting up. “You just ruined your best chance to score, MacBain.”

He sat up beside her. “Aye. I realized my mistake the moment I spoke.” He stood up, picked up his sword, and settled it over his back, then reached out his hand to her. “There’s a stream running down the mountain about a hundred yards through those trees,” he said, facing her toward the woods once she stood up. “Why don’t you go do whatever women do to start their day, and I’ll wake Ian and cook breakfast? Mary will go with you,” he added, gesturing at a pine tree.

The owl was sitting on a branch, staring at them.

“Did she get a rabbit?” Catherine asked, looking around.

“Aye. Two,” he said, pointing at the rock by the fire.

Catherine put her hands on her hips and canted her head. “I thought cleaning game and cooking was woman’s work in medieval times.”

He lifted a brow. “You volunteering?”

“No,” she said, heading toward the stream. “Just checking to see how authentic my dream is.”

“Well, then, little Cat, I’d say you’re about to get the history lesson of a lifetime,” he said with a chuckle.

The moment she stepped into the forest, Catherine pressed her hands against her still throbbing breasts. Whew! If she were dreaming, she hoped she never woke up. It had felt so wonderful to wake up in the arms of a man, so sensually exciting it had been all she could do not to attack him.

Dismissing the idea that they could make love because this was only a dream had been prudent, but it also might have been rather foolish. This could be her chance to feel again, actually to make love without risk.

Catherine decided she could control Robbie’s actions even if she couldn’t exactly predict them. That was the funny thing about dreams; they didn’t follow the usual laws of nature. In them, people could fly, be animals, run without going anywhere, and not really feel pain. Even time didn’t exist.

Then again, dreams could suddenly spin out of control and turn into nightmares in the blink of an eye. It had happened more than once to Catherine, and she was not willing to risk it happening again.

Especially not with Robbie MacBain. He was her dream guy. The perfect male, handsome and rugged, protective and possessive without being a caveman, patient and good-natured, and sexy as all get-out. Even when she was wide awake, the guy could woo her into forgetting herself. Heck, but for his noble intentions, she might not have needed this dream at all. His kisses in the barn and the kitchen could have led to a rather salacious conclusion with only the slightest urging from her.

“What are you staring at?” Catherine asked, smiling at Mary, who had glided down to perch on a rock in the middle of the tiny stream. “Yes,” she said, going to her knees and dipping her hands in the cold water. “If Robbie can talk to you, then I might as well, too.”

But Mary said nothing, not even a rattle.

“He’s blaming you for my being here,” Catherine said, continuing the one-sided conversation. “You made me fall off that ledge and bump my head. That’s the thanks I get for sewing you up.”

Catherine tucked her tangled hair behind her ears, splashed water on her face, scrubbed her cheeks with her hands, then leaned down and drank directly out of the stream. She used the corner of her plaid to wipe her face, stood up, and looked down at Mary—specifically at the pink threads on her belly.

“You…ah…didn’t get hurt while helping Robbie hunt for that wizard’s tree, did you?”

Mary spread her wings, stretched to her full height, and bobbed her head.

Catherine stepped back in surprise. “What did you say?” she whispered, finally knowing for sure that she was dreaming. She could swear she had heard a voice, a woman’s voice, say that it was time to get back to camp, that there was danger in the woods.

She twisted the knot of her plaid. “H-How do you know that?” she asked, scanning the dense forest as she took another step back. “What MacKeages?” she breathed, staring at the owl, shaking her head to clear it. “What warriors?”

Catherine decided she didn’t care who was talking, she was getting back to Robbie. She spun on her heel and ran smack into a solid chest. Large arms wrapped around her so tightly her scream of surprise came out as a squeak. She was lifted off her feet, only to find herself nose-to-beard with a wild-haired, dirty-faced, green-eyed giant.

And if that wasn’t enough, the stinky brute was grinning. Or he was until the blade of a sword silently slid between them, right along the man’s neck, actually slicing off some of his beard.

The giant stilled, his eyes rounded in surprise.

Catherine didn’t dare breathe.

Robbie, his voice guttural and soft, said something, in what Catherine guessed was Gaelic, that sounded rather threatening.

Her captor opened his arms without warning. Catherine tumbled to the ground, scurried backward like a frightened crab, and stood, not once taking her eyes off Robbie, who was holding his sword under the man’s chin and glaring at him so hard it was a wonder the guy didn’t fall over.

“Go back to camp, Catherine,” Robbie said, keeping his eyes on the man.

