The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,116

the same: He awakened in the dark with an overwhelming sense of doom. He searched the bed for Annie, but she was gone. Frantic, he rose from the bed and nearly fell sideways as the room wavered. Then, he saw the bird, a white raven perched on the foot of the bedframe. It stared at him until he walked toward it. Then it plucked up Annie’s plaid from the bed and dropped the thing at John’s feet. John wrapped himself in it. Watched the bird fly to the chest of drawers where his dirk lay. Picked up the dirk. The bird flew out of the room, and John followed. All the while, words chanted in his ears: Dark is here. Dark is here. Dark is here.

The dream was pure, heart-pounding panic. Confusion. His sense of loss and urgency coiled up into a knot, but he didn’t know what he was supposed to do. Often, the bird led him to the tower then showed him the window he’d been unable to repair. It was always shattered. Blood always dripped from the jagged glass. And he always turned around to find Annie lying behind him, chest still, eyes blank, blood pooling on the floor from wounds in her belly. The seeping pool would reach his bare toes, and he would collapse to his knees with a roar of anguish.

That was where the dream always ended. For the last five mornings, he’d awakened in a sweat to find her lying beside him. He’d wrap her in his arms until she protested sleepily that she needed to breathe. Then, he’d love her until his heart felt capable of letting her leave his sight.

His training with the caber and hammer and stones helped release some of the tension, but he hadn’t slept well in days. Now, he felt worn, his muscles sore. He cast off his kilt—a second, lighter one Annie had made for his training sessions—and waded into the pool beneath the fall. The water was a glorious chill on his skin, the cascade a brisk, much-needed pounding on his weary shoulders.

Through the curtain of falling water, he glimpsed a figure in shades of scarlet, cream, and lilac. She came toward him across grass and wildflowers, at first ambling. Then striding. Then running.

He waded toward her, his body going predictably hard. By the time the water was waist-deep, she’d reached the pool’s edge and begun splashing toward him. He halted. “Love, wait. Your gown …”

She didn’t seem to care. Lilac muslin ballooned around her as she strained to descend deeper and deeper. “I need ye, English.”

He could see that she did. Cornflower eyes were fixed upon him, hungry and near-desperate. His wife usually fretted if a drop of rain landed on her skirts. He moved swiftly before she waded any deeper than her knees, taking her in his arms and cupping her nape as she clutched him around his ribs, her fingers digging into his back and her cheek settling over his heart. She was trembling, her skin hot and her breaths uneven.

Stroking her back, he rested his cheek upon her hair. “What’s wrong, Annie?”

“I need ye,” she repeated.

“You have me.”

Her entire body began shaking.

He scooped her into his arms and climbed out of the water, going to where his kilt was laid out on a flat rock and settling down with her in his lap. Methodically, he ran his hands over her soft curves, reassuring himself she hadn’t been injured. “Can you tell me what happened?”

For a long while, she said nothing. Then, she explained what had upset her—Mrs. MacBean’s revelations about Finlay, how he’d misled Annie into believing he was a ghost. How she’d misled herself into believing they could be together again if she only married a lord. “I dinnae ken what’s real anymore, English.”

“We’re real, love. You and I.”

“I’ve lost him. And I miss him. And I have no way of bringin’ him back to me.”

“I know.” He kissed her. Caressed her cheek. Stroked her hair.

“This doesnae mean ye’re absolved of yer duty.” She slid her hand to the center of his chest. “I mean to have yer bairns, English. Ye must still apply yerself.”

He smiled. “Of course, love.”

A sniff. “Ye’re naked now.”

“Indeed.”

“I ruined my dress.”

“It’s only a bit damp.”

She played with the hair on his chest. Nibbled at the skin of his throat. “Nah. I’ll have