her frustration over being barred from whatever the stone held secret from her.
“Wake up, lass.”
Someone shook her shoulder, pulling her away from the stone, and into his welcoming arms.
She snuggled even deeper into his embrace, sighing in contentment as a familiar masculine scent wound about her. Malcolm. She lifted her face and found his lips waiting for her, meeting her kiss with his own. She’d missed kissing him, even though she’d only done it twice before. These last days had been made even more difficult than they already were, due to her need to fight the urge to pull him into the wood and kiss him until she was sated. He slid his tongue against hers, pulling her out of her sleepy thoughts and back to him, to Malcolm, to his lips and his tongue and his hand sliding along her back, to his hand sliding up her ribs and cradling her breast in his palm, to her own need to press her breast into his hand, to her need to pull herself closer to him. But just as in the dream, her frustration grew, sending her heart hammering.
Dream.
Her eyes popped open and she scrambled to her feet, mortified at what he must think of her wrapping herself about him like a wanton.
He grabbed the plaid where it dropped, pulling it over his lap quickly.
“I promised I would wake you if you had a bad dream,” he said, his eyes still soft with that flash of desire that had ignited between them.
“A bad dream?” she asked, pushing her tangled hair out of her face and brushing bits of leaves and dirt from her gown. “It did not feel like a bad dream.” She gasped and covered her mouth, shaking her head. “I cannot believe I just said such a thing.”
He considered her long enough to make her uncomfortable. “There is nothing to be ashamed of, Jeanette. We both were sleepy, not thinking. It was not unpleasant was it? It wasn’t for me.”
“Nay. Not unpleasant.” She turned away from him and pressed her palms to her hot cheeks. It had been far from unpleasant. So far from unpleasant, she wished to continue what they had started. “I dreamed?” She busied herself stirring up the fire from last night’s embers so she wouldn’t have to look at him, for she was sure she’d throw herself back in his arms if she did.
“Aye. You were trying to talk, I think, and you did not sound happy. You thrashed about a bit, as well. I did not want you to hurt yourself.”
She fed tinder to the fire and watched the flame surge up the twigs and dried leaves, aware of a similar heat that flowed just under her skin. “Thank you for waking me,” she said. “I did not mean to fall asleep.”
“Neither did I, but it seems we did.” He pointed at the sky, which was streaked with the rosy pale light of dawn. He stood slowly, keeping the plaid wrapped about him like a cloak, though she did not see how he could be chilled enough to need it.
When he stooped to help her with the fire, carefully setting wood in place to catch the flame she kindled, the dream came back to her as if it were a memory of something real, not the nighttime rambles of her tired mind. And she realized ’twas not a dream, not in the usual way. This was like the dreams she had had as a child. Dreams that often became reality.
But what did this one mean? Would a stag lead her to a place of great frustration? Or was there something beyond the dark passage that she must find a way to get to?
She looked up the ben in the direction she must have gone in the dream. Up there, somewhere, was a stone jutting out from the mountainside, with the figure of a deer incised into it, and a deep cleft in the rock that she must figure out how to traverse. She was certain of it. What she didn’t know was if she should be afraid of what she found there.
M ALCOLM WAS CAREFUL to keep the plaid he had shared with Jeanette wrapped about him, hiding the raging need that had awakened him. The lass had been pressing against him in her sleep, muttering and twitching her hands as if she
“Wake up, lass.”
Someone shook her shoulder, pulling her away from the stone, and into his welcoming arms.
She snuggled even deeper into his embrace, sighing in contentment as a familiar masculine scent wound about her. Malcolm. She lifted her face and found his lips waiting for her, meeting her kiss with his own. She’d missed kissing him, even though she’d only done it twice before. These last days had been made even more difficult than they already were, due to her need to fight the urge to pull him into the wood and kiss him until she was sated. He slid his tongue against hers, pulling her out of her sleepy thoughts and back to him, to Malcolm, to his lips and his tongue and his hand sliding along her back, to his hand sliding up her ribs and cradling her breast in his palm, to her own need to press her breast into his hand, to her need to pull herself closer to him. But just as in the dream, her frustration grew, sending her heart hammering.
Dream.
Her eyes popped open and she scrambled to her feet, mortified at what he must think of her wrapping herself about him like a wanton.
He grabbed the plaid where it dropped, pulling it over his lap quickly.
“I promised I would wake you if you had a bad dream,” he said, his eyes still soft with that flash of desire that had ignited between them.
“A bad dream?” she asked, pushing her tangled hair out of her face and brushing bits of leaves and dirt from her gown. “It did not feel like a bad dream.” She gasped and covered her mouth, shaking her head. “I cannot believe I just said such a thing.”
He considered her long enough to make her uncomfortable. “There is nothing to be ashamed of, Jeanette. We both were sleepy, not thinking. It was not unpleasant was it? It wasn’t for me.”
“Nay. Not unpleasant.” She turned away from him and pressed her palms to her hot cheeks. It had been far from unpleasant. So far from unpleasant, she wished to continue what they had started. “I dreamed?” She busied herself stirring up the fire from last night’s embers so she wouldn’t have to look at him, for she was sure she’d throw herself back in his arms if she did.
“Aye. You were trying to talk, I think, and you did not sound happy. You thrashed about a bit, as well. I did not want you to hurt yourself.”
She fed tinder to the fire and watched the flame surge up the twigs and dried leaves, aware of a similar heat that flowed just under her skin. “Thank you for waking me,” she said. “I did not mean to fall asleep.”
“Neither did I, but it seems we did.” He pointed at the sky, which was streaked with the rosy pale light of dawn. He stood slowly, keeping the plaid wrapped about him like a cloak, though she did not see how he could be chilled enough to need it.
When he stooped to help her with the fire, carefully setting wood in place to catch the flame she kindled, the dream came back to her as if it were a memory of something real, not the nighttime rambles of her tired mind. And she realized ’twas not a dream, not in the usual way. This was like the dreams she had had as a child. Dreams that often became reality.
But what did this one mean? Would a stag lead her to a place of great frustration? Or was there something beyond the dark passage that she must find a way to get to?
She looked up the ben in the direction she must have gone in the dream. Up there, somewhere, was a stone jutting out from the mountainside, with the figure of a deer incised into it, and a deep cleft in the rock that she must figure out how to traverse. She was certain of it. What she didn’t know was if she should be afraid of what she found there.
M ALCOLM WAS CAREFUL to keep the plaid he had shared with Jeanette wrapped about him, hiding the raging need that had awakened him. The lass had been pressing against him in her sleep, muttering and twitching her hands as if she
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