The giant glanced toward Robbie without moving his head and very hoarsely and very quickly started speaking.

Catherine didn’t wait around to see what he had to say and scurried past them and ran toward the clearing, where she found three more giants dressed in the same plaid as Robbie and Ian. They were sitting beside the blazing fire, and Ian was sitting in the middle of them, clutching the hands of one of the men and quietly sobbing.

Two of the men stood as soon as she broke into the clearing, their hands going to the hilts of their swords. Ian and his companion were a bit slower getting to their feet, with the younger man putting a protective arm around Ian.

Okay, she wanted to wake up now.

“Catherine,” Ian said, rushing to her, tears streaming down his face into his beard and his smile so big it must hurt. “This is my son, Niall,” he said, pulling her by the arm over to the large man. “He’s Laird Niall now,” he added excitedly. “That means my son is their leader,” he explained, puffing his chest even further.

Ian then said something in Gaelic to Niall, who was staring at her as if she’d just crawled out from under a rock.

“I’ve been telling him the story we decided on last night,” Ian told her, giving her arm a pat. “Don’t let his glare scare ya, lass. He’s not caring to see ya in that MacBain plaid, is all.”

Niall said something to one of the other men, and the guy frowned at him, then at her, and started undressing. Catherine squeaked and turned away, only to come nose-to-chest with Robbie.

“What is it with you Scots?” she muttered, looking up at him. “You’re always undressing.”

“Better us than you,” he said, reaching around her and taking the man’s plaid. “Here, why don’t you step into the woods and put this on? Then we can go to the village.”

Catherine leaned to the side to peek around him. “Ah…where’s the other guy?” she whispered, taking the plaid—which smelled like a dead horse—and holding it away from herself.

“He decided he wanted to walk home,” Robbie said, nudging her toward the woods.

Without looking back, for fear of seeing the naked Scot, she marched to the trees, still holding the plaid away from herself.

She didn’t realize Robbie was following her until she turned to duck behind a dense bush. “What are you doing? I can change without your help.”

He started unwrapping his own plaid. “I prefer you wear mine.”

Catherine spun away with a groan of frustration. “So, that’s Ian’s son?” she asked, willing her cheeks to cool while she listened to Robbie undress. “And he’s really their leader?”

“Aye. And he’s called a laird,” he said, setting his much nicer-smelling plaid over her shoulder and taking the stinky one out of her hand. “They heard the storm last night and were scouting the area to make sure a fire hadn’t started from a lightning strike. Poor Niall looked as if he was seeing a ghost once he recognized Ian.”

“They believed Ian’s story, that he’s been in England for…for…” She glanced over her shoulder, only to find herself staring at Robbie’s wonderfully masculine body as he wrapped the smelly plaid around himself. Darn it! What was her question?

Oh, yeah. “How long has Ian been gone? Thirty-five years?”

“Nay. We’ve come back only ten years after Ian left.”

“But he’s eighty-five years old.”

“He has the health of a sixty-year-old of this time.”

Catherine forced herself to tear her gaze away and step behind the thick bush. “Gwyneth will know the difference,” she said, undoing her MacBain plaid and tossing it over a branch.

“You think so?”

“But maybe she’ll be so glad to have him back she won’t care,” Catherine speculated. “Why did that guy grab me? Because I was wearing the wrong colors?”

“Nay. He didn’t see your plaid, only a young, beautiful, unprotected woman.”

Catherine paled to the roots of her tangled hair. “He would have…he wanted to…”

“Nay. He wouldn’t have harmed you. He was only thinking he’d found himself a wife.”

“A wife!”

“I warned you that women have little say here. And an unprotected lass is fair game. Hell,” he said, waving his hand with his back to her. “Stealing wives, especially from other clans, is more of a sport than warring is.”

Catherine stopped trying to figure out how to wrap the plaid as Ian had shown her and stared at Robbie. “You’re kidding, right? Men don’t actually steal their wives.”

“Ian stole Gwyneth from the Macleries.”

“And the Macleries didn’t come after her?”

“Now, why would they want to do that? It’s a matter of pride when a daughter is chosen by a MacKeage warrior. The MacKeages are a powerful clan.”

“Does anyone ask the woman if she wants to get married?” Catherine muttered, trying again to adjust the plaid. “Darn it, I can’t get this right.”

Robbie stepped around the bush and took the end of the cloth from her, unwrapped it two wraps, settled it over her shoulders, and tucked it into her cleavage. He smiled when she gasped and took her in his arms and kissed her firmly on the mouth.

