Frank cancels a trip to the beach to help his buddy Randy check out the Scottish castle he has unexpectedly inherited. The castle is a wreck, Randy is a mess and Frank is furious—until he encounters the real Laird of the Manor and indulges in a ghostly highland fling.
I awoke with a start, my heart in my throat. My hands were above my head, held there by some invisible force. I felt an intense pressure on my midsection. I opened one eye. The moon had broken through the clouds and filled the room with a silvery light. I raised my head slightly and looked down. A huge hand pressed against my belly! Dark hairs bristled on the tendon-corded claw. The muscular arm attached to it appeared to be damn near as big around as my thigh. I didn’t know to whom or what it belonged, but it sure as hell wasn’t Randy!
I tried to move, but I was helpless. I felt hot breath on my neck and the intruder’s grip tightened. My gaze shifted from my belly to a point slightly to my left. I saw a man’s knee planted firmly on the edge of the bed. I looked up over the curve of a hairy thigh bared almost to the hip. My eyes focused on tartan plaid fabric that I quickly identified as a kilt. The kilt wrapped around a narrow waist, above which no fabric intervened to obscure a flat belly ridged with muscle or a broad, luxuriantly furred chest.
“Who…what…are you?” I tried to say more, but my mouth was so dry that the words stuck in my throat.
“Who are ye?” A deep voice with a thick Scot burr threw my question back at me. “What’re ye doing in my bed?”
“Your bed?” I craned my neck to get a look at my interrogator’s face. When I succeeded, the lump in my throat got even bigger. It was the man in the tapestry, right down to the tangled mass of long black curls, the luminous brown eyes, the chiseled features. “Oh my God!” My eyes grew wide and I writhed helplessly, driven almost mad with terror. “You’re the hunter from the hall.”
The apparition looked at me curiously for a moment, then his nostrils flared. He raised one arm, his other hand still firmly circling my wrists. “Aye, laddie, I’m that man. Angus McDougal, First Laird of Kinnoch. This has been my bed throughout the ages. Why be ye here?”
“Me? Well, I’m here with the current owner. We were just exploring the place.”
“I’m the Laird of Kinnoch,” he thundered angrily. “I always have been and so I will remain until the end of the world.”
“But you’re dead, aren’t you?” I looked at the man skeptically. If he was dead, how could I be talking to him? On the other hand, he sure as hell looked like the man on the tapestry. In the end, through a jet-lagged haze, I decided I didn’t have enough experience with ghosts to know exactly what to expect.
“Aye, so I am, laddie. Cut down in my prime by that damnable stag on the tapestry. The great beast lurched to its feet as I struck, goring my side.” He grabbed my hand and pressed it against his lower belly. My fingers traced over a hard ridge of scar tissue. He was very warm for a ghost! “The wound healed, but the poison set in and I died a month later.” He paused for emphasis and lowered his handsome face close to mine. “Since that time, I’ve roamed this damned castle, searching for relief.”
“I see.” I didn’t see, of course, but I didn’t want to piss him off.
“You’re a bonny lad.” His hand slipped from my belly to my hip, around to cup my right ass cheek.
“Uh…thanks.” His hand wandered down to my thigh, then back up to my ass cheek.
“Skin like silk.”
“Would you please let go of my hands? I can’t feel my fingers.”
“Aye, as long as you promise not to run away.”
“I promise.” I had no idea where to run. Besides, he was a damned sexy ghost!
He relaxed his grip on my wrists. I wiggled my fingers tentatively and lowered my arms to my sides. The knuckles of my left hand brushed against his chest and belly. With my arm stretched out along my side, my fingers rested against his knee. Almost against my will—and certainly against my better judgment—I stroked the inside of his thigh. As my hand rose, I distinctly heard the laird growl. It didn’t seem to be a hostile growl, so I kept on stroking.
“I’ve always wondered what men wear under these things.”
“Nothing that nature didn’t provide,” the laird assured me.
