Bound by Dreams. Christina Skye

the garden. Something blended into the restless shadows beneath the oaks at the far end of the village. Kiera’s breath checked as she saw the movement come again.

      And then the shape—whatever it was—folded back into the shadows.

      Probably just a fox. She’d seen two since her arrival. Or maybe it was no more than her imagination. She’d been jumpy from the first moment she’d set foot on English soil, jumpier still when she’d walked along the road and climbed the fence onto Draycott land.

      Odd, she’d half imagined there had been a man in the woods. The sense of being watched had grown as she’d crossed the meadow above the moat.

      She glared out at the darkness. There was no one in the trees beyond the garden now. No reason for the little hairs to stand up along her arms.

      Yet the feeling that she was not alone grew stronger. The darkness seemed to reach out to her.

      Kiera reined in her errant thoughts. She had escaped. She was safe now. No one in this hotel or in this country knew her connection to the Draycotts and she meant to keep it that way. She would make her plans well. There would be no mistakes the following night.

      And after that she would be done with the Draycott family forever.

      IT HAD TAKEN Calan less than an hour to find her.

      Her prints had led him straight to a small dirt road and the tire tracks of a parked car. It had been easy enough to follow the car’s unique scent, crossing two small hamlets until the car stopped in a village with an isolated hotel at the far end.

      Her room was on the north side, facing a garden full of lavender.

      He saw her light and the blurred movements inside. Then her patio door opened, and he caught her scent. Cinnamon and pine trees. Mountain hills after rain. There was strength to her body as she leaned against the door, staring up at the moon.

      Lost in thought.

      Stubborn. Angry. Confused.

      All those emotions clung, carried in her scent, clear for him to read. She was alone in the room, too.

      The thought pleased him.

      He stepped closer, silent in the shadows, his head raised. Every time she took a step her fragrance drifted toward him like a gentle touch. She was restless. He could almost feel the nervous energy slide from her as he stood, silent and watchful behind a row of topiary plants.

      She turned slowly in the moonlight. Her arms crossed over her chest. “Is…someone out there?”

      He didn’t move. Wind stirred his fur. Her eyes were trained on the spot where he waited, motionless.

      “Hello?”

      She blew out a breath and leaned her forehead against the door frame. Exhaustion seemed to grip her. He saw her shoulders slump.

      What weight did she carry? he wondered. What fueled this kind of anger and regret?

      He wanted to turn away. He needed to make one more effort to trace the attackers’ car, which he’d lost near a major highway exchange on the far side of the valley.

      He had to put her out of his mind before this strange attraction pulled him any closer.

      Yet he didn’t move.

      Moonlight brushed the patio outside room fifteen. He felt the sharp twist of muscles, tensed to hunt. One leap would bring him closer.

      One more leap and she would be sprawled on the floor beneath him.

      Dazed. Submissive.

      Open to whatever he chose.

      A low growl began at the bottom of his chest as hunger drove sharp nails through every nerve end. He wanted in a way he had never wanted before.

      But submissive was not how he pictured her or needed her.

      He looked up at the sound of a latch closing. The glass door was shut now, the curtains drawn. Her smell remained, drifting out in a subtle torment to his senses.

      And then he saw her silhouette as she tugged off her robe. Slowly her body was revealed in shadows that burned into his memory…

      Hunger blocked all logic, all control.

      He fought the urge to hunt and possess. Muscles twisted, claws dragging through the soft earth.

      Slowly control returned. Hunger was shoved deep. Loyalty to a friend made him turn, slip through the lavender. Then he vanished into the night.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      IN THE MIDDLE of the quiet hotel patio, Kiera leaned forward and tried vainly to read the paper. No luck. Her eyes kept blurring.

      Too much coffee the day before.

      Too little sleep on top of the excess coffee.

      She smiled absently as a housekeeper passed, bringing her copies of the London and Paris papers. But her smile immediately faded afterward. Memories of her attackers had kept her tossing until dawn; worries about the gun she needed to dispose of made her glance nervously over her shoulder now. Except no one else knew about the gun. Her secret was safe.

      Just as the secret of her identity and her purpose for coming to England were safe, no matter how jumpy she was. It was time to stop worrying.

      The little restaurant in the hotel’s courtyard was deserted at this early hour. Kiera finished her scone with clotted cream, stretched and reached for the big wool bag that held her knitting. When she was restless, knitting was her drug of choice. Right now her fingers itched for wool slipping in soft rows and smooth loops settling into place.

      But even with patterned cables racing off her needles, she still couldn’t relax. Something told her it would take more than fine threads to put the attack out of her mind. Maybe she needed to concentrate harder…

      A shadow fell over her table.

      “That’s lovely tweed yarn you have there.”

      A living, breathing man who knew quality yarn? Be still my beating heart.

      Kiera craned her head back, looking up. And her heart dove straight down to her unmanicured toes.

      The man was at least six foot four. He wore his rough Harris tweed jacket as if it had been hand cut to fit his lean body. Which it probably had been.

      Who had the money for that in these trying times?

      He was handsome as sin, to boot. Rich azure eyes blazed from a tanned face that made her think of priests, poets and ancient highland warriors. So did his rough voice with its gentle lilt of Scotland.

      “Sorry to intrude, but I couldn’t help noticing your yarn.”

      “Excuse me?”

      “Knitting’s something of a tradition in my neck of the woods. My aunts used to win prizes for their sweaters every year.”

      His voice was deep, smoky like good, aged whiskey. It settled onto Kiera’s senses with the same volatile kick. Smoke and heat. Depth and complexity. For some reason the man made her think of all those things.

      Not that it mattered.

      She cleared her throat. “You’re from Scotland, I take it?”

      “That’s right. From a little slip of land on a quiet ocean inlet that time forgot. A lovely place, as long as you want to leave the modern world behind.”

      Kiera wondered vaguely if you could fall in love with a voice. If so, this man had the perfect requirements.

      She frowned.

      Love?

      Not on her flight plan. Not for another five years at least. She had treks to plan and valleys to cross, assessing cost and safety for her tour groups. Men, with their theatrics and emotional demands, took far too much time away from everything that mattered. The idea