Catherine clung to him. She might not be ready to make love to the man, but kissing him back was definitely okay—since this was only a dream. So she surrendered to the need she’d bottled up inside her for so long, canted her head, and grabbed his hair, deepening the contact.

He lifted her off her feet with a satisfied groan and swept his tongue inside her mouth. She had a wonderful time exploring his taste while reveling in the feel of his powerful arms wrapped around her. His hand on her backside felt quite pleasant, too. And his noble intentions pushing into her belly compelled her to lift her knees and wrap her legs around his waist until she was nestled intimately against him.

He broke the kiss the moment she did that and looked down at her so fiercely that Catherine stopped breathing.

“You come alive at the most inopportune times,” he growled, letting her slide down his body until she was standing again. He shoved her head against his chest with a shuddering sigh and squeezed her tightly. “One of these times, I’m not going to care who’s around or what’s happening,” he continued over her head, his guttural voice rumbling under her cheek. “My noble intentions be damned.”

Catherine smiled into his chest. “I love it when a man talks romantic.”

He tilted her head back so she could look up at his scowl. “Every man has his limits, little Cat. And we’re about reaching mine.”

Her smile broadened. “Women have limits, too,” she said, reaching up and tapping the tip of his nose.

His arms tightened. “I’m having a hell of a time reading you, woman. One minute you’re a wary mouse, and the next minute you’re all but exploding in my arms.”

She stuck out her lower lip. “Then maybe you should quit kissing me.”

“Like that’s going to happen,” he muttered, lowering his head and capturing her mouth. “Catherine,” he said, once he was done kissing her again. “While we’re here, you only have to remember three things. That you carry your stick with you at all times and that you never go anywhere alone.”

“And the other thing?” she asked, kneading her fingers into his strong shoulders.

He kissed her once more, his mouth lingering possessively. “That you’re mine,” he whispered fiercely, setting her away and taking her hand to lead her back to camp.

Catherine was beginning to doubt her dream theory, wondering how she could know so much about medieval Scotland that she could picture it in such detail: such as the saddle she was sitting in for their ride down the mountain, with its crude buckles and uncomfortable wooden seat, and the swords and daggers and ancient gear of the warriors.

Come to think of it, she couldn’t remember ever having a dream that involved so many senses. The rabbit she’d eaten before they’d left camp had been delicious, roasted on a spit over a crackling fire. And the smell of the campfire had permeated her plaid. And the men! The three MacKeage warriors and the one who had accosted her in the woods smelled of pine and spruce and male sweat and horses.

Catherine couldn’t remember if she usually dreamed in black and white, but she was certainly seeing technicolor now—the bright red hair of some of the warriors, Robbie’s rich gray eyes, the warm purples and grays and greens in their plaids, and the sharp, vibrant blue of the sky slamming into the peak of the dark granite mountain.

Even sounds were vivid and eerily real, such as the rhythm of the horses’ hooves sliding over rock or muffled by moss and the low, guttural conversations among the men as they rode single file down the winding path.

Catherine found she liked the cadence of Gaelic speech. It sounded as if they were singing one minute but had a hairball caught in their throats the next. The rhythm was strong, rather musical in tempo, with forced and then whispered syllables punctuating each sentence.

They finally reached level ground, and Catherine stretched in her saddle to see Ian riding behind his son, one hand waving excitedly through the air as he talked nonstop. She turned and looked behind her to see Robbie riding one of the other warriors’ horses. The man who had stripped naked to give her his plaid had apparently decided to walk home with the man who’d grabbed her by the stream.

She pushed her stick back over her shoulder as she smiled at Robbie. He’d fashioned her a sling from a length of rawhide, so that she could carry it without smacking herself silly.

Robbie pointed over her head, and Catherine turned forward to look, only to gasp. She could see the towers of a tall, imposing castle through the trees, looming like a dark specter that was anything but fairy-tale pretty.

“That’s the MacKeage keep,” he told her. “We’re almost to the village. Listen, you can hear it.”

What she heard was the sound of children shouting and laughing, and it made her suddenly homesick for Nathan and Nora. Robbie had said she’d be back before they woke up, but to her, she’d already been gone almost a day. As interesting as this dream was, she didn’t know how much longer she could stand being away from her babies.

The path opened up at the edge of the village, and Catherine couldn’t even begin to take it all in. There were huts, maybe a hundred of them, dotting the hillside, reaching all the way to the castle. No, to the keep, Robbie had called it.

