CHAPTER ONE
Ross stood on the ancient battlements of Mallochbirn Castle, looking out over the churning waters of the sea. The day was stormy and warmer than usual. Humid. The skies were leaden and heavy with rain. His eyes searched the rocks, the crags, the distant headlands, and, most of all, the rough, white-capped waters surrounding his tiny island in northwest Scotland. "Come to me," he murmured, over and over. "I summon thee. Come."
The words were spoken without his volition. Oh, he knew he spoke them, and understood their meaning, but it wasn’t his rational mind that had driven him up into the tower and out to the crenellated battlements. He spent most of the year resisting all thought of the ancient legends of Mallochbirn. Yet here he was, following the dictates of the tale, like many a fool before him.
How many generations of his family had stood here, on the worn stone, sending their souls out of their body, restlessly questing, seeking something they yearned for but could not name? He glanced up at the great stone dragon, symbol of Mallochbirn and his family, carved in weather-smoothed basalt atop the highest tower. His dragon. His doom.
A sleepy sea gull flew in, cawing. Ross locked eyes with the creature, which wheeled and flew away, fast. "Not you." He watched the bird as it became smaller and smaller. Soon it was nothing more than a speck on the horizon.
The waves rolled in, breaking and hurling their salt spray high on the rocks into which the old fortress was anchored. Ross felt the waters, into them, under them. Plenty of life there, but not the life he sought. Nothing stirred except the pounding and churning of water upon ancient rock.
A loud crack of thunder jolted him. Idiot, he said to himself. He stood there for some time longer, buffeted by the wind, watching the storm sweep in from the sea. Jagged bolts of lightning lit up the sky, and the air sizzled with the power of the raging elements. He knew he ought to go inside instead of making himself a target for the lightning, but some defiant spirit kept him there, absorbing Nature’s ferocity.
His vision, sharper than usual, caught an unusual movement on the causeway that led to the island. The gravel roadway there had an inch or two of surf breaking over it. The tide was receding, but the winds had whipped up waves, and causeway wouldn't be safe until the water backed off completely. He leaned forward over the retaining wall, trying to get a better look. No cars were allowed on the island. What fool was attempting to drive over?
Nobody local would even dream of doing such a thing. Particularly on this day of the year—the morning of Midsummer's Eve. It must be someone who did not belong on the island or in the village. A stranger. But this was a place where strangers were not allowed.
Ross stalked into the tower and down the long, winding staircase that led to the main part of the castle. He wished someone had installed an elevator. Maybe it was time for a few more renovations around here.
He caught the intruder getting out of the car on the narrow stony beach where the end of the causeway met the rocks of the island. The dark-clad figure was considerably shorter than Ross was, but not until he slipped behind and applied the edge of a fine Scots dirk to a slender throat did he realize the intruder was female.
She tensed, but did not panic. "Whoa," she said.
"Reckless to be disregarding all the signs," Ross said. He was trying to stay loose, ready for anything. The intruder was clad in light clothing suitable for a cool summer in northern Scotland. His dirk was probably unnecessary, but he wasn't fool enough to underestimate her because of her sex. "If you were to drown, no one would be surprised."
"A slashed throat would be investigated," said the intruder—American, by her accent.
"You’d be surprised at the injuries than can be inflicted by some of the razor-sharp rocks hereabouts. Who are you?"
"My name’s Catriona Beaton. People call me Kate. And you are?"
"Angry. Trying not to be careless with this blade, but no guarantees. I’d advise you to remain still, like a mouse." He patted her down efficiently with one hand and found nothing. Except some appealing curves.
"Hey, I’m harmless," she protested.
Ross turned her loose with a shove and sheathed his blade.
She straightened and rubbed her neck. Ross estimated her to be somewhere in her twenties, with dark hair, regular features, and a strong, fit body. The young woman's dark hair was swept up in an intricate style with little wisps of curl framing her features. One lock, though, had escaped its confinement to drift haplessly down the side of her throat. Her eyes were the light, clear green of sun-drenched tropical seas. They were rimmed with dark, soft lashes and arched with feathery eyebrows to which he would love to touch the tip of his tongue. She had a stubborn chin and distinctly kissable lips. Those lips were arched up in a smile.
"Are you the owner of this place? Mr. Malloch?"
"This place and most of the surrounding land, aye. You’re trespassing."
"Sorry about that. I was hoping to meet the laird." She was gazing curiously at the knife he had sheathed in a leather casing on his belt. "Do you always wear a sword? Isn't that a little anachronistic?"
