To Love a Highland Dragon Page 7

  Her typing slowed; Maggie clamped her jaws together to stop her teeth from chattering. As often happened once she tapped into psyche, home of dreams, memories flooded her. Though it had to be some impossible trick of the dream world—a symbolic representation of something she had yet to figure out—Lachlan had turned into an immense dragon with copper scales right before her eyes. The transformation hadn’t taken more than a moment. She’d wakened when the dragon opened its mouth and spewed blindingly bright fire at the thing she couldn’t see.

  Once sleep had claimed her again, the next dream was full of foreboding and fear. Lachlan was nowhere to be found. A tall, heavily-muscled man with shoddy good looks, dark brown eyes, and midnight dark locks curling about his shoulders sat next to her. Though he smiled prettily, he exuded evil. She drew away when he reached to stroke her arm. He told her his name was Rhukon, and that he was just like Lachlan. Through a leering grin he added, “If ye like Lachlan, ye’ll adore me.”

  Maggie tried to scramble to her feet but couldn’t move. Rhukon enclosed her in arms that felt like steel bands and then closed his mouth over hers. She writhed in desperation. He tightened his arms around her; she bit his tongue and scratched her fingernails down his back as hard as she could. Through it all, she fought the impression that what she was living was far more than a dream. Things got even more surreal after he drew back and slapped her.

  “Holy shit,” she muttered. “Right after that, he turned into a fucking dragon, too. A black one. What is it with dragons last night?”

  Maggie’s hand flew to her cheek; her eyes widened. She jumped from her chair so abruptly it toppled to the floor with a crash, ran to the mirror mounted on the living room wall, and stared at her face. It was too dark to see much, so she snapped on a nearby light. Her mouth fell open; her gut seized. She barely made it to the kitchen sink before her empty stomach spewed bile.

  Maggie ran water into the sink and splashed it on her face. She cupped her hands and swished some around in her mouth, spitting out the taste of sickness. Impossible. It’s impossible. Still bent over the sink, she ran a hand ran along the right side of her face. She’d seen a bruise there. One that would no doubt darken with time. The mark was congruent with the flat of Rhukon’s palm and his splayed fingers.

  I was right. That was no dream. I got dragged into some sort of parallel universe. Her sense of helplessness was so overwhelming, Maggie could scarcely bear the feel of her own skin. If something was so powerful it could march into her dreams and commandeer her body… She tried desperately to remember what had happened after he turned into a dragon, but she couldn’t.

  Her phone trilled its text tone. Maggie sprinted for the bedroom and scooped it up. So shaky her breath came in little, panting gasps, she stared at the display. Air swooshed from her lungs when she saw a text from her grandmother. Maggie’s eyes filled with tears of relief, but the respite from terror was short-lived. The words were gibberish. She sank onto the bed and stared at them. Had Mary Elma gone mad?

  Shit! For the first time in my life I need my witch heritage, and Grannie’s checked out. Maggie tossed the phone down. She felt like throwing it against the wall but understood it was her own vulnerability driving her.

  “Or maybe something darker. That…thing. The man who wants me would probably really like it if I couldn’t communicate with the outside world,” she muttered through clenched teeth. Maggie curled into a ball on the middle of her bed and forced herself to take nice, deep breaths, making sure to blow the last one out completely.

  It took a few minutes, but she did feel calmer. Something nagged at her; she snapped up the iPhone and stared at the text message, mentally rearranging its letters. When she’d been very young, just learning to read, she and her grandmother had played a game where they’d transposed the alphabet. Sort of like a sophisticated version of Pig Latin. Maybe.

  Afraid to let herself hope, Maggie repositioned herself and grabbed her sadly neglected dream journal and a pen from the bedside table. She plumped up a few pillows, propped herself against the headboard, and went to work on the few words in the text. Once she began, it didn’t take long before the strange game she’d played with Mary Elma came crashing back. Maggie stared at what emerged from her grandmother’s message.

  You face grave danger. Do the unexpected. The man could help, but he’s gone to ground. Until you meet my plane, do not contact me. It compromises us both.

