chieftain?”
“You’re a ghost.”
“Aye, so I am.”
“A MacNeil.”
“That, too.” Clan pride flared in Bran’s chest. “A greater race ne’er walked this earth.”
“The MacNeils are—” She didn’t finish, clamping her lips instead. Her lovely blue eyes glinted dangerously. “I am going to waken now. When I do, you’ll no longer be here and I won’t remember this nightmare.”
“I have a better idea.” Bran strode forward, drawn by the way her agitated breaths made her breasts jig on each inhale and driven by a mad urge to kiss her. “As you’re here, and we’re both naked—”
She vanished before he could reach for her. The room was empty as it’d ever been.
Bran tossed aside the bed cushion. Wheeling about, he scanned the shadows, but he knew she was gone. Nor did it surprise him to see the Heartbreaker leaning benignly against the wall, the blade’s cold steel and crystal pommel stone gleaming dimly.
Bran scowled and rammed both hands through his hair. His heart thundered wildly. Cold sweat spilled down his brow and even his palms were slicked damp. Frustration and fury took care of the problem at his loins, but even as certain swellings receded, blood roared so hotly in his ears he could scarce hear himself think.
Though—he had to admit—at the moment, not thinking was a very good thing.
Every thought to have crossed his mind since the Heartbreaker’s warning in the bailey sent terrible shivers slashing down his spine.
And he, Bran of Barra, Hebridean chieftain, appreciator of women, and Highlander to the bone, was not a man to be known for suffering shivers.
He was a lusty soul.
Broad grins, hearty laughter, and a ravenous appetite were his particulars.
He’d never been in love.
Not sure why that truth popped into his mind, he returned to bed and pulled a pillow over his head. A precaution should the closing of his eyes summon the naked American. He wasn’t of a mind to see her again. Not this night or any other.
The Heartbreaker be damned.
The blade chooses its master.
His grandfather’s words came back to him, bringing along a slew of other wisdoms credited to the half-mythic sword. Whispered tales of awe he’d heard in his early years as a lad. The most troubling being his grand-sire’s insistence that he couldn’t promise the sword to Bran. According to clan belief, the Heartbreaker sought the hand to wield it, seeking a new MacNeil in each generation and magically placing itself in the path of the chosen.
But Bran hadn’t cared for clan legend.
He’d wanted the sword. So he’d tagged after his grandfather always, begging to be the blade’s next master. Until at the sage age of four-and-ten, he’d faced his first worthy opponent in swordplay—a well-loved cousin several years his senior—and upon drawing his blade to meet his cousin’s challenge, he’d found not his own sword but the great shining Heartbreaker clutched in his hand.
The blade had been his ever since.
Leastways the ghostly sword whiling so innocently in the shadows. Without doubt the true blade had sought other MacNeil masters through the ages, but Bran had always felt a special affinity with the sword.
Theirs was a special bond.
Even in ghostdom, he’d prided himself on keeping the Heartbreaker at his side.
Now he wished he’d ne’er laid eyes on the legendary sword. But he had and he could feel its powerful presence now, calling to him from across the darkened room. Not that he was going to risk another eye crack. He knew his bedchamber well enough to know there was a strange humminglike thickness to the air. A weird quality he’d noticed earlier, upon retiring, and one that seemed to intensify now.
Even the fat night candle on his bedside table gave off an odd hissing sound. And without looking, he knew the richly patterned tapestries on his walls were rippling with movement. He could hear
“You’re a ghost.”
“Aye, so I am.”
“A MacNeil.”
“That, too.” Clan pride flared in Bran’s chest. “A greater race ne’er walked this earth.”
“The MacNeils are—” She didn’t finish, clamping her lips instead. Her lovely blue eyes glinted dangerously. “I am going to waken now. When I do, you’ll no longer be here and I won’t remember this nightmare.”
“I have a better idea.” Bran strode forward, drawn by the way her agitated breaths made her breasts jig on each inhale and driven by a mad urge to kiss her. “As you’re here, and we’re both naked—”
She vanished before he could reach for her. The room was empty as it’d ever been.
Bran tossed aside the bed cushion. Wheeling about, he scanned the shadows, but he knew she was gone. Nor did it surprise him to see the Heartbreaker leaning benignly against the wall, the blade’s cold steel and crystal pommel stone gleaming dimly.
Bran scowled and rammed both hands through his hair. His heart thundered wildly. Cold sweat spilled down his brow and even his palms were slicked damp. Frustration and fury took care of the problem at his loins, but even as certain swellings receded, blood roared so hotly in his ears he could scarce hear himself think.
Though—he had to admit—at the moment, not thinking was a very good thing.
Every thought to have crossed his mind since the Heartbreaker’s warning in the bailey sent terrible shivers slashing down his spine.
And he, Bran of Barra, Hebridean chieftain, appreciator of women, and Highlander to the bone, was not a man to be known for suffering shivers.
He was a lusty soul.
Broad grins, hearty laughter, and a ravenous appetite were his particulars.
He’d never been in love.
Not sure why that truth popped into his mind, he returned to bed and pulled a pillow over his head. A precaution should the closing of his eyes summon the naked American. He wasn’t of a mind to see her again. Not this night or any other.
The Heartbreaker be damned.
The blade chooses its master.
His grandfather’s words came back to him, bringing along a slew of other wisdoms credited to the half-mythic sword. Whispered tales of awe he’d heard in his early years as a lad. The most troubling being his grand-sire’s insistence that he couldn’t promise the sword to Bran. According to clan belief, the Heartbreaker sought the hand to wield it, seeking a new MacNeil in each generation and magically placing itself in the path of the chosen.
But Bran hadn’t cared for clan legend.
He’d wanted the sword. So he’d tagged after his grandfather always, begging to be the blade’s next master. Until at the sage age of four-and-ten, he’d faced his first worthy opponent in swordplay—a well-loved cousin several years his senior—and upon drawing his blade to meet his cousin’s challenge, he’d found not his own sword but the great shining Heartbreaker clutched in his hand.
The blade had been his ever since.
Leastways the ghostly sword whiling so innocently in the shadows. Without doubt the true blade had sought other MacNeil masters through the ages, but Bran had always felt a special affinity with the sword.
Theirs was a special bond.
Even in ghostdom, he’d prided himself on keeping the Heartbreaker at his side.
Now he wished he’d ne’er laid eyes on the legendary sword. But he had and he could feel its powerful presence now, calling to him from across the darkened room. Not that he was going to risk another eye crack. He knew his bedchamber well enough to know there was a strange humminglike thickness to the air. A weird quality he’d noticed earlier, upon retiring, and one that seemed to intensify now.
Even the fat night candle on his bedside table gave off an odd hissing sound. And without looking, he knew the richly patterned tapestries on his walls were rippling with movement. He could hear
Similar Books