"It's a dirk. It's useful for confronting gatecrashers. You're lucky your car wasn't swept out to sea. What you did is not only forbidden, but also dangerous."
"Forbidden?"
"No cars are allowed on the island. That's one reason why the causeway isn't paved." He gestured to the stony dirt road that was becoming visible as the surf continued to retreat. The local vicar's orange cat was prowling near the water line, looking impatient. He must have crossed to the island at low tide and gotten stranded here. He fussed over that cat occasionally, which he probably shouldn't do, since it encouraged him to visit.
"There aren't many cars in the village, either," he added. "We don't like to pollute our pristine sliver of Scotland with modern chemical fumes."
"I noticed. The whole village seems anachronistic," she said cheerfully. "Or have I stepped through a time warp into the past?"
She had an engaging smile and a pleasant way about her. He had to school himself to resist her charm. "Why are you here?"
"I've come to speak to the laird. I emailed, but received no reply. Is email another of the modern conveniences you disdain, Mr. Malloch?"
She was clearly guessing, but he decided not to deny his identity. "I'm not receiving guests. The tide is falling, so it should be safe enough for you to turn your car around and return to wherever you came from."
"I came all the way from Boston. You know—far off in the New World?" She grinned at him.
"Why? What do you want here? Few people in the States have ever heard of this place."
"I know. It's amazing how quiet you've kept it. Why is that?"
"Why did you say you were here? Who do you work for?"
"No one. I'm a writer, doing some research."
He was skeptical. "I thought research was conducted on the internet these days."
"You can get lots of documents online, but for some material you still have to visit libraries. And the only way to talk to people is to get out there and meet them."
"Maybe some people don't want to meet you. Ever thought of that possibility?"
"Even if I'm family? This part of Scotland is home for me, in a way. My people originated here. I'm trying to trace my ancestors."
"I don't think there are any Beatons in this village."
"My grandmother's name was Buchanan. There was a MacFarlane in the mix, too and maybe some Grahams. It's all a bit vague."
Her entire story sounded vague to him. Anybody could make up a few Scottish names. And yet...he could almost imagine her fitting in here. Which made no sense at all. An American finding her place in an old Scots village? Preposterous.
"Are you Mr. Malloch? Mr. Ross Malloch, the laird of these lands?"
"Aye, that I am. What do you want with me?"
"Well, actually, I'm also curious about a dragon."
Ross tensed. "A dragon," he repeated, injecting as much disdain into the word as he could muster.
"Right. Big, scaly, fire-breathing. You know the type. Have any large flying creatures incinerated anyone lately?"
He managed a laugh. "Are you writing a fantasy novel?"
"A book on folk tales, actually. You'd be amazed at how many there are, especially in the British Isles. It’s a folklore treasure trove." She paused, looking at Ross as if sizing him up. Or maybe checking him out. "Most of the villages and towns with magical or mystical legends are proud of them. Such stories tend to bring in the tourists."
"We don't encourage tourists here."
"That's the odd thing about this area—there’s no Dragon’s Inn or Firebreathers pub. No website dedicated to re-telling the old legends. No ballads to commemorate the heroes, assuming there were any. In my experience, that’s unusual. Most people are proud of their dragons. Why aren’t you?"
"No idea. Maybe this dragon of yours gobbled up all the balladeers, innkeepers, publicans, heroes, and website developers who knew about him, thus preserving his anonymity." He paused. "If the legends don’t exist, what are you doing here?"
"The legends do exist. Great stories—very imaginative. Heroic battles, virgin sacrifices, the dragons punished by the gods for their destructiveness. My favorite has the hero driving the dragon from the skies and extinguishing his fires in the sea. But the beast turned into a sea dragon and stole the hero's lover away to a watery lair deep under some island fortress." She looked up at Mallochbirn Keep. "Rather like this place."
This woman was going to be trouble. Perhaps it was true that her forebears were from this area, or she wouldn't know these stories. As far as he knew, they weren't written down anywhere.
"Sounds as if you stopped by the pub for some of our fine single malt before heading over here."
She gave him a big grin. It was all too appealing, and he felt something move inside him. This was all he needed on Midsummer's Eve—an attractive woman stimulating all the passions that he was trying to keep contained.
