the swishes and rustlings of their costly, heavy silk. A most curious phenomenon given that the wind wasn’t all that strong and he’d taken care to bolt the room’s window shutters.
Equally unsettling, he’d let the fire burn down, and the cold smell of peat-and-wood ash that filled the room was overlaid by a fresh, delicate scent unlike any he’d ever encountered except the few times ghostly business had forced him to sift himself into the realm of the present.
It was an exceptionally clean scent that he now recognized. The American’s scent, lingering to torment him. Light as a sun-washed spring meadow and with just enough lily of the valley to make a man sigh in appreciation.
Bran favored a scowl to sighing.
He also did his best to ignore the bewitching fragrance. Unfortunately, the harder he tried, the more the scent wafted beneath his nose. He considered burying his face deeper in his pillow. As a ghost, it wasn’t as if he needed to worry about harming himself.
But he did wish to do something to keep from breathing in the haunting perfume. Especially since he had a good idea what was causing the scent to remain.
The Heartbreaker surely felt his resistance and was enlisting every otherworldly trick in its steely, gempommeled arsenal to remind him of his destiny.
A fate he had no intention of claiming, so he rolled onto his side and pulled a hand down over his face before he could groan. Groaning, like shivers, was not a trait a Highland man acknowledged gladly.
It was a weakness to be avoided at all costs.
As were American women of the modern day, be they naked or otherwise.
No matter how delicious they smelled.
Or how they tasted . . .
“Hellfire and damnation!” Bran sat bolt upright and glared into the shadowy room, certain his sword would catch blue fire again any moment. Or worse, that the nameless American siren would reappear, this time without her mysterious veil of glittery blue light.
Next time—he just knew—she’d be naked without any such wizardry cloaking her. And then he’d be hard-pressed to resist her.
That, too, he knew.
And the truth of it scared him to the marrow.
The sudden pounding on his door angered him. Muttering, he leapt from the bed and crossed the room in three long strides to yank the door wide and see who would dare intrude on his privacy. He’d pleaded head pains and given express orders that no one was to disturb him.
Of course, the grinning fool standing in the doorway didn’t consider himself bound by such wishes.
Saor MacSwain thought much of himself.
In ghostdom as he had in life.
“You’d best have a good reason for bothering me.” Bran gave his friend a soured look. “I was sleeping.”
“Say you?” Saor cocked a brow and peered past him at the mussed bedsheets. “If you come back to the hall, I daresay you’ll rest better thereafter.”
Bran jutted his jaw. “This is my thereafter, if you’ve forgotten.”
“Faugh!” Saor laughed. “I came to fetch you, thinking you’ve forgotten that Serafina is performing her dance-of-the-veils for us this e’en.”
Bran blinked. He had forgotten Serafina’s promise of a dance.
A dusky Saracen beauty who only rarely visited his hall, she was well received when she did. Her veil dance—and her willingness to delight Bran’s manly friends in any manner they desired—made her one of the most popular and sought-after ghostesses in the other realm.
Bran admired her, too.
The last time she’d performed in his hall, she’d ended her dance on his lap. He could still feel how she’d slid her long, shapely legs around him. The sinuous rotations of her naked buttocks across his thighs and then the sleek silken heat of her wetness as she’d lowered herself onto him. He recalled, too, how her large, dark- nippled breasts had bounced and swayed. How, ultimately, she’d leaned close to rub them against his chest as
Equally unsettling, he’d let the fire burn down, and the cold smell of peat-and-wood ash that filled the room was overlaid by a fresh, delicate scent unlike any he’d ever encountered except the few times ghostly business had forced him to sift himself into the realm of the present.
It was an exceptionally clean scent that he now recognized. The American’s scent, lingering to torment him. Light as a sun-washed spring meadow and with just enough lily of the valley to make a man sigh in appreciation.
Bran favored a scowl to sighing.
He also did his best to ignore the bewitching fragrance. Unfortunately, the harder he tried, the more the scent wafted beneath his nose. He considered burying his face deeper in his pillow. As a ghost, it wasn’t as if he needed to worry about harming himself.
But he did wish to do something to keep from breathing in the haunting perfume. Especially since he had a good idea what was causing the scent to remain.
The Heartbreaker surely felt his resistance and was enlisting every otherworldly trick in its steely, gempommeled arsenal to remind him of his destiny.
A fate he had no intention of claiming, so he rolled onto his side and pulled a hand down over his face before he could groan. Groaning, like shivers, was not a trait a Highland man acknowledged gladly.
It was a weakness to be avoided at all costs.
As were American women of the modern day, be they naked or otherwise.
No matter how delicious they smelled.
Or how they tasted . . .
“Hellfire and damnation!” Bran sat bolt upright and glared into the shadowy room, certain his sword would catch blue fire again any moment. Or worse, that the nameless American siren would reappear, this time without her mysterious veil of glittery blue light.
Next time—he just knew—she’d be naked without any such wizardry cloaking her. And then he’d be hard-pressed to resist her.
That, too, he knew.
And the truth of it scared him to the marrow.
The sudden pounding on his door angered him. Muttering, he leapt from the bed and crossed the room in three long strides to yank the door wide and see who would dare intrude on his privacy. He’d pleaded head pains and given express orders that no one was to disturb him.
Of course, the grinning fool standing in the doorway didn’t consider himself bound by such wishes.
Saor MacSwain thought much of himself.
In ghostdom as he had in life.
“You’d best have a good reason for bothering me.” Bran gave his friend a soured look. “I was sleeping.”
“Say you?” Saor cocked a brow and peered past him at the mussed bedsheets. “If you come back to the hall, I daresay you’ll rest better thereafter.”
Bran jutted his jaw. “This is my thereafter, if you’ve forgotten.”
“Faugh!” Saor laughed. “I came to fetch you, thinking you’ve forgotten that Serafina is performing her dance-of-the-veils for us this e’en.”
Bran blinked. He had forgotten Serafina’s promise of a dance.
A dusky Saracen beauty who only rarely visited his hall, she was well received when she did. Her veil dance—and her willingness to delight Bran’s manly friends in any manner they desired—made her one of the most popular and sought-after ghostesses in the other realm.
Bran admired her, too.
The last time she’d performed in his hall, she’d ended her dance on his lap. He could still feel how she’d slid her long, shapely legs around him. The sinuous rotations of her naked buttocks across his thighs and then the sleek silken heat of her wetness as she’d lowered herself onto him. He recalled, too, how her large, dark- nippled breasts had bounced and swayed. How, ultimately, she’d leaned close to rub them against his chest as
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