The dream stayed with her the rest of the night, and in the morning, its memory was as vivid as it had been just after it occurred. And many times during the day--in the middle of the art class she taught at the university, she was shaken by his sudden image in her mind, overcome by the insistent vivid feel of his lips against hers. When she thought about the delicious things he'd done to her, her face grew hot and her limbs grew weak as a liquid molten fire rumbled deep inside her. Once, from out of nowhere, she heard his soft Scottish accent calling out her name. Or a name very much like hers. Kayla.

It was disconcerting. Who was this mysterious Highlander, and why, suddenly, was he haunting her dreams? Sure, things were a little shaky with Rick these days. He was a temperamental artist, as was she. They'd met when he'd enrolled in one of her watercolor classes, but he'd quickly discovered he really didn't have the talent or desire to seriously pursue art as a creative outlet. She'd found him attractive and humorous, if a little off-beat. They'd dated for eight months before deciding to move in together. And for the first year, things had been great. Only lately had everything started to sour, and most of that had to do with Rick and his obsession with becoming the new Stephen King.

She loved Rick--at least, she thought she did. He'd been there for her through some bad times--especially those difficult months after her younger brother had been killed in a plane crash. He'd helped her deal with her grief by attending support groups with her. Still, she couldn't help but feel something was missing in their relationship. He was too volatile, too moody and especially lately, too engrossed in his work to give her the consuming love she craved.

So, had she conjured up this fantasy man to fill this void in her romantic life? If so, then she'd done a good job of it. Cameron--this intense Scotsman of the night--seemed more real to her than he should. She couldn't get him out of her mind. And the truth was--the fantasy love-making she'd shared with this Highlander last night had been more sensual than any she'd experienced with Rick. Sad, but true.

She was still enmeshed in the previous night's amorous dream when Rick came home from work that evening, his face wreathed in happiness.

"You'll never guess what!" he announced. "The university called this afternoon. I've been awarded that literary grant I applied for a couple of years ago. Pack your bags, Katie. We're going to Scotland!"

The grant was sponsored by the Glencoe Artist Colony in Glencoe, Scotland--a bi-weekly stipend and six months at a secluded artists' retreat to work on the project of his choice. It had been his short stories in prestigious literary magazines that had won the grant, but Kate knew he had no intention of following that course. He was back to work on his latest horror novel tentatively titled Eye of the Cat. Kate had no doubt that it was a bald-faced attempt at a knock-off of Pet Semetery. But she didn't care. She was here in Scotland, and she planned to take advantage of it by stretching her own artistic talents, and trying her hand at oil landscapes of the Scottish coast.

She had all her supplies spread out here in this quiet grove above the beach, and had, in fact, started preliminary sketches an hour before. But after eating a sandwich and drinking from a flask of hot tea, she'd felt an overwhelming impulse to nap in the warmth of the sun.

Lying down on a blanket she'd taken from the cottage where she'd left Rick poring over his typewriter, she closed her eyes and allowed her mind to drift. And almost immediately, she felt his presence. He stepped out of the woods and stood staring at her. Slowly, she turned her head and gazed at him.

The Highlander!

He spoke in his thick dialect. "'Tis a forthnight until we be wed, lass. But the afternoon is made for love, and I canna wait."

With swift determined strides, the Highlander crossed the clearing and knelt in front of her. Her pulse accelerated at the impassioned look in his compelling eyes. His gaze dropped to her parted lips and he smiled, as if anticipating their taste.

Kate leaned toward him, unable and unwilling to fight the magnetism which drew her. His lips touched hers lightly, fleetingly. The slight touch only whetted her appetite--and his, too. Slowly, he drew her into his muscular arms and his mouth covered hers. She was lost. Her palm pressed against his muscular chest, her fingers stroking the coarse black hair. His musky male scent surrounded her, enclosed her in his world. Her hand slid down his chest to the waistband of his kilt, eager to feel his desire. Through the wool of his kilt, she stroked his rigid maleness, and he gave an impassioned groan deep within his throat.

His kiss deepened, his tongue darting seductively, teasing and taunting. Kate pressed against him, her hand stroking his huge erection. Her nether lips pouted against the satin of her panties, molten and slick with excitement. She took his hand and pressed it between her legs, urging him to touch her and bring her release from the sweet agony of her desire. For a moment, his fingers moved against the satuarated crotch of her panties, and then...unbelievably, his touch grew distant. And before her eyes, his masculine form began to lose substance. Kate groaned, trying desperately to hold onto him. But it was no use. He evaporated right before her eyes.

With a soft sigh of frustration, Kate came fully awake, still feeling the touch of the Highlander's lips against hers and the ache of desire deep within her pelvis. Her body ached for this unknown man who'd been haunting her dreams for the last six months.

Slowly, she sat up and looked around, blinking sleepily. 20th century Scotland. No Highlanders around here--unless one of the overweight middle-aged bagpipers from the Glasgow tourist traps had decided to holiday in the country.

