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    In Bed with the Highlander
    In Bed with the Highlander
    In Bed with the Highlander
    Ebook73 pages1 hour

    In Bed with the Highlander

    By Ann Lethbridge

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    About this ebook

    Hotel Glencovie, 2013

    Researching her family tree brings Moirag McLellan to the Highlands and a foreboding castle-turned-hotel. She goes to sleep alone surrounded by modern amenities, but awakens in a room lit only by candlesand occupied by a gorgeous kilted man. And he’s far too real to be just an erotic dream

    Glencovie Castle, 1715

    Though Gavin MacIver doesn’t know how the lusty wench in barely-there clothing came to be in his bed, he knows he never wants her to leave. But if her story of time-travel is true, how can he stop the only woman he’s ever loved from slipping through his fingers once darkness fades into dawn?
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Integrated Media
    Release dateApr 1, 2013
    ISBN9781460310953
    In Bed with the Highlander
    Author

    Ann Lethbridge

    Ann Lethbridge majored in history and business. She always loved the glamorous, if rather risky, Georgians and in particular the Regency era as drawn by Georgette Heyer. It was that love that prompted her to write her first Regency novel in 2000. She found she enjoyed it so much she just couldn’t stop! Ann gave up a career in university administration to focus on her first love, writing novels and lives in Canada with her family. Visit her website at: www.annlethbridge.com

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      Book preview

      In Bed with the Highlander - Ann Lethbridge

      9781460310953.jpg

      Hotel Glencovie, 2013

      Researching her family tree brings Moirag McLellan to the Highlands and a foreboding castle-turned-hotel. She goes to sleep alone surrounded by modern amenities, but awakens in a room lit only by candles—and occupied by a gorgeous kilted man. And he’s far too real to be just an erotic dream...

      Glencovie Castle, 1715

      Though Gavin MacIver doesn’t know how the lusty wench in barely-there clothing came to be in his bed, he knows he never wants her to leave. But if her story of time-travel is true, how can he stop the only woman he’s ever loved from slipping through his fingers once darkness fades into dawn?

      In Bed with the Highlander

      Ann Lethbridge

      HarBrand_LRG.jpg

      Dear Reader,

      Have you ever wondered what it would be liked to be whisked back in time? I know I have. As someone who creates stories set in the past, I can’t help but wonder what it was really like. And that was my inspiration for this flight of fancy. It also provided an opportunity to write a modern day heroine and one of those gorgeous Highland warrior heroes most of us dream about. The nice thing about dreams is that we can imagine them as we want them to be. All I can say is, lucky Moirag.

      If you are curious to know more about me and my writing, you can find me at http://www.annlethbridge.com, AnnLethbridgeAuthor is likable on Facebook and twittering @annlethbridge when the occasion warrants. Your participation is always welcome.

      Ann Lethbridge

      Dedication

      To my own personal hero, who has more than a little bit of Scottish blood in his veins.

      Contents

      In Bed with the Highlander

      Historical Undone BPA

      Copyright

      The object floating above the mist in Moirag’s headlights might have been a UFO hovering over a landing pad, if it didn’t look quite so much like a castle. Chilly fingers walked down her back. Because it looked identical to something she’d seen as a child. Something creepy wobbling on the surface of a bowl of water held by Granny the auld witch McLellan as her mother had called her great grandma. Destiny put out in plain sight, the old girl had breathed staring into the water at the image of a medieval castle. As a child, she’d believed it. She’d even studied history at school at Granny’s suggestion.

      Not much call for history. Or superstitious rot as her mother had called Granny’s strange ideas. A degree in business had proved more useful. But history remained her passion.

      And what she was looking at in her headlights was definitely a castle, when there hadn’t been one marked on Google maps anywhere near the hotel she’d booked. Probably one of those private places where they paid to be blacked out from prying eyes. So where was her hotel? She had to be lost.

      Moirag geared down to a crawl and rubbed at the windscreen. Not fogged on the inside. She flicked the lever. The wipers did a quick one, two and park. Nope. Not misted on the other side of the glass. Definitely a pea-souper.

      A glance at the Sat Nav on the dash didn’t help, either. It remained stubbornly blank, having given up the ghost an hour ago. Must be out of range. The dark shape ahead of her solidified, its stone walls and crenellations looming out of the mist. There was a sign over a stone arched entrance in the outer wall. Hotel Glencovie. Really? The description on the internet hadn’t said a word about it being a castle and there had been no picture to clue her in.

      And this place looked more like the setting for a horror flick than your friendly B and B. The hairs on the back of her neck waved in a nonexistent breeze. A creepy sensation she didn’t appreciate with fog snaking over the road ready to swallow her and her car.

      She shivered. Enough. She’d so been looking forward to this little holiday. To exploring the local library and church, looking for family connections. The finishing touches to her surprise for her parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. The McLellan family tree went all the way back to seventeen hundred and ten. All it needed were a few details about her ancestor, the first, and apparently very naughty, Lady Moirag Breton.

      A quick glance in the rearview mirror revealed a blank wall of white. No going back to Glasgow tonight. She was here and that was that.

      The road took a twist right, and then left, and her lights picked out the jagged points of a raised portcullis. Water gleamed with an oily incandescence on her near side. Must be the moat. A little too close for comfort.

      Slowing to a crawl, she eased the car across the wooden slats of the drawbridge.

      The car did a rock and roll number over the cobblestones in the courtyard. Tarmac was invented by a Scot, but did anyone care about your springs? Nah. It was all about atmosphere. No doubt she’d be greeted by some

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