Highland Sinner. Hannah Howell

before Tormand finally crawled into bed. Selfish though it was, he had kept his bedchamber to himself, leaving the other men to sort out where they would sleep. With Simon or Walter constantly at his side, Tormand had discovered that he savored this time alone to gather his thoughts and to shake off the frustration of hunting down a killer who was as elusive as smoke.

      His gut told him that he would soon have to run and hide. Simon was good at solving such puzzles, at hunting down the guilty, yet even Simon was finding nothing to lead them to the murderer. There would be another killing, of that Tormand had no doubt, and the killing would continue until he was standing on the gallows, dying for crimes he had not committed.

      He flung his arm over his eyes and struggled to force all thought of the murders from his mind. There was no gain in losing sleep over it all. A faint smile curled his mouth as the image of Morainn Ross filled his mind and his body began to harden in interest. It had been a very long time since the mere thought of a woman could stir his need, but Morainn Ross accomplished it. Tormand knew it would be wise to push her from his thoughts as well, but he did not. Dreams of the lush Morainn were far preferable to dreams of blood, death, and grief.

      Even as he slipped into sleep his dream of Morainn grew heated. Tormand slowly removed her clothing, kissing each newly revealed inch of her soft golden skin. He savored her sighs of pleasure and the feel of her fingers in his hair. A little cry of surprised delight escaped her lush mouth as he caressed her full breasts, first with his hands and then with his mouth. The heat of her desire turned her eyes into the color of a storm-tossed sea and he felt himself tumble into their mysterious depths, trapped by her beauty and willing to stay there. But, as he readied himself to unite their bodies, to savor her womanly heat surrounding him, everything began to change.

      Darkness swirled around their entwined bodies. The warm, willing woman in his arms became a bloodied corpse. The beautiful eyes that had been shaded with passion for him were gone and he stared in black holes. A soft, cold voice laughingly asked him how he liked his new lover.

      Tormand bolted up in bed so fast that he nearly fell out of it. He was soaked in sweat, his breath coming fast and hard. The fact that no one had burst into his bedchamber told him that he had at least kept silent during what had turned into a chilling nightmare. He stumbled over to a small table near the fireplace and poured himself a tankard of wine. It took all of one tankard full and half of another before he felt his heartbeat slow to normal and his hands ceased to shake.

      He took a moment to wash the worst of the sweat from his body before crawling back into bed. If that horror was going to revisit him every time he closed his eyes, he would never sleep again. The first part of the dream was easy to understand. He found Morainn Ross very alluring. It was the end of the dream that troubled him. Was it born of guilt or the horrors he had seen? Or, worse, was it some hint of the future, a warning that if he gave in to his attraction to Morainn she would end up like the others? He prayed that was not true, for he was sorely tempted by Morainn and he was not a man who easily resisted temptation.

      Cautiously allowing himself to relax and invite sleep to take him back into its hold, Tormand wondered if the Ross witch really did have visions. Could she truly touch something and see whatever secrets it might hold? If she could, Morainn Ross could well prove to be just what he and Simon needed to find the killer. They would have to keep her close then, protecting her as she aided them. And with such protection around her, Tormand decided she would be safe enough that he might not have to worry about resisting temptation after all.

      Morainn managed to bite back the scream in her throat this time as she sat up in bed so fast she felt dizzy for a moment. She reached for the tankard of cider she had begun to keep at her bedside and took a deep drink, trying to wash the sting of terror out of her throat. It took several moments for her heartbeat to return to a more comfortable pace.

      If these dreams did not stop soon she would be too exhausted to do even the simplest of chores. Morainn feared she might start to fight going to sleep at all. That would be an affliction that could easily kill her in the end.

      Setting her drink aside, she huddled beneath the blankets and tried to grasp the courage to go back to sleep, to get the rest she needed. Morainn was almost too afraid to close her eyes. The horrific sight of her own body lying there, mutilated, her eyes gone, was not one she could easily forget.

      Yet again the horror had come after a lovely heated dream of her and Tormand loving each other. She could almost feel the touch of his mouth still lingering on her breast. The warmth that filled her body at that memory told her that she remembered it all too well. For a virgin, she was having some very vivid, very sinful, dreams about Sir Tormand Murray. It was a blessing that she would not be seeing much of the man or she might find the temptation he offered far too much to resist.

      And she would pay dearly if she succumbed to that weakness, she thought as she shuddered. Morainn could not be certain, but she suspected that was what the bloody end of the dream was telling her. If she let Tormand Murray into her bed she would suffer as all the other women had suffered. Then again, she thought ruefully, such ideas could have been put into her head by her talk with Nora today.

      Morainn felt her cats curl up against her and welcomed their warmth. She was not sure if she had just had a true vision of what was to come or if it was only a chilling warning to be careful. Since she did not see any reason a man like Tormand Murray would seek her out, she had to wonder why she even needed such a warning.

      Because she wanted him, she thought with a sigh. She could deny the truth to herself all she wanted to, but, in her dreams, that truth came out. Morainn could not believe her own foolishness. Tormand Murray was a man steeped in the sins of the flesh and, if even a few of the rumors about him were true, he made no effort to turn away from any temptation. After years of fighting to cling to her chastity, despite her deep loneliness and the men who tried to steal it from her, she would have to be witless to hand it over to a man like Sir Tormand.

      Closing her eyes, Morainn lightly stroked Grigor, her big yellow tom, when it rested its head on her stomach. Its deep, rumbling purr began to ease away the lingering horror of her dream. She felt herself begin to relax, her breathing softening, as she welcomed sleep again. In the morning she would decide if she knew enough yet to risk going to Sir Innes and Sir Murray and telling them about her visions. It was a decision that required a well-rested mind for she knew the danger was not really that he might not believe her. It was that he would and she could easily find herself spending far too much time in the company of a man who sorely tempted her to sin—and do so repeatedly and with great enthusiasm.

      A low growl abruptly pulled Morainn’s attention from the chickens she was feeding. Her gray tabby William crouched on the low stone wall surrounding the rough chicken coop. The cat’s fur was all standing out and its ragged ears were flattened against its head. She looked in the direction it stared, but saw nothing. That did not immediately cause her to relax her guard, however. William might be just a cat, but the animal was never wrong when it sensed, and warned her of, a possible threat.

      Morainn had just finished shutting the chickens in the coop when she heard the sound of horsemen approaching and her heart skipped with fear. “Walin,” she called to the boy playing with a ball behind her cottage, “get in the house now.”

      Walin picked up his ball. “Ye wish me to hide?”

      “Aye, laddie, at least until I ken what the men riding this way are wanting of me.”

      “Mayhap ye should hide, too.”

      “They have already seen me. Go.”

      The moment the boy disappeared into the cottage, Morainn walked to the front of her home intending to meet her uninvited guests at her front door. A flicker of amusement went through her as her cats gathered around her, her big toms to the front on either side of her. She knew they could do little to help her fight against six men, and that such sights made too many people think of such things as familiars, but she did not order them away. If nothing else, she remembered all too well how often a nicely aimed slash of sharp claws had allowed her to get free of some fool man who thought she would welcome his attentions just because he had a coin or two. William in particular hated men and that had proved