Highlander in Her Bed Read Free Page A

decorative leaves. "These are oak leaves. They represent valor. Such symbols were chosen with great care because the qualities depicted were directly related to the bearer. Therefore, we can assume the bed belonged to a baronial family or perhaps a knight."
    A knight . Mara's heart jolted, the very word setting her insides aflutter. "You can tell that by the design?"
    A pleased blush colored Mr. Dimbleby's face.
    "Heraldry is a hobby of mine," he said and cocked a speculative eye at the headboard. "Now, the thistles might mean the bed came from—"
    "Scotland?" Mara supplied, certain of it.
    After all, her genealogy-obsessed father had embarrassed her often enough by filling their modest suburban home with plaid and thistles, even once bribing her with a spring break trip to Fort Lauderdale if she'd stencil thistle borders around the bathroom ceiling.
    The proprietor lowered his glasses a notch and looked at her over the rims. "Quite right," he agreed. "The thistle represents Scotland. But even though I acquired the bed at an Edinburgh antique show, I tend to believe it has its origins in England."
    Mara ran a finger across one of the oak leaves. "Why? Because the oak is associated with England?"
    That, too, she knew. From her passion for medieval history and also from having escorted so many tours through English country manors.
    But Donald Dimbleby shook his head. "Could be, but I would say because of the bed's fine craftsmanship." His voice took on a slight edge of condescension. "Nothing against our northern neighbors, but in those days, I'm afraid the English would have been far more advanced in creating such pieces. For instance, this bed can be completely dismantled and put back together with surprising ease. The Scots would not have been so skilled at that time."
    "My ancestors came from Scotland," Mara said, and a blast of Arctic air hit her full in the face. "I've never been there, though."
    Mr. Dimbleby gave her an indulgent smile. "With a name like McDougall and hair such a lovely shade of copper, I'd already guessed you'd have Scottish roots. I—" He broke off at the shrill of a telephone.
    "If you'll excuse me," he said, already heading toward an opened door on the far side of the room, which he closed firmly behind him.
    Left alone, Mara turned back to the bed.
    It fascinated her. Grasping one of the posts with both hands, she rested her cheek against its solidity and closed her eyes, tried to envision the bed as it must have been centuries ago.
    Blessed with a vivid imagination, she soon conjured a dashing knight in a mailed hauberk carrying a fair-haired maiden up a winding turret stair, then gently lowering her onto the sumptuously dressed bed.
    Chill bumps rose on her arms again, but this time her shivers had nothing to do with the cold.
    These were delicious shivers, accompanied by a quickening of her breath and hot little rushes of sheer delight. To a lover of old things, such as she was, almost orgasmic.
    If only she had lived in the age of romance and chivalry.
    Instead, she was Mara luckless-in-love McDougall, fated to run a business that, at times, stretched her nerves just so she could catch occasional whiffs and glimpses of the long-ago world that so fascinated her.
    She let out a heavy sigh. Like it or not, she lived in the here and now. And if she wanted to see England again after this trip, she'd better not indulge in flights of fancy. A combination of hard work and creativity had allowed her to build Exclusive Excursions into a semithriving business.
    Not mooning over what-ifs and might-have-beens.
    Somehow she'd survive this last evening of playing mother hen to the proud cardholders of the Society of Intrepid Ghost Hunters. And, as always, she'd pass the months until the next tour with a flurry of industrious advertising and planning. Then, before she knew it, she'd be back on the next London-bound plane.
    Little else mattered.
    With a distinct twinge of regret, she pushed away from the