  The tears that had welled earlier overflowed; she brushed them aside. No matter how bad things were, soon she’d have help from someone who knew how to deal with things when Jung’s shadow world came alive. When the bogeyman moseyed from under the bed and stuck out his tongue—or slapped you. She winced and reread the text. Do the unexpected.

  “Guess that means I’m not going to work today.” Her gaze flitted about her familiar bedroom. Shadows menaced from its corners; she shivered. Never one to wallow—in anything—she got to her feet and started for the bathroom for a second time that morning.

  What drew her back this time was her transliteration. She ripped the page neatly from her dream journal, crumpled it, and stared hard at it, willing it to burn.

  “Yes!” she crowed as it began to smolder. Maggie dropped it into a ceramic dish and focused harder. The sense of power she felt when the scrap incinerated was heady. Heh. Maybe I have more aptitude for this than I thought.

  Once she was certain the paper wouldn’t set anything else on fire, she tromped into the bathroom and got under the shower. As she soaped herself and washed her hair, she thought about all the hours her grandmother and aunts had spent trying to interest her in magic. Though she’d cast a few small spells, she’d never developed her talents—because she hadn’t wanted to. Scenes from her childhood bombarded her.

  Damn, I was a stubborn child.

  Yes, but I had good reasons. I built a wall around my heart after Mom and Dad were killed. I’ve never really taken it down.

  The warm water cooled perceptibly. She hadn’t realized how long she’d stood beneath its spray until then. Maggie shut off the jets and dragged a towel off the rack. She buried her nose in it to dry her face; Lachlan’s scent filled her nostrils. Desire knifed through her, so fierce and primal it was all she could do not to scream.

  Fear for his safety was like a live thing, clawing at her. If I’m in danger, it must be because of him. The man who came to me in my dreams obviously knows Lachlan—and hates him.

  “That’s it.” She stepped from the tub and snapped damp fingers. “That’s how I’ll spend today. I’ll look for him. A good place to start would probably be that sticker bush he was picking his way through when I first saw him.”

  Maggie clapped a hand over her mouth and looked around her small bathroom. It didn’t feel benign anymore. Nowhere in her apartment did. For all she knew, this Rhukon person was hiding behind some sort of psychic veil spying on her. If he could enter her dreams, he could probably invade her living space as well. She did her best to drape a shield around her mental processes—and her body.

  Why the hell isn’t any of this witchcraft stuff written down? It would be helpful to have a handbook right about now.

  Yeah, then I could look up wards. Something stronger than the primitive one I already know.

  Maggie rolled her eyes. Even if such a grimoire existed—and she was practically certain it didn’t—she probably lacked some major ingredient, like eye of newt or blood from a freshly-slaughtered goat, essential to a successful casting.

  She finished drying herself, brushed out her hair, and braided it wet to get it out of the way. It took half an hour to blow-dry, and she didn’t think she’d have that kind of time. As she worked, a plan formed in her mind. She’d dress, pack a small bag, and drive to one of the car parks in town. From there, she’d walk to a car rental agency, secure a different car to try to stymie Rhukon, and see if she could find Lachlan. For a moment she felt like an idiot. As if swapping wheels would thwart a powerful magician.

  It might
not slow him down, but it will make me feel better.

  So long as she was en route for Glasgow by midnight, she’d arrive in plenty of time. It was only a hundred-seventy miles or so. For a moment, she wondered about the advisability of spending any more time than she absolutely had to in Inverness but shook her head. Lachlan was in trouble; he had to be. If there were something she could do to help, there wasn’t any choice in the matter. Not really.

  What was that he’d said in her dream? I was born loving you, and I shall die loving you. Yes, that was it. A reluctant smile tugged the corners of her mouth. Hell, even Rhukon knew she’d met up with Lachlan—and seemed oddly threatened by it.

  Maybe that’s why I never married. I’ve been saving myself for Prince Charming. If I’d just tuned into my psychic side, I’d have known he’d be along sooner or later.

  Oh for Christ’s sake, give it a break, Hibbins.

  Give it a break indeed. The probable truth of why she’d been blocked off from her dreams roared home and left her reeling. Maybe if she’d had access to her psychic side, she’d have found Lachlan long before she stumbled onto him yesterday.

