She's tall, pale, and willowy, with jet-black curls falling to her ankles and eyes green like the sea. I see her in the hills somewhere in Scotland. To this day I can't remember exactly where. She's naked, her hair covering her body in soft ripples, but I can see the moonlight shining on her pale skin as she lifts an ivory hand, and I seem to have lost control of my feet.
In my head, I'm thinking, no, this is crazy, you don't know her. But the deepest part of me, the part that people call your subconscious brain, that part knows she won't hurt me. I stop just in front of her, confused on how I even got there. Just a minute ago, it seems, I was somewhere else, my hotel, maybe, and grabbing my room key from the grumpy-looking hotel clerk who spoke with an unbelievably thick Scottish accent. Now I'm standing here, in front of the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, completely unaware of how I got here.
"Isabel."
The musical voice shocks me, and then I realize it's coming from the vision in front of me.
She reaches out her hand and lifts my chin.
"I have noticed you," she says, gently.
"It is not everyone who cares about protecting the history of these lands."
"I—I'm a historian," I say, lowering my eyes.
"That's what I do."
The woman laughs, a high, tinkly laugh.
"Oh, yes, a historian. What would you say if I told you we were about to have a night of history in the making?"
"I—I don't understand," I say, still not looking at her.
Those green eyes captivate me, and I'm afraid that if I look into them again, I may never look away.
"Erotic history, mo chridhe," she says, and the Gaelic words make me shiver somewhere deep in my soul.