The sun dipped lower in the afternoon sky, but its light still cast a golden glow on the carpet of sweet-smelling heather. Kate stood up and walked to her easel. A slight breeze rippled through her copper hair, sending an errant curl into her eyes. She brushed it away and gazed at the sketch, regretting that she'd given in to the desire for a nap. She'd barely started working, and now it was time to go. Rick would be waiting for her back at the cottage. It was after five o'clock and he usually stopped writing at 4:30.

Kate packed up her supplies, tucked the easel under her arm along with the canvas and trudged toward the cliff trail which led down to their cottage on the beach. On the way, she marveled at the beauty of the rugged coast, as she had every day since their arrival in Scotland a month ago. It was so different from America. So wild and untamed, yet, so familiar somehow...as if she'd been here before.

She'd felt it immediately upon her arrival at the train station in Glencoe. Rick had been his usual distracted self, probably working out the plot of his novel for the umpteenth time. He hadn't even commented when she'd tried to explain her eerie feeling of deja vu.

Strangely enough, she knew the feeling had to do with the romantic dreams of the mysterious Highlander. She hadn't mentioned the erotic dreams to Rick, knowing full well he'd over-react and think she was losing interest in him. And wasn't it true? Hadn't she pretty much decided that after they returned to the states, if things hadn't improved between them, they'd go their separate ways? She'd hoped this six-month foray in Scotland would help their relationship--bring them closer together, but so far, nothing had changed. Rick was still obsessively engrossed in his writing, and seemed to be growing worse every day.

Kate's steps slowed. Up ahead, she saw a lone figure at the cliff edge--a man gazing out to sea. For a moment, she felt dizzy as his shape wavered in front of her, disappearing and reforming into a man wearing a kilt and carrying a broadsword. She gasped and blinked. Her vision cleared. The kilted man was gone, but the real one remained.

Dressed in faded jeans and an eggshell Shetland sweater, the man had blue-black hair, longish and slightly curly, reaching just past the turtleneck of his sweater. From what Kate could tell at that distance, he looked to be in his mid-thirties. He turned his face slightly toward the south, revealing a straight aquiline nose and firm chin. Although Kate couldn't see more, somehow, she knew his eyes would be piercing blue, his cheekbones high and his lips thin and sensual.

She shivered. Deja vu again. She'd stopped in her tracks, staring at this man who was a stranger, yet, sure with every fibre of her being, that she did know him.

"Cameron," she whispered.

Even though he was too far away to hear, he turned and looked straight at her. She stared into his blue eyes, barely breathing. The Highlander!

His body stood rigid with shock, and even from a distance, Kate read his lips as he mouthed a single word. Kayla. Kate took a step toward him, and at the same moment, he strode forward. They stopped a few feet apart.

"Hello," Kate said, her voice breathless. "I'm Kate." She extended her hand.

He looked at it a moment, still visibly shaken. Finally, he took her hand. Kate caught her breath at the current of electricity which shot through her at his touch.

"Lovely to meet you, Kate. I'm Christian." He spoke in a thick Scottish burr. "I live in the cottage in the copse over there. Are you here on retreat?"

Kate nodded. "Well, sort of. Actually, it's my boyfriend who was awarded the grant. He's a writer."

"And you..." His eyes dropped to her canvas. "...are an artist, are you not?"

Kate shrugged. "I try to be."

"You are. I can tell by looking at your hands." He realized he still held her hand in his and released it. He smiled at her, his gaze warm. Kate's heart skipped a beat.

"Are you a writer?" she asked, disconcerted by the charged silence that had fallen between them.

"A poet," he said. "An unsuccessful poet, I might add. I came here from Inverness, hoping to change that."

"And is it working?"

He studied her face as if trying to memorize it. She blushed, waiting for his answer. It was long in coming.

"Aye, I believe it is," he said quietly, his eyes drilling into hers.

A bell pealed in the distance. Reluctantly, Christian looked away from her and gazed in the direction of the manor house.

"Tea time," he said. "I suppose you're expected?"

Kate nodded. "My...Rick will be waiting." She made a move to continue down the path, but then paused. "Don't you take tea at the manor house?" She already knew the answer. If he'd been there before, she would've noticed him immediately.

He shook his head. "I use my kitchenette. I've found I'm not terribly at ease with other artists. Too much of a loner, I suppose. You should go. Your man will be worried."

"Yes, he will. He runs hot and cold. Ignores me for days, and then suddenly decides he can't do without me and won't let me out of his sight." Why had she said that? He hadn't asked for her life story!

"I can understand that. Go on."

At that moment, there was nothing Kate wanted to do less. But there was no choice. "Right. Nice meeting you, Christian." She began to make her way down the path.

"Perhaps..." he said. "One day soon, you'll take tea with me? It does get a wee bit lonesome up here. I'm in the most remote cottage, you know. By request."

Kate looked back at him, and for a flash of a moment, she thought she saw him in a kilt. But almost immediately, the sensation disappeared.

"I'd like that." But how on earth would she be able to manage it with Rick expecting her at tea every day?

"I'll be here tomorrow at three." His voice caressed her from a distance. "I'd welcome your company, Kayla."

It wasn't until she was half-way to the manor house that she realized he'd called her by a name that wasn't her own.