She lifted a hand to her hair, which was blowing in the brisk wind. The thunderstorm must have moved off, though, since the sky was brighter. It looked as if the sun might even break through. Kate Beaton attempted to knot her thick hair atop her head, but long silky strands kept escaping. Laughing at her futile efforts, she abandoned the attempt, and loosed her glorious hair. Ross imagined it flowing over his bare chest and tangling in his fingers while he fucked her.
Lust rose with a clamoring din. Looking into her eyes he felt his consciousness slide and his awareness deepen. Something that was sleeping stirred. It perked up its head and took a good hard look. He flashed back to the high tower at Mallochbirn where he'd stood on the ancient battlements looking out to sea. Had it been she whom he'd been summoning? Was that why she was here?
For centuries, the Mallochs had been known as the dragons of Mallochbirn, and dragon lore pervaded the region. The original Mallochbirn Dragon had been the traditional flying, fire-breathing variety, but somewhere down the centuries, the creature had been banished from the skies to the seas. By tradition, the sea dragon was bound to the lord. In some versions of the tale, the lord of Mallochbirn actually was the creature—half man, half beast, shifting back and forth at unpredictable intervals.
Particularly on Midsummer's Eve.
Family legend held that in every generation, the Laird of the Isle must take a mate, produce an heir, and bind the dragon to its future master. And so it had happened, for too many centuries to count. The direct line of descent had never been broken. If an heir was not lawfully begotten in the marriage bed, the lords of Mallochbirn had never hesitated to legitimize their bastards. Supposedly, the dragon’s drive to beget an heir on whichever woman could produce one was far too powerful to resist.
Ross could not deny that for the past few weeks he had been feeling a strong compulsion to find himself a woman for something more than the occasional fuck. And as he looked down at the lovely female standing opposite him, something deep in the heart of him hissed: This one. I want this one.
He was oddly transfixed by her mouth. And her scent—it was light, heathery, and incredibly alluring. Once again he felt the beast inside him stir, more insistently now. His muscles hardened to stone and his jaw clenched as he resisted. What he felt was very focused. She is for me. Take her. I want her.
She was young—not more than early twenties, he guessed. A bit young for a thirty-year-old reprobate like him.
They tend to come that way. Brides. Young.
Brides?! What the hell was he thinking?
She was continuing to speak: "You’ll have to admit, dragon legends make exciting tales. My Gramma Molly used to tell them to me when I was little. It was she who urged me to investigate my roots in Scotland."
Shit. The last thing he needed was some American girl prying into the island's strange history. For her own sake, he had to get rid of her. If the beast inside him got just a little more aroused and interested in this girl, she would be in considerable danger.
She needed to leave. Quickly. Before tonight.
Thinking fast, he said, "You know, silly though this is, there's another island about 50 miles up the coast with an old fortress. I don't remember its name, but I believe the locals associate some sort of dragon nonsense with the place."
"Really? I wonder why I haven't heard about that. You're sure you don't remember what the place is called?"
It was better to deny than to lie, he decided, particularly since you could hardly hide an island and a fortress from Google Maps. "Sorry, I'm no expert on folklore. If you want sea monsters, you should try your luck with Nessie. This is a great time of year for Nessie sightings."
Which was total bullshit. The way she shot him a quick glance from under her thick lashes made him suspect that she knew it. The orange cat also gave him a scornful look as it paced near the causeway, still waiting for the water to disappear.
"Are you sure you won't let me take a quick look around your fortress? The architecture is remarkable." And she gave him an enormous smile.
He almost melted...
All the more reason to chase her off. Now.
"Ms. Beaton. I have tried to be courteous, but now you're wasting my time. You're not welcome here. Kindly turn your car around and get the fuck off my island before I have you arrested."
Her face fell so much that he felt guilty. Shit...what was wrong with him today? Strangers were never welcome. Even strange women who were lovely, luscious, and supremely fuckable.
"I don't want to intrude where I'm unwelcome," she said, giving him a twisted smile. It was almost as if she couldn't help smiling, no matter how she was feeling inside.
He jerked open her car door and held it for her. She tossed her head. "Okay, okay." She sounded resigned as she stepped past him and climbed in. When she brushed by him, his cock reacted as if she had laid her hand upon it.
This was beginning to feel like the longest day of his life. How many hours until sunset? Far too many.
"See ya," she said impishly as she started the vehicle and turned it around.
Not if you know what's good for you, lass.
As she drove slowly back over the wet causeway, he couldn't stop wishing that he had thrust her up against the side of her car, stripped off her clothing, and shoved himself inside her. Crazy. He hadn't felt this way about a woman for far too long.
Why had he let her go?