  Too many maybes. I sure hope Grannie can figure this out. The older woman had started to tell her something the day Maggie told her she’d accepted a fellowship in Inverness, but she’d shaken her head and muttered, “Best not.” Despite Maggie’s questions, Mary Elma had remained close-mouthed.

  Maggie shimmied into jeans and a T-shirt. She looked at her sandals and discarded them as impractical. Instead, she fished tennis shoes out from under the bed, put them on over a pair of socks, and tightened the laces. Planning settled her nerves; it always had. She’d never been a seat-of-the-pants sort. She didn’t like surprises. A snort escaped. For someone who’s fond of predictability, I’ve had more than my share of bombshells since I met Lachlan.

  Maggie grabbed a gym bag from behind the door and put in a jacket, a sweater, and fresh underwear. She stopped by the bathroom and tossed in her brush. It was amazing how little she actually needed.

  Work. What will I do about the hospital? Can I risk calling them on my cell phone? Her forehead creased in concentration. It was apparent her grandmother saw any sort of electronic communication as risky, so that left e-mail out of the equation as well.

  She walked down the hall and looked in the refrigerator. Because it was fast, easy, and would probably stay down, she made four peanut butter and honey sandwiches, snapped up her bottled tea and set everything on the table with her gym bag.

  What else?

  She strode to her computer. Though in sleep mode, it was still on. She didn’t save her unfinished dream document and shut the machine down. It was password protected, which might—or might not—keep someone out of it. A shiver tracked down her back. Maggie squared her shoulders against the sudden sensation she was being watched.

  Her cell phone trilled. Not the text tone this time. Realizing she’d left it lying on her rumpled covers, she raced down the hall. It took a few moments to find but was still ringing when she stared hard at the caller ID. The hospital.

  Thank Christ! Maybe I can kill two birds with one stone. “Dr. Hibbins.”

  “Ach, Doc,” Berta said, “’twas afraid I was you wouldn’t pick up.”

  Maggie’s stomach tightened. Well-honed instincts told her whatever Berta had to say wouldn’t be good. “Whatever it is, just tell me.” She infused a calm she was far from feeling into her tone.

  “Chris tried to hang himself.” A muffled sob followed the words.

  Aw, shit. “Is he in ICU? Did the attending let the family know?”

  “Aye to both. Will you be in soon?”

  Maggie closed her eyes. Hope of hiding her movements if anyone was keeping tabs on her from behind a psychic veil went up in smoke. The hospital hadn’t been in her plans, but she didn’t see how she could say no. “I’m not feeling very well this morning. Think I got a mild case of food poisoning, but I will be in soon. I may not stay long, though.”

  “Ach. If you’re ill, maybe you ought to remain abed—”

  “I’m not that sick.” Guilt over her lie nipped at Maggie. “I’ll be there soon. Make certain someone is with Chris at all times.”

  “He’s sedated.”

  “I don’t care. I want twenty-four hour surveillance until he leaves our care.” Maggie grimaced. Her tone had been sharper than she’d meant it to be.

  She opened her mouth to apologize when Berta said, “Yes, Doctor,” and disconnected.

  Maggie stared at the phone. Christ! What else could possibly go wrong? She gathered her purse and her gym bag and returned to the living room. After eying the sandwiches and tea, she decided it would be best to make a couple of trips to her car. On a whim, she plucked her laptop from its spot leaning next to her desk and slid the strap from its case over one shoulder. Feeling like a sneak thief, she unlocked her front door, opened it a crack, and peered up and down an empty hallway.

  With a small, uncomfortable laugh, she tugged the door shut behind her and chugged down the stairs. No reason to be particularly quiet. If what was after her was some sort of supernatural being, he’d have ears like a lynx. If he even relied on something as prosaic as his five senses.

  Keyed up, nerves jangling unpleasantly, Maggie locked what she had in her arms in her trunk and went back into the old manor house. She’d no sooner gotten inside when the heavy front door slammed shut behind her. A cold like nothing she’d ever felt before surrounded her. Frost formed on her eyelashes; her lungs burned. The small hairs inside her nose felt frozen solid. Rooted in place by panic, she reached for her ward, only to understand she’d loosed it somewhere between her apartment and car.

