Priceless by Christina Dodd Page B

to hold a greased pig, and she’d not taken offense at the curiosity of the villagers for Adam’s betrothed. She’d drunk ale with them, chatted with them, thanked them for inviting her, and she’d made them her adoring disciples.
    Now she had to yell to have herself heard above the roar of the conflagration, and Adam moved closer to hear her say, “You make a bonfire. You fill barrels with flame and send them down the hill. What other things do you do at Midsummer?”
    To his surprise, the villagers laughed in a knowing fashion.
    One of the men, well fortified with liquor, said, “Well, this is a great time t’ drink ale.”
    “How so?” she asked.
    “’Tis church ale, an’ all th’ profit from th’ brewing goes t’ th’ church.” His bushy eyebrows wiggled. “’Twouldn’t be reverent t’ refuse a drink.”
    He staggered sideways. “I can see you’ve done more than your share to support the church,” Bronwyn teased.
    One of the unmarried girls pushed forward. “M’lady, see that moon?”
    Bronwyn stared up at the round globe lifting just above the horizon.
    “That’s the Midsummer moon, an’ it brings a turrible madness,” the girl explained. “A love madness. Any girl seeking t’ know her future husband should place a garland o’ flowers under her pillow. Whoever she conjures will be th’ man.”
    The villagers laughed and clapped as she removed her garland and placed it on Bronwyn’s head.
    Adam pushed forward to his betrothed and settled the flowers closer against the itchy wig. “It gives me pleasure to know you’ll dream of me.”
    Bronwyn’s eyes fell beneath his gaze; the villagers snorted and coughed. John presented them with two tankards. “This round of ale’s on me. Come down th’ hill now, m’lord an’ lady, an’ start th’ dance fer us.” He pulled his forelock. “When ye want t’, a’ course.”
    Adam looked at Bronwyn inquiringly, and she nodded. “Let’s go,” she agreed, accepting the ale. “I’ve never been to a Midsummer’s Eve dance before.”
    “Nor I.” He offered his arm, and she took it without hesitation. She stumbled and would have tumbled down the hill, and he noted that his lady seemed the worse for the drink. Mentally he tallied the tankards and asked, “Bronwyn, would you like to refresh yourself?”
    “Take me to the inn,” she answered instantly, and grinned at him.
    How could he have ever thought her homely? That smile of hers lit her face like a fairy light. Her body moved with a grace that made a man think of long, slow loving. When he’d been beside her in his office he’d been unable to keep himself from touching her. As he’d expected, her shape had been augmented by stuffing, but not totally. Above the wad of cloth dwelt a breast, round and sensitive, and he’d liked its shape. Finding it had ignited his curiosity, and now he wondered what other mysteries his fiancée concealed.
    His own curiosity had brought him too many sleepless nights.
    Mimicking his thoughts, although she didn’t realize it, she said, “You’ve fulfilled a great curiosity of mine.”
    “In what way?”
    “I had read about Midsummer Night and the Irish celebrations in the Gaelic manuscript I was translating, and—”
    “Translating?” He recalled the tale Northrup had told him. “You mean reading.”
    Her hand flew to her mouth, her gaze to his face. She looked the picture of guilt, and she agreed, “Reading! I meant reading.”
    She lied. There was no doubt. He’d questioned enough cabin boys and seamen to know shame when he saw it. Lesser men than he could decipher her gestures, but what did it mean? Surely his little noblewoman couldn’t read Gaelic. Elaborately casual, he asked, “Where were you reading such a thing?”
    “In Ireland,” she answered. “Look at the stars. They’re big and bright, without a cloud to hide them.”
    Trying to distract him, and none too cleverly, he diagnosed, “That’s right, you lived in Ireland as a