There were people and children and chickens and goats and dogs everywhere. Smoke rose in lazy clouds from several of the huts, forming a blanket of haze over the village. Several children rushed toward them, and Robbie moved his horse up alongside hers.

“Stay right beside me,” he said. “And try not to look so overwhelmed,” he added with a chuckle. “We’ll be going to Gwyneth’s cabin first.”

Within minutes, they had a parade of curious people following them. The women were quite pretty, with long hair in varying shades of auburn pulled back in braids and loose tails. They wore colorful blouses, dark skirts that looked to be woven wool, and shawls of the MacKeage plaid.

Catherine sidled her horse closer to Robbie when she noticed some of the women pointing and the men crowding toward them. Several of the men were half naked, their plaids rolled down around their waists, exposing broad chests and beefy arms.

Their impromptu procession wound through narrow village lanes, scattering animals and people who quickly closed back in behind them. They finally came to a stop in front of a cabin that sat in the shadow of the keep, and Niall tossed his leg over his horse’s neck, slid to the ground, then turned and helped Ian down.

Catherine was close enough that she could see the old man was trembling, swiping at his eyes several times, and not knowing what to do with his hands, until he finally clasped them together at his waist.

The murmur of the crowd hushed, and Catherine saw a tiny woman, nearly as old as Ian, step out of the cabin with a baby in her arms and a child of about three clutching her skirt. Niall took the baby and handed it to the younger woman who had stepped out of the cabin behind Gwyneth. He took his mother’s hand and guided her to a stool by the door as he whispered something to her. Niall gently lowered her down onto the stool when the older woman gasped and her knees buckled, her wide, shocked eyes staring at Ian.

Ian wasn’t moving a muscle now, except for his hands, that he kept wringing and twisting at his waist.

Robbie reached over and took Catherine’s hand, and held it on his thigh as they sat on their horses, his thumb rubbing her knuckles in soothing circles.

Ian took a hesitant step forward, then stopped and stood trembling. He suddenly fell to his knees with a loud cry, wrapped his arms around his wife, and buried his face in her chest.

Gwyneth MacKeage dug her fingers into her husband’s back, buried her own face in his hair, and quietly sobbed.

Catherine used her free hand to wipe the tears streaming down her cheeks, and Robbie leaned close. “This is what I’m about, Catherine,” he whispered thickly, his warm breath caressing her ear. “This is when my duty becomes my calling.”

It was also when Catherine’s infatuation with Robbie MacBain became love. She looked over at him, at his own shining eyes as Robbie watched Ian hugging his one true love, and her heart swelled, and thumped, and started racing. This man—this incredible, fascinating, towering giant—was more than a dream guy. He was her dream. Her true love. Her calling.

And by God, he was her duty now, too.

That was the wonderful thing about dreams; they were a person’s subconscious attempt to expose a fear until it became nothing more than a mere worry. Until Dorothy had visited Oz, the young girl had thought she had a world of problems too big to overcome. But there was nothing like an incredible journey to put things in perspective.

Catherine certainly had perspective now. The last ten years of her life shriveled to nothing and changed from being a nightmare to being the gift that had given her Nathan and Nora and the determination to fight for the life she wanted.

And the courage to love Robbie MacBain.

“My God, woman, if you don’t quit looking at me like that,” Robbie growled, “I’m going to scandalize this entire village.”

Catherine smiled up at him and gently cupped his beautiful face in her hand. “Was that a threat or a promise?”

His eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared, and his jaw clenched so tightly she could feel his teeth grind together. “You’re killing me, little Cat.”

She patted his cheek, smiled with the confidence of a woman in love, and straightened back on her horse and looked at Ian and Gwyneth.

They were standing now, but Ian still wasn’t done hugging his wife. The tiny woman barely came up to the old warrior’s chin, but her frail arms were wrapped so tightly around his waist that her knuckles were white. The young woman with the baby was sobbing uncontrollably, using the child’s blanket to wipe her eyes. Niall finally took the baby from her and nudged her toward Ian.

“That’s Caitlin, Ian’s youngest daughter,” Robbie whispered. “He has another daughter named Megan, but she married a Maclerie and lives about twenty miles away.” He dismounted and helped Catherine down from her horse. “News will travel fast, and I expect Megan will be here in a few days.”

Finding herself in a sea of people, Catherine clung to Robbie as he led her to the cabin, and stood quietly as everyone spoke at once, in Gaelic, about only God knew what. Ian’s hands flew wildly, punctuating his speech, as everyone listened with wide eyes and occasional gasps.

