In Bed with the Highlander
Hotel Glencovie, 2013 Researching her family tree brings Moirag McLellan to the Highlands and a foreboding castle-turned-hotel. She goes to sleep alone surrounded by modern amenities, but awakens in a room lit only by candles–and occupied by a gorgeous kilted man. And he's far too real to be just an erotic dream…Glencovie Castle, 1715 Though Gavin MacIver doesn't know how the lusty wench in barely-there clothing came to be in his bed, he knows he never wants her to leave. But if her story of time-travel is true, how can he stop the only woman he's ever loved from slipping through his fingers once darkness fades into dawn?
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Hotel Glencovie, 2013
Researching her family tree brings Moirag McLellan to the Highlands and a foreboding castle-turned-hotel. She goes to sleep alone surrounded by modern amenities, but awakens in a room lit only by candlesâand occupied by a gorgeous kilted man. And heâs far too real to be just an erotic dream...
Glencovie Castle, 1715
Though Gavin MacIver doesnât know how the lusty wench in barely-there clothing came to be in his bed, he knows he never wants her to leave. But if her story of time-travel is true, how can he stop the only woman heâs ever loved from slipping through his fingers once darkness fades into dawn?
Dear Reader,
Have you ever wondered what it would be liked to be whisked back in time? I know I have. As someone who creates stories set in the past, I canât help but wonder what it was really like. And that was my inspiration for this flight of fancy. It also provided an opportunity to write a modern day heroine and one of those gorgeous Highland warrior heroes most of us dream about. The nice thing about dreams is that we can imagine them as we want them to be. All I can say is, lucky Moirag.
If you are curious to know more about me and my writing, you can find me at http://www.annlethbridge.com, AnnLethbridgeAuthor is likable on Facebook and twittering @annlethbridge when the occasion warrants. Your participation is always welcome.
Ann Lethbridge
Dedication
To my own personal hero, who has more than a little bit of Scottish blood in his veins.
The object floating above the mist in Moiragâs headlights might have been a UFO hovering over a landing pad, if it didnât look quite so much like a castle. Chilly fingers walked down her back. Because it looked identical to something sheâd seen as a child. Something creepy wobbling on the surface of a bowl of water held by Granny âthe auld witchâ McLellan as her mother had called her great grandma. Destiny put out in plain sight, the old girl had breathed staring into the water at the image of a medieval castle. As a child, sheâd believed it. Sheâd even studied history at school at Grannyâs suggestion.
Not much call for history. Or superstitious rot as her mother had called Grannyâs strange ideas. A degree in business had proved more useful. But history remained her passion.
And what she was looking at in her headlights was definitely a castle, when there hadnât been one marked on Google maps anywhere near the hotel sheâd booked. Probably one of those private places where they paid to be blacked out from prying eyes. So where was her hotel? She had to be lost.
Moirag geared down to a crawl and rubbed at the windscreen. Not fogged on the inside. She flicked the lever. The wipers did a quick one, two and park. Nope. Not misted on the other side of the glass. Definitely a pea-souper.
A glance at the Sat Nav on the dash didnât help, either. It remained stubbornly blank, having given up the ghost an hour ago. Must be out of range. The dark shape ahead of her solidified, its stone walls and crenellations looming out of the mist. There was a sign over a stone arched entrance in the outer wall. Hotel Glencovie. Really? The description on the internet hadnât said a word about it being a castle and there had been no picture to clue her in.
And this place looked more like the setting for a horror flick than your friendly B and B. The hairs on the back of her neck waved in a nonexistent breeze. A creepy sensation she didnât appreciate with fog snaking over the road ready to swallow her and her car.
She shivered. Enough. Sheâd so been looking forward to this little holiday. To exploring the local library and church, looking for family connections. The finishing touches to her surprise for her parentsâ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. The McLellan family tree went all the way back to seventeen hundred and ten. All it needed were a few details about her ancestor, the first, and apparently very naughty, Lady Moirag Breton.
A quick glance in the rearview mirror revealed a blank wall of white. No going back to Glasgow tonight. She was here and that was that.
The road took a twist right, and then left, and her lights picked out the jagged points of a raised portcullis. Water gleamed with an oily incandescence on her near side. Must be the moat. A little too close for comfort.
Slowing to a crawl, she eased the car across the wooden slats of the drawbridge.
The car did a rock and roll number over the cobblestones in the courtyard. Tarmac was invented by a Scot, but did anyone care about your springs? Nah. It was all about atmosphere. No doubt sheâd be greeted by some old fogy in a kilt who had a Scottish accent as thick as a steak, only to discover the man came from Kent or York. That was how it was these days. She pulled up to the sign displaying the word Reception in Gothic lettering, popped the boot and opened her door.
Five hours on a trip that should have taken three locked her knees when she pushed off the seat. Standing up, she rolled her shoulders to the tune of cracking vertebrae. Ah, that was better. A blinding beam of light hit her full in the face. She blinked madly. Oh, right. Sensor light. At least sheâd be able to pick her way across the courtyard. The heels of her favorite shoes hated to be jammed between two blocks of stone on any day of the week.