  Maggie tried to resurrect protection around herself, but her teeth chattered so hard, it was impossible to concentrate. It’s an illusion, she told herself, fighting a sick desperation. Has to be. No way it suddenly plummeted to below zero temps. She wrapped her arms around herself, seeking solace in the meager warmth of her body, and visualized heat, lots of it. A whole blast furnace full.

  Maggie concentrated. She gave it all she had. Whatever had her trapped in its icy maw receded but then roared back with a vengeance. She bit her lip. I’ll just have to try harder. If I don’t, I’ll die here. She’d no sooner thought the words than she understood the truth in them.

  “Goddamn you,” she spat. “Whoever the fuck you are. Leave me alone.” Maggie squared her shoulders. To hell with the cold. Her lips drew back from her teeth in a sneer. “You can’t bully me with your sick machinations.” The words helped. She wasn’t any warmer, but strength poured into her from some quarter. “Go. Back. To. The. Hell. You. Came. From.” She spaced the words, breathing after each one. Each breath felt warmer. Her lungs began to thaw.

  Because she was tuned into her psychic side, she felt something shift just before she heard the words, “Lass, thanks be to all the gods I havena come too late.” Out of nowhere, Lachlan swept to her side, and then pushed her gently behind him. He chanted in Gaelic; moments later the room was normal temperature. “Och aye, and he is gone—for now. He willna want to fight the two of us. Not by himself, anyway.”

  Lachlan turned to her and pulled her against his body. “Ye were brave, lass. No warrior could have been more courageous. Are ye unharmed?” He drew back enough to look her up and down before he bent his head and kissed her.

  His mouth on hers was warm, imbued with the life she’d just come so close to losing, but she pushed him away. “I need answers more than kisses,” she sputtered, reluctant to let go of him. “Who’s Rhukon, and why is he after you? While you’re at it, what do dragons have to do with all this?”

  Lachlan opened his mouth, but Maggie shook her head and laid a finger over his lips. “I’m not thinking. We need to get a couple more things from my apartment. Then we need to leave. There’s been a bit of an emergency. We can talk on the way to the hospital.”

  He followed her up the stairs and through the door of her apartment. The heat of hi
m behind her was like a living thing, full of passion and promise. She wanted to turn around and pull him against her, but there wasn’t time. Her gaze fell on the bags of clothing she’d bought for him the night before. “Quick.” She thrust them into his arms. “Change into these. You’ll be driving into Inverness with me, and it’s better if you look normal.”

  A wicked grin lit his face, melting her heart. God, but he was beautiful with those emerald eyes twinkling. “Aye, lassie. Ye just want to see me buck naked.”

  “That, too. But this time, I’m not looking. I’m due at the hospital as soon as I can get there.”

  Chapter Seven

  Lachlan gritted his teeth. Far from his absence keeping the lass safe, it had actually left her vulnerable to attack. Who would have guessed Rhukon would move so quickly? His conversation with the Celtic gods had come to an abrupt halt when Gwydion bolted to his feet, face like a thundercloud, screeching, “That bastard.” Lachlan didn’t waste time asking questions. He’d pulled magic as fast and hard as he could—gratified his power was recovering—and hastened to Maggie’s side.

  Intensely relieved he’d appeared soon enough to thwart his adversary, Lachlan pulled garments from flimsy bags made of some slick, alien substance. “What is this?” He pinched a bag disdainfully before tossing in on the floor.

  “Plastic. A relatively new invention. Come on, Lachlan, I really do need you to hurry.”

  He ran his hands over breeks made of a stiff, blue fabric, a softer shirt and another, thicker shirt, and then held up what had to be smallclothes. “Aye, I think I understand just what goes where.” Never taking his gaze from her, he laid the new clothes over the arm of a puffy chair and unbuckled his sword belt. Next he unwound his plaid from his upper body and removed his shirt.

  By the time his chest was bare, spots of color bloomed on Maggie’s cheeks, and he could smell the heat of her arousal from ten paces. She gave a muffled squawk and turned away from him.