Loch Dragon's Lady

When Robert Dunyveg finds Ellen Kildonan on his secluded Scottish isle, he thinks she’s just another tourist to spoil his peace. Though outraged by her claim that the island is hers, the dragon shifter can’t resist indulging his long-denied desire with the exotic beauty. But while Ellen has the scent of a human, she tasted of magic—and the only way to unlock the mystery of her true identity is to explore their red-hot passion even more…

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Of what use was a forgotten lump of land in the Outer Hebrides of Scotland? An island in the Caribbean—now there was a treasured gift. Great-Aunt Clara might as well have willed her her collection of size six shoes.

Ellen Kildonan wore a size ten.

The sea’s cold spray wet her cheeks, her rented boat bouncing in the choppy water like a preschooler on a trampoline. She burrowed deeper into her coat, hands clenching the straps of her duffel bag. The captain, a reedy man with wind-blotched cheeks and a nest of tomato-red hair in serious need of a shears’ touch, glanced back at her and grinned. “She’s a nasty vixen today. Storm’s brewing.”

She swallowed hard, forcing down the remains of her lunch, and nodded.

Ellen could count the number of words she’d exchanged with her aunt over the years. Why, as the eccentric old woman was divvying up her personal possessions, did she look at the island and think of her great-niece?

“Can’t guess crazy people’s motives,” her friend Liddy said when Ellen had told her about the odd gift.

Ellen leaned over the boat’s edge to vomit. Whatever her reasons, Aunt Clara must be cackling in her crypt about now.

Robert Dunyveg lugged the bag of rubbish onto the shore. Damn tourists and their water bottles, plastic bags and whatnot. He’d spent the better part of his day scouring his shoreline and collecting trash from the last plague of day-trippers.

His skin cast off loch water like a slicker shedding rain. He lifted his head, nostrils flaring. Speaking of which…the scent of rain filled his lungs. He didn’t mind the cold, though he doubted a good dousing would lessen his temper.

Another scent tainted the air. His upper lip curled. Man. He sniffed again. No, a woman. The disdain didn’t lessen. What buggering fool stumbled onto his isle? And for what reason? He’d bloody Magnus’s nose if he caught the youth dropping off more vermin in exchange for coin.

Picking up his plaid from where he’d cached it in the rocks this morning, he slung it over his shoulder and cinched the belt around his waist. Much to his dismay, the scent thickened as he approached his castle. If he found her poking around his belongings, may the good Lord stay his hand. He was in no mood to be generous.

What he found, though, was a hunched figure crouched around a ring of stones as she desperately tried to start a fire. A haphazard pile of supplies lay on the beach, though if the storm manifested as it seemed wont to, the water’s greedy fingers would soon filch it all. He paused, hands balled on his hips. Either she was a stupid thing and stranded, or a weather witch and unconcerned about the squall. He bet on the former. The rain smelled too pure to be conjured.

He strode toward her. “Hey there, what are you about?”

Her covered head shot up. He caught the glint of steel as she snatched up her knife, tucking it in her sleeve. Not as dim-witted as he first surmised, then. Good. He had even less patience for the crafty. Let her bear the brunt of his temper.

She straightened, and the first thing that struck him was her height. He stood a solid six feet and she nearly matched him. Licking his lips, he scented her fear and surprisingly, her anger. That had his eyes narrowing and his gait slowing. A knife, however small, could do serious harm to his human shape.

“I could ask you the same. This is Dun Isle, isn’t it?” she said. In spite of her fear, her voice rang clear.

American. That earned her yet another scowl.

He ignored her question. “How’d you get here?”

She shook back her hood. “I imagine the same as anyone else, by boat.”

Despite her accent, her looks were anything but what he’d expect from an American. Though, if tourists were an indication, they were a mongrel lot. White, chocolate, pink, and ranging from blond and as pale as the winter’s sun to as black as the bottom of his castle’s well, there wasn’t a shared feature among the lot of them. Unless rudeness and ignorance could be counted. He nearly smiled at his own wit. A hazard of keeping one’s own company.

This one dabbled in the chocolate palette, with straight dark hair that hung to her breasts, and eyes the color of polished mahogany. Her nose was wide and a bit flat, its ordinariness compensated for by her lush coral lips, both set in a perfect oval. Comely, for a human woman. If one favored that sort of thing. He didn’t. He wouldn’t let himself savor such again. Why waste emotion on something that had a shorter life cycle than his trees?