But a man remained framed in the window. Different from the savages, for he wore no breechclout but stood there framed in a silhouette of light and shadow that clearly donned his Highland boots, scabbard and sword, and kilted mode of dress.
He, too, would fade, she thought.
She prayed.
Yet he did not. For long moments she stared at him, waiting for him to do so, both her limbs and her tongue frozen.
He’d come like a ghost. No, dear God, he was real. Silently come into her room. Ghost, selkie, beast, demon, man—did it matter which? He watched her from her window, in the silence of the night, and watched her with a menace that seemed palpable in the night air.
Fool! She chastised herself—whoever or whatever, the figure in the window meant her harm. She needed assistance, fast. She leaped from her bed, ready to race to the hallway, scream, and cry for help. Too late, for the Highland demon had sprungfrom the old stone steps, accosting her before she could reach the door. Her scream became a gasp, the very air wrenched out of her, as he reached for her and caught her. She heard the cotton of her gown ripping yet heeded it not in the least as she determined to race onward to escape. But no matter what the strength of her will, it seemed his was stronger, for his hands were on her again, this time seizing her with such force she was spun around into his arms. When she managed to draw breath to scream in earnest, his hand clamped hard upon her mouth. She struggled fiercely, to no avail. She found herself swept up and down and pinned by his massive strength as he straddled her on the bed. She twisted, arched, fought wildly. The clouds were again covering the moon, and she could see form and shape but no substance. She couldn’t free her mouth to scream, and she couldn’t wrench or writhe enough to free herself from the grip of his thighs. Lack of breath was making her strength wane. She feared she would black out again. It seemed she had been rescued only to be assaulted anew by a terrible and ruthless strength. A Highlander indeed, and certainly a man, flesh and blood. He was bare beneath the kilt. Her torn wet gown eluded her more and more with each of her own frantic struggles. But she couldn’t cease to fight, she could not, could not…
“Ah, my lady, what then is this? Why, this is so strangely similar to the last time we met. Ah, yes, similar, but then different. If I recall the occasion, you were enchanting then, intending to give so very much! Perhaps not quite as much as you did give me that night, but then, timing is everything, is it not? And my own was rather pathetic at that! But then, I was distracted.”
She went dead still. Her blood seemed to freeze within her veins. It couldn’t be.
Dear God, no, it couldn’t be. She had lain beside his charred remains, smelled burning flesh. She had somehow been draggedfrom the fire alive. He had not been dragged from it until he had been nothing but the charred remnants of a human being.
He could not be alive.
His hand no longer covered her mouth. He sat quite comfortably straddled atop her now, arms crossed over his chest.
He was, in fact, so very comfortable that he leaned against her, taking a match from the bedside table to strike against the stone of the wall and light the candle upon the small table there.
The room was suddenly flooded with the soft, ethereal, golden glow of candlelight. And she was free. He did not hold her. He straddled her still, staring at her, arms crossed over his chest once again.
Yet now she could not move. She did not attempt to do so, nor did she think to try to scream. She was far too stunned at first to do anything other than stare upward at him and wonder if his face, the voice she heard, could possibly be real, if, indeed, he could be the Douglas.
Returned from the grave.
David, oh god, David, it couldn’t be, but it was, David, sweet Jesus, David…
A gasp of pure disbelief and absolute amazement echoed from her lips.
“Have I distressed you by my appearance? Your heart does seem to be beating quite quickly, my lady. How’s the head? Surely, it wasn’t so hard a blow. Nothing to compare with the blow I suffered that fateful night.”
Her head reeled. “You are dead!” she whispered. “I saw you dead!”
“Then I am a ghost, risen from the loch in flesh and blood. Vengeful blood.”
“My god, how have you come to be here?”
“God does, it seems, work in mysterious ways.”
“You rose out of the loch! You came naked out of the water?—”
“Rather good timing this evening,” he said dryly. “Wouldn’t you agree?”
“But here now, tonight. In my room?—”
“Oh, pardon me, my lady. If you will recall, it is my room.”
Once again, the fickle moon moved in the heavens. Now it seemed that the room was alive with light, and she saw his face quite clearly. Broad cheekbones, set high and ruggedly hewn. Ink-black brows a clean dark arch over eyes the fierce deep green of the forest. Long straight nose, hard squared jaw, generous mouth now compressed to a taut slash against the sun-bronzed darkness of his flesh. The faint line of a scar now ran across his left temple toward his eye. Where the whole of his face had been handsome before, it was hardened now.
He was real, no ghost, no dream. Real, alive.
Something within her leaped with joy. Alive. He was alive. And she was tempted to throw her arms around him, to allow the warmth and happiness that seized her to guide her. She was so grateful to see that he had not died a hideous, terrible death. She wanted to hold him, tell him how glad she was.
Yet she refrained from moving, for he stared down at her with hatred and fury seeming to burn as the very life force within him. And she was afraid, as she had never been before.