Free To Love a Highland Dragon by Ann Gimpel Page A

head and draped it over a chair back to dry. Feeling dazed, like a sleepwalker, Maggie plodded out of her room and across the hall. She was just bending over to start water for a shower when one of the images from her dreams darkened her vision. It was so real—and so chilling—her heart slammed against her chest.
    Fighting vertigo and a roiling stomach, she straightened and grabbed her robe from a hook behind the door. Maggie snugged it around her waist and marched to the living room. She debated making coffee; the caffeine-lift would be welcome, but she was afraid she’d just puke it back up. It’s only another excuse to put off writing last night’s dreams down. I need to do that now. While they’re fresh. Maggie squeezed her tired eyes shut for a moment.
    She’d taken advantage of the psychoanalytic track in her residency program. Even though very few patients were interested in plumbing their unconscious, Maggie had never been sorry she’d spent those months studying Jung and the more modern practitioners like Hillman, Woodman, and Von Franz, who’d come after him. She’d kept a dream journal religiously—until she’d moved to Scotland six months ago. Something always got in the way here in Inverness. Not only did she not know what, she’d never even put much effort into trying to figure it out.
    She forced her weary mind into action and didn’t like the obvious answer that rose to the surface. Something in Scotland had blocked her access to her unconscious mind. Well, maybe not totally blocked it. Whatever stood between her and her dreams had done a hell of a job creating enough subtle interference that she hadn’t even realized it was a problem—until right now. An uneasy breath whooshed out of her. Even though she’d been raised around metaphysical events, this felt too woo-woo for words.
    Why target me? And my dreams?
    Maggie recognized her mental machinations for what they were: just one more excuse to put off analyzing last night’s dreams. She sat in her cane-backed desk chair and booted up her computer. As the Microsoft logo flared across the screen, she puzzled further over why she’d stopped writing her dreams down. “It doesn’t matter.” She spoke aloud to steady herself. Fingers poised over the keyboard, she typed Dream 1 and then stopped.
    Maybe I could skip that one. Heat rose to her face. Her first dream—and the only pleasant one of the night—had been of Lachlan. They were in a medieval stone castle, and she lay on a bower of sweet-smelling flowers. He’d made love to her over and over again with his mouth, knowing fingers, and incredible cock. Though far from a virgin, her dream interlude with Lachlan had been more real—and far more intense—than any of her real life experiences.
    She frowned. Her fingers moved over the keys with practiced ease as she transcribed how that dream ended. Its bizarre conclusion had jolted her from sleep. She’d been wrapped in Lachlan’s arms. He’d been kissing her and telling her he’d loved her throughout time. That he’d been born loving her and would die loving her. A sudden shadow had fallen over them. Faster than she would have thought possible, Lachlan leapt to his feet and spun to face something. She couldn’t see because first his human body, and then something else, blocked her view.
    Her typing slowed; Maggie clamped her jaws together to stop her teeth from chattering. As often happened once she tapped into psyche, home of dreams, memories flooded her. Though it had to be some impossible trick of the dream world—a symbolic representation of something she had yet to figure out—Lachlan had turned into an immense dragon with copper scales right before her eyes. The transformation hadn’t taken more than a moment. She’d wakened when the dragon opened its mouth and spewed blindingly bright fire at the thing she couldn’t see.
    Once sleep had claimed her again, the next dream was full of foreboding and fear. Lachlan was