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happened. No clanking chains, moans or screams in the night, but a pervasive sense of being watched. Unnerving, especially in the shower, though I’d convinced myself by the time I climbed into bed that I was imagining things, dark visions born of my flight and my plight.

      A luxurious canopied creation draped in ruby-red velvet, richly pillowed and comfy with very soft, well-worn linens, the bed itself was conducive to dreams of the most sensual sort. Maybe my fantasies were the result of meeting Garrett Kilburn, but as I lay in bed, my mind drifted…

      Was I awake or asleep?

      Cool air washed over me, as though he’d torn away my sheet. I felt the scratchiness of his sweater on my breasts, his stubble on my throat.

      I couldn’t see him—it was dark within the red canopied bed, but I was sure it was Garrett. My lover smelled like the Highlands and pipe tobacco.

      I pulled off the sweater, tugging to get it over his head, and ran my hands over his face, reading his features with my fingertips. We kissed, a sweet melding of mouths. Light fingernails scrabbled down my sides, and, moaning, I moistened with delighted anticipation.

      One cool hand slid between my thighs while he cupped my breast with the other. I opened my legs, and he went for my pussy, separating the folds with his clever fingers, caressing my clit as he thrust his tongue in and out of my mouth.

      I undulated, my body writhing against his, and stroked down his back, reaching for his firm ass. His flesh was hard with muscle, cool as though he’d been outdoors, dry. He pulled his lips from mine to nibble my neck, lick the spot he’d bitten, then traced my collarbone with his tongue. He stopped to rim my nipples, nuzzle my tits and rub his face on my belly. I liked the direction he was going, and moaned with approval and longing, running my fingers through his hair.

      He used his body to part my legs, then slid lower so he could nibble on my thighs. He spread me open with firm palms and tasted me. A sultry heat flowed through my body, but I wanted more. I set my feet on his shoulders and pushed my hips forward so his tongue pressed against my clit.

      He sucked hard and I let out a startled little shriek. He stopped eating me and gave a low laugh. A long, cool finger tested my wetness, my readiness. Another entered alongside, stretching me.

      â€œYessss…”I sighed.

      Another flick to my clitoris and heat suffused my body, radiating in shuddering circles from my sex. I shook with need, crying out.

      He withdrew his fingers, but his lips continued their exploration of my tingling pussy while his hands traveled lower, spreading the halves of my ass. A wet fingertip traveled the length of my crack, then entered me, eased in by my moisture. I squealed and jerked, but he wouldn’t stop. I wriggled, impaled on that long, cool finger, as his tongue continued to stroke my clit, taking me higher and higher.

      Waves of pleasure crashed through me. Moaning and thrashing, I came hard and long, with his finger up my ass to the second knuckle and his cool tongue and lips lapping at my pussy.

      My shuddering sighs calmed, and his finger left me, moving slowly, drawing out the pleasure. His naked body slid up mine, and his scratchy stubble sent ripples swirling over my skin. He nuzzled and nipped at my neck as my orgasm faded into a gentler bliss, easing me into slumber.

      I awoke at dawn, disconcerted by what had happened, and wondering how I could face Garrett. I pulled the hangings aside and got out of the cozy bed, shivering. The slate floor was chill on my bare feet as I dashed into the adjoining bathroom. Flicking on the light, I stared at my body, examining it for signs of Garrett’s intense loving.

      But I saw nothing. No scratches on my breasts or thighs, which surprised me. I have sensitive skin and I expected to see beard burn from Garrett’s stubble.

      But there was not a single mark on my body, save for two tiny wounds in my neck. Odd. And there was no sign of Garrett in the bright morning light. Instead, a cheerful maid directed me to the morning room, where I ate a hearty Scottish breakfast of oatmeal, thick whole-grain toast and eggs, all washed down by Scottish tea, served sweet with milk.

      Well-fed for at least the next two days, I set off to find Garrett and arrange for another tryst. He was nowhere to be found, so I got into the Vauxhall and drove to the nearest village, Kilburn Vale.

      Village was a grandiose term for one straggling, narrow street fronted by picturesque stone buildings: a pub, a gas station—or, rather, a petrol station, with the prices in pounds per liter of fuel—and a Tesco grocery store. No Starbucks, and I longed for a double tall mocha. I filled the car and drove toward the Isle of Skye.

      I returned to Kilburn Vale again at sunset, and stopped at the pub for a bite to eat and a drink before I went to the castle. I felt like socializing a little before going to bed, and didn’t know if Garrett Kilburn would be at his post in the gatehouse.

      The pub was warm and friendly, apparently the local gathering place. A well-worn but shining wooden bar dominated one side of the room, while a big stone hearth with a stove insert occupied the other. A small desk with a computer on it was tucked in the corner; the neighborhood’s internet café, I guessed. Garlands of braided flowers, chilies and garlic decorated the windows above lacy curtains. I bet they had hams and game hanging in the back.

      I spotted a cozy seat near the stove and I tossed down my sweater to keep it before going to the bar. I ordered a Guinness, but before I could pay, a long-fingered, white hand dropped a five-pound note on the polished surface in front of me.

      Garrett.

      I gulped, drew a breath and managed to say, “Hello. It’s nice to see you.”

      The memory of what we’d done the night before burned in my mind. My pussy tingled, moistened. I wanted more.

      He smiled at me, and I remembered how those white teeth had savaged my neck and nibbled my breasts. My nipples tightened, rubbing against my bra in delicious anticipation.

      â€œAnd how did you occupy your day, Natasha Desmond?”

      â€œI went to the Isle of Skye, Garrett Kilburn.”

      His grin stretched wider. “Ah. A romantic, ye are.” His accent was pleasing.

      â€œWhy?”

      â€œOnly romantics and newlyweds visit Skye.”

      â€œNot the merely curious?”

      â€œPerhaps. Is that what brought you to the Highlands? Mere curiosity?”

      I picked up my glass and drank a swallow or two while pondering my answer. “No.”

      â€œThen what?”

      I went for it. “I’m a damsel in distress, a woman on the run.”

      His brows lifted. “On the run from what?”

      â€œA wicked stepbrother who wants to steal the family fortune.”

      â€œWhich happens to be yours.” His green eyes gleamed. “Are ye a wealthy heiress?”

      â€œExactly.”

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