A Highlander in Her Past by Maeve Greyson Page A

one seemed so…welcoming. As she floated across the starlit void, the vision of the man sharpened, focused clearer into view. Trish stopped. Since when did an angel wear a kilt…and sport a full reddish-brown beard?
    The angel smiled and beckoned her forward while still holding out his hand.
    He did seem nice enough. Trish floated forward a bit further then stopped again. She couldn’t leave until she had some sort of promise that someone would reassure Ramsay. “I can’t go with you until I know Ramsay’s okay. I don’t want him to blame himself.”
    The man nodded agreement with a single dip of his chin, then extended his glowing hand again.
    Wow. Who would’ve thought dying could be so painless? Trish floated forward another few feet, the closer she drew to the welcoming man; the more pleasurable the pulsating warmth felt coursing through her veins. Trish relaxed, took in a deep breath and smiled back at him. He did have the nicest eyes. They crinkled at the corners whenever he smiled as though he were about to laugh aloud. And he seemed so friendly, making her feel as though she’d known him since the beginning of time.
    He took a step forward, met her half way, then bent and scooped up her hand. As Trish wrapped her fingers around his glowing palm, her vision exploded into a cloud of blinding white sparks, electrifying heat surged through her, then everything faded to black.

Chapter Seven
    The faintest tickle teased across the end of one nostril. Trish wiggled her nose, rubbed it against the back of her hand, then buried her face into the furry warmth cradled against her head. Pain-free warmth. Trish dozed back into oblivion. Another tickle assaulted the end of her nose, threatening to trigger a sneeze.
    Batting away the persistent offender, Trish stretched, inhaled a deep lung-expanding breath and burrowed deeper beneath the covers. She laced her fingers into the tight nest of curly hair springing about her face. Hair?
    Trish opened her eyes to a mountainous mound of chest coated with a lush carpeting of reddish-brown hair. Trish sprang backward toward the far side of the bed, digging and kicking at the covers. “Who the hell are you and what the hell are you doing in my bed?”
    The man didn’t bother opening his eyes, just rolled toward Trish and beckoned with an extended arm. In a drowsy voice, mumbled against the pillows, he motioned toward his chest. “Ye know me, lass. Now quit yer fussin’ and come over here. ’Tis wicked cold in this room and I’d planned on sleeping a bit longer.”
    Trish settled her back against the bone-chilling cold of the stone wall, planted her feet dead center of the furry expanse of chest and shoved.
    As his naked body slid over the edge of the bed, Maxwell’s eyes popped open. He hit the floor with a heavy thud followed by several muttered words that Trish was fairly certain were Gaelic curses. Rising above the side of the over-sized mattress, Maxwell’s sleepy expression changed to one of irritated confusion. “Dammit, Trish! Why the hell did ye do that?”
    “You know my name?” Trish scooted as far back against the wall as she could manage, yanking all the covers of the bed up around her naked body and wadding them under her chin. How did he know her name? Holy crap. She was naked. He was naked. They’d been in bed together. Dammit. When had she gotten that drunk, and what the devil had she done? “Who the hell are you?”
    Maxwell rose higher above the edge of the bed, scrubbing the heel of one hand against one eye while propping his head with the other. “I am Maxwell. Ye’d think ye’d remember the name of the man who called ye away from death’s door.”
    “Called me away?” Trish stared at the hairy, green-eyed man propped on the side of her bed. A nagging sense of having forgotten something very important gnawed at the back of her mind. He did seem a little familiar. But that still didn’t explain who he was or why they were both naked in the same