Debbie Mazzuca - Lord of the Isles

Debbie Mazzuca

quivered with anticipation when he trailed his fingers over the heated flesh between her thighs, inching his way to her moist core. Ali shuddered. She’d never had an erotic dream before and was afraid to open her eyes, not wanting him or his fingers to disappear. She didn’t want to wake up, not when it felt so good. She’d rather sleep forever. He raised his mouth from hers. “Ah, Bree, my love, I’ve missed you.”

Ali stiffened. What the hell did he just say?

It was bad enough the men in her life wanted someone else—what was wrong with her that she couldn’t even sat isfy them in her dreams? Before she had a chance to mul over her ineptitude with men, he took her nipple deep into the heat of his mouth and suckled. Ali shifted, pressing her breast to his lips, rocking her hips against the hard, banded muscles of his thigh. She was close, so close. Rubbing harder, faster, she anchored herself with a hand to his side. Her dream lover cursed, loudly, and shoved her aside. Ali blinked, and slowly turned her head. In the dim light of the flickering candle she saw him: big, powerful, and grimacing in pain. She scrunched her eyes shut and took a steadying breath.

He wasn’t real.

He couldn’t be.

It’s just a dream, Ali. You were thinking about the man before you went to sleep, that’s all it is—an illusion. Ali opened her eyes one at a time. Biting the inside of her lower lip, she pinched the big arm that lay on top of the covers, jumping when a guttural curse exploded from his lips. He was real, and he was in her bed. Ali screamed and tried to scramble from the bed, tug

ging her entangled foot from the sheets. Thud.

She fel onto the cold, hard floor.

Chapter 2

Ali didn’t have time to contemplate the damage to her lower anatomy, not with the pounding of running feet coming closer. The last thing she wanted was to be caught bare assed on the floor by Duncan Macintosh. She scanned the room for somewhere to hide. Seeing no other choice, she scurried beneath the bed in time to hear the door crash open. Beneath the heavy canopy of timber, she saw two men rush into the room. Duncan Macintosh was not one of them. Afraid if she could see them they’d see her, Ali shuffled far

ther into the shadows. The men spoke in hushed tones at the entrance of the room. Certain she was soon to be discov

ered, Ali felt around for her T-shirt. Relieved when her fin

gers came in contact with the stretchy fabric, she careful y pul ed it toward her. Her muscles tightened as cold from the floor seeped into her skin.

Ali blinked, touching the hard surface beneath her, posi

tive when Duncan had shown her into the room earlier the floor had been hardwood. She ducked her head to get a better look at the rest of the interior. Nothing looked the same, right down to the chocolate-brown comforter that had been scarlet.

How the hell had that happened?

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Debbie Mazzuca

“I’m no’ dead yet, so you can stop with yer whisperin’,”

the man in the bed above her rasped.

Far from it, Ali thought, remembering the heat of his kiss, how his hands had caressed her bottom, bringing her . . . She shook the thought from her head before embarrass

ment consumed her, leaving a pile of ashes in her place. How could she have done that with a stranger? The men moved closer, their brown leather boots inches from her face.

Who are these people, and where’s Duncan?

“You’d be al right then, Rory? We heard a scream and a loud crash. We thought you’d fal en from yer bed.”

Rory? Oh, come on, this had to be some kind of a joke. Lying flat on her back, Ali wriggled into her T-shirt, smooth ing it over her thighs.

“’Tis no’ me you heard, but the lass.” The bed creaked, a groan of pain accompanying his statement. Ali stil ed, frozen in place.

“There’d be no one aboot but you, lad.”

“Rory, ’tis on account of yer wound. You must have imagined it.”

“Nay, she was in my bed, of that I’m certain—wil in’

and eager.”

Ali’s face flamed. Now, isn’t he a gentleman. The big jerk. One of the men cleared his throat. “Mayhap ’twas one of the serving wenches.”

“Nay, I thought ’twas Bree come to take me with her.”

The last was spoken so quietly Ali had to strain to hear what he said.

Someone cursed before saying, “You’l no’ die, Rory. I’l no’ al ow it. ’Tis why I . . .” The man grunted as though he’d had the wind knocked out of him.

“I ken it wasna’ Bree. The lass had the look of her, but bigger. Her breasts were ful , and her arse . . .” His voice trailed off.

LORD OF THE ISLES

15

Ali groaned inwardly, deciding if this Rory person didn’t soon shut up, she’d make sure he felt worse than he obviously did now.

“Nay, Rory, lie back,” one of the men said before gasp

ing, “Yer wound, ’tis reopened.”

“I think she tried to finish me off.”

Both men cursed at the same time Ali did. She’d had enough. It was her bed the man had crawled into—either that or he’d somehow managed to get her into his own, taking advantage of her while she slept. She ignored the little voice inside her head that said it would be a toss-up on who had taken advantage of whom. And now he seemed to be accusing her of trying to kil him. Kill him? For God’s sake!

It was too much, and Ali didn’t plan on listening to any more of it, not without defending herself. With a closed fist, she whacked at the men’s feet. “Get out of my way,”

she said, dragging herself from under the bed. Two men dressed in old-fashioned attire—fitted suede pants tucked into their boots and white linen shirts—

backed away from her with their mouths agape. The older one was tal and had a powerful build, his dark red hair threaded with silver, his brown eyes wide as he stared at her. The other man was much younger, his hair a golden brown, almost as handsome as the man from her dreams. He opened and closed his mouth, his gaze swiveling from Ali to his companion.

Hands on her hips, she turned to confront the man in the bed. “I didn’t try to kil you . . . you big jerk, and what the hel were you doing in my bed in the . . .”

The rest of the question died on her lips. It was him—

Rory MacLeod—the man in the portrait. She rubbed her eyes, but nothing changed. He was stil there, in al his glo rious perfection—except he was bleeding. A circle of crim

son spread over the thick white linens pressed to his side. 16

Debbie Mazzuca

“You’re hurt,” she gasped.

“Aye.” Even in the dim light she could see the accusa

tion in his emerald gaze.

Ali shook her head. “I didn’t do it on purpose. I didn’t know.” She leaned over him to get a better look before being roughly jerked away. Strong hands restrained her, biting into the flesh of her upper arms. She struggled to free herself from the younger man’s grasp. “Let go of me. This man needs medical attention. I can help him—I’m a doctor.”

“Let her go, Iain.” The older man forcibly removed Iain’s hands from her arms before dragging her to the other side of the room. Iain fol owed in their wake.

“Who are you?” the red-haired man growled, his ex

pression fierce.

“Dr. Aileanna Graham, and there’s no time for this. I told you, that man needs my help.” She’d had to deal with over protective family members before, but this was ridiculous.

“Where are you from?”

“New York.” She rol ed her eyes at the blank expression on the big man’s face. “Look, this wil have to wait or I swear to you he’s going to bleed to death.”