Highland Knight Of Dreams - Amy Jarecki Page 0,4

their plaids. A crackling fire illuminated their forms, two on their sides sleeping with their backs to the flame. But one of the three lay only paces away, slumbering on his back as if the fire had made him overwarm. He was a large man, but not as rotund as the largest.

She instantly recognized the man on his back as Quinn Campbell. He had a full head of chestnut hair with blue moonlight dancing through the thick waves. An imposing Highlander, his plaid did nothing to hide the brawn beneath. Sword and musket at his side, doubtless he had a dirk hidden in close reach. Perhaps the blade was secure in his hand under the woolen folds?

To keep the rosebud alive, Gran had wrapped the stem in linen soaked in a tincture of willow bark, secured it with a bit of oiled leather and tied the lot with a thong.

Not daring to stand to her full height, she crept to the man’s side and kneeled. His eyes were closed, his lips half parted and in slumber he looked as gentle as a lamb. But she knew better. This man was a monster.

The rose trembled in her fingers. “I’m nay supposed to wake ye, but I’ll have ye ken you’re trespassing on Lamont lands. No matter who holds the deed, this very ground will always be stained with the blood spilled by your grandfather—the blood of my kin.”

Emboldened by her words, Alice set the rose atop Quinn Campbell’s chest and repeated the words Gran had insisted she say, “It is a wise man who can harness the power of the rose. Brawn and bravery may come and go but only wisdom can reverse the curse.”

“Who are you?” His Lordship asked, his voice but a whisper no louder than the breeze.

Alice’s heart flew to her throat as she crouched and eased away, her gaze darting to his face. Blessed be the saints, he hadn’t opened his eyes.

Growing emboldened, she moistened her lips. “I’m a selkie, come to tell ye to leave this place and never return.”

“But these are my lands,” he said as clear as day, though he made not a twitch.

Alice slunk toward the shadows. “Lands stolen by disgrace and tyranny will never be yours.”

As the young lord’s eyes blinked open, Alice slipped away as quietly as she’d come.

Quinn jolted upright.

What the blazes?

He shoved the hair away from his face, trying to recall the damned dream. At least he’d thought he’d had the most vivid dream of his life until he noticed a flower had dropped to his lap as he’d sat up. He grasped the stem and a vicious thorn stabbed his finger.

“Ow.”

Quinn wiped the blood on his plaid, then gingerly pinched the part of the stem wrapped in leather and held it toward the moonlight. Unbelievable. He’d expected a bloom of unearthly magnificence, but he held nothing but a sickly-looking rosebud.

But the bonny lass had brought it. He knew it in his bones. She’d come to him. The same woman he’d seen in the forest had spoken to him in hushed, sultry tones.

In a blink, he realized she’d fled yet again.

No!

Casting aside his blanket, Quinn raced up to the crumbling wall-walk. Where was she? Why had she come? And just when he’d began to stir, she’d run. Why?

He needed to talk to the lass, ask her name. Look into her eyes. He must find out more about the beauty. Where was she from? Why was she alone? Did she need assistance, sustenance?

Damnation!

Why was he so drawn to her? He’d seen only long, silken tresses, a blue gown, and indescribable radiance. He’d stolen only a glimpse, but she was the bonniest creature to walk the Highlands. He was certain of it right down to his toes.

Something flickered in the distance. Blonde hair?

Was it she?

Quinn raced down the steps, stooping to pick up his sword and belt as he dashed past his pallet. He sprinted toward the flicker he’d seen. Branches slapped his face. The thorns of gorse scraped his legs while he leapt over logs and boulders.

Never slowing, he searched the shadows, his eyes wide, missing nothing.

Where are you?

His lungs burned, but Quinn refused to slow his pace until he reached a sandy beach, the Firth of Clyde stretching before him. Gasping for air, he stopped with his hands on his knees, the surf gently sliding over his leather boots with a rush of seafoam.

But the blood rushing in his veins was anything but gentle. It pounded through his heart