Sparkling as the glittering loch waters at her feet, she beckoned, her allure pulling him deeper into sleep. Somewhere inside him something twisted and cracked, freeing him of his usual caution.
Need, want, and an inexplicable urgency swept him. Then, his entire body tightened and he found himself standing only a hand’s breadth in front of her.
He drew a harsh, rapid breath, then seized her by the arms and pulled her tight against him for a hard, demanding kiss. A devouring, all-slaking, open-mouthed kiss full of tangling tongues and hot sighs.
The kind of kiss he’d been burning to give her ever since he’d seen her march so boldly up Dare’s steps, her wicked green bauble bouncing against the vee between her thighs.
Some lucid part of him wondered if her gift allowed her to invade his sleep, but his dream-self didn’t care why she was there, tempting him.
Only that she was.
Groaning, he jerked her even harder against his chest, his fingers tightening on her arms as he plunged his tongue ever deeper into her mouth. His heart thundered, his need near bursting as she swirled her own tongue seductively over his.
Heat swept him, her attar of roses scent enfolding him, bewitching him.
He thrust a hand into the silken mass of her hair, twining his fingers in the bright, glossy curls. Soft, nubby curls with a surprisingly familiar feel.
A feel that was just a wee bit worn, not nearly as soft as he’d thought, and decidedly woolly.
His eyes snapped open.
The illusion, dream, or whate’er it’d been spiraled away. An odd lurching disappointment shot through him and he pushed up on his elbows to glare at the bunched plaid clutched so tightly in his hand.
His own plaid, still wrapped snug around him save that he’d managed to pull it up over his chin. Its edge tickled his nose, the seductive scent of roses wafting up from each woolen fold, reminding him how often she’d leaned over-close at the high table.
How many times she’d endeavored to brush her breasts against his arm, her attar of roses perfume nigh undoing him.
His brows snapped together. “By all the living saints!” he cursed, lifting up just enough to fling the rose-reeking tartan into a corner.
When he tried to roll onto his side and found he couldn’t, he made another discovery.
The delicious warmth he’d been imagining hadn’t been imagined at all.
Hewasengulfed in warmth.
But not because his entirely too tempting, bauble-wearing bride returned his dream-kisses with such heated fervor. Nor thanks to the unexpected coziness of the muffled converse he’d caught from the dais end of the hall, his grandfather’s occasional bark of jolly laughter.
He was warm — overly warm — because his favorite hound, Buckie, was sprawled across his lower legs!
As if the great scruffy beast sensed Ronan’s ire, he opened one eye, giving him a long, steady look before shutting it again and continuing with his snores.
Ronan swallowed a curse. The dog wasn’t just warming him. His entire lower body beginning somewhere about midthigh tingled and burned as if the devil and his minions were jabbing him with red-hot fire needles.
He might not rid himself of the sensation for days.
It was that bad.
And ordering Buckie to move wasn’t an option.
The old cur was lame in his back legs and deserved his rest even more than Ronan. Nor would he budge if Ronan did glower and scold him. Unlike the other castle dogs, Buckie was wholly impervious to his dark moods.
Far from slinking away wheneverthat lookcame onto Ronan’s face, Buckie would simply shuffle over and lick his hand.
Something he’d done ever since Ronan had found him tied to a tree on the edges of Glen Dare, thin, half-starving, and covered in welts. Ronan had doubted the then-young dog would survive the night.
But he’d thrived, and to this day, Ronan could hardly take a step without Buckie trailing along at his heels.
Nor, it would seem, would he find undisturbed sleep this night.