Ian suddenly pulled Catherine into the center of his gaping family. He spoke rapidly, his words spitting on her several times, his hand waving about her head.

Robbie finally rescued her and whispered in her ear. “Ian is telling them how you helped him escape from the English,” he said. “He’s making you into quite a hero.”

It was Catherine’s turn to gasp. “But I don’t want to be a hero. You’re the one who brought Ian back to his family, not me. You should get the credit. Tell them,” she said, stepping closer when someone reached out and touched her hair. “Tell them it was you, not me.”

“Nay, Cat. It’s better if I remain anonymous here.”

“But I want to be anonymous, too,” she squeaked, scooting to the other side of him when somebody touched her arm.

Robbie pulled her into the cabin, and Catherine blinked at the sudden darkness as he led her to a stool. She lifted her stick off her back, laid it on the floor, and sat down with a sigh of relief. “What happens now?” she asked, looking at his silhouette against the doorway.

“Now you stay here with Ian and Gwyneth, and I go look for Cùram’s tree.”

She jumped up from the stool. “But I want to go with you.”

“Nay, Catherine, it’s too dangerous.” He took hold of her shoulders. “If you want me to stop coming here, you’ll have to let me finish this. Just as soon as I get the root, we’ll leave.”

“But I can help.”

“How?”

“By…I can…oh, I don’t know,” she said, stepping back to cross her arms under her breasts. “I can at least make sure you don’t get beat up or killed.”

He stepped forward and took hold of her shoulders again. “You can’t even speak the language. And I need you to keep an eye on Ian. It’s going to take him time to readjust.”

She grabbed the front of his plaid. “Do you even know what you’re looking for? Or where?”

“Mary thinks she’s found Cùram’s lair. And I’m guessing his tree will be nearby. I’ll head out first thing in the morning.” His hands on her shoulders tightened. “And you will wait here.”

Ian walked into the hut with his arm wrapped around Gwyneth and Caitlin’s arm wrapped around him. Niall followed, carrying the baby and towing the little girl by the hand. Catherine moved away from Robbie, picked up her stool, carried it to the corner, and sat down out of the way. Not that it did her any good. Caitlin and Gwyneth rushed over, took her by the hands, and led her behind a blanket hanging from the ceiling that was hiding a tiny cot.

Catherine didn’t have a clue what they were saying to her, but before she knew what was happening, they had her stripped naked and started redressing her in beautiful, colorful clothes that Gwyneth pulled from a trunk at the foot of the bed.

From that point on, she had no time to dwell on Robbie’s dictate or what she intended to do about it or even what in heck she was eating. The entire village came by in groups of two to ten people at a time to welcome Ian home. Everyone brought food, and Catherine was urged to try some of this and some of that. By nightfall, she was stifling yawns and starting to feel sick to her stomach.

Again, her guardian angel rescued her by taking her for a walk through the village and up past the keep in the bright spring moonlight. But instead of bringing her back to Ian once her stomach settled down, he took her inside the huge granite castle through a door big enough to fit the Jolly Green Giant.

“Niall lives here now,” he told her as he led her into a massive, high-ceilinged, sparsely furnished great room, past several gawking people, and up a narrow staircase. “He’s offered us a room for as long as we need it.”

Catherine stopped walking. “Us?”

Robbie pulled her forward again, down the narrow hall. “You’re dreaming all this, remember?”

He opened a small wooden door and led her into a dark, chilly room, let go of her wrist, walked to a huge hearth, and crouched down and started a fire. Catherine didn’t watch to see how he started it but stood in the middle of the room, her arms wrapped around herself, looking around in the stingy firelight.

She spotted a bed against one wall, that was quite small by modern standards but quite big compared with the one in Caitlin’s home. There was a trunk at the end of it and woven cloths and a tapestry hanging from the walls. She could see a narrow window at one end, with what looked like a sheepskin hanging over it, swagged to the side.

“It’ll warm up soon,” Robbie said, walking back to her, taking her hand, and leading her to the bed. “And there’s plenty of blankets,” he continued. “Although you might want to shake out the bedbugs and sleep by the fire.”

He sat down on the bed and pulled her between his knees, locking his hands behind her back and looking her level in the eyes. “Caitlin’s home is full,” he told her. “And you’ll be safe here in the keep for tonight. Tomorrow, Ian and Gwyneth will move back to their old hut, and you can stay with them once they get settled.” He unlocked his hands and spanned them around her waist. “Are you brave enough to stay here alone tonight, Cat?”

“Wh-Where will you be?”

He shook his head. “I can’t stay with you. We’d find ourselves standing in front of a priest tomorrow morning if I did, with the entire village witnessing our wedding.”

“What?”

“It’s 1210, Catherine. Men and women who share beds had better be married or willing to face the consequences. Remember the warrior who found you by the stream? He wouldn’t have touched you until after you’d stood before a priest. A woman’s reputation is all she has to bring to her husband.” His smiled slashed white in the firelight. “That and maybe a good dowry of a horse and some sheep and, if a guy’s lucky, a milk cow as well.”

“You’re not answering my question. Where will you be?”

He took her stick from her back and tossed it down on the bed, shrugged off his sword, laid it beside her stick, then took her back in his arms. “There’s a chamber pot behind that screen and fresh drinking water in the pitcher on that table,” he continued, nodding at the far wall. “And someone will be up shortly after daybreak to take you back to Ian.”

“Robbie.”

He kissed the tip of her nose. “I’m leaving tonight,” he said softly, covering her mouth with his before she could protest, his lips warm and sweet and coaxing.

Catherine refused to respond.

He pulled back and cupped the sides of her face to look directly into her eyes. “You have my word, little Cat, that I’ll return safe and sound. Mary will be guarding my back, and I’ll get in and out before Cùram even knows I’m around.”

“I—I think I love you.”

He went utterly still for a good ten beats of her racing heart, then broke into a smile. “You think you love me?”

“I don’t know for sure. This is a dream, remember?”

“Aye. And you’re safe in your dream, are you not, to say what’s in your heart? And when you wake up, will you still think you love me?”

“I don’t know. That’s the funny thing about dreams.”

“Aye. But when we’re home, standing in our modern kitchen, and I remind you of your words here tonight, will that not prove that you said them to me? How else could I know what you’re dreaming, if I’m not here with you?”

Catherine thought about that, and while she was thinking, he apparently decided he might as well kiss her again.

And this time, she responded. She backed up her words with actions, opening her mouth to his, leaning into him as she wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

Only this time, it was different. She was different. Catherine felt as if a hundred and eighty weight had finally been lifted off her shoulders. But what most amazed her was that she’d replaced it with a two-hundred-pound giant, and she wasn’t at all scared.

Lord, she loved the freedom of dreams.

Catherine used her own insubstantial weight to push Robbie back until he was lying on the bed and she was lying on top of him. He was very cooperative. Helpful, even. He slid his hands down her spine to her backside and squeezed, groaning into her mouth as he positioned her hips directly over his. And there were those noble intentions again, solid and hot against her most intimate place. Catherine couldn’t stop herself from wiggling just a little bit, just enough to slide along him, and she smiled against his mouth when he growled and grabbed her hips to stop her.

He was wearing his own plaid again, the one that smelled like him, and Catherine ran her hands under it, slid it down his shoulder, and traced her fingers over his broad chest. She wiggled backward until she could follow the path of her fingers with her mouth, kissing the soft, silky hair on his chest until she found one of his nipples.

His entire body turned to stone the moment her lips closed over the firm bud, and his hands moved from her hips to her shoulders, lifting her face back to his. He claimed her mouth with fierce urgency, pressing her hips with one hand on her backside and crushing their chests together with the other.

Sensations exploded inside her. Shivers of pleasure wracked her body as his heat blasted through their clothes to scorch her skin. Catherine refused to give in to her need to breathe, using her mouth instead to savor his sweet, masculine taste that held just a hint of the scotch he’d had earlier. It was so simple, she decided as she lay sprawled across him, to give herself over to the passion.

His hand began exploring ways to get under the colorful blouse Gwyneth had given her. But after several frustrated, unsuccessful attempts, Robbie rolled them over until Catherine was on her back and he was looming above her, glaring at her clothes.

“I’m not in the habit of undressing medieval women,” he growled, his voice guttural with desire as he impatiently tugged at her belt.

His plaid was hanging down to his waist, his broad upper torso completely naked and heavily muscled, blocking out the light from the fire. He looked powerful and imposing and…

Old fears rose unbidden as she lay beneath him, his solid weight pushing her into the bed, making her unable to move. The terror of being trapped and vulnerable and utterly helpless suddenly rushed through her, pricking her skin and quickening her breathing, urging Catherine either to fight or run.

She tried to do both and suddenly cried out and bucked beneath him, slapping at his hands as he tugged the hem of her blouse up over her breasts.