would be caught and arrested if you went to Duncrieff. I should think you’d rather hang for stealing a bride than for stealing her undergarments.”
“Hang for a penny, hang for a pound,” he said lightly.
“A pound of laces,” she said, slurring the sounds.
“Even better,” he said. “I will bring your necessary things back for you.”
“H-How?” She hiccuped.
“I have my ways. You’ll need just one trunk, I hope. It’s a long way up this hill.”
“That will do for now. Oh, and we must do something about my potted bulbs.”
He quirked a brow. “Your what?”
“My tulip bulbs, already started. I planted them in pots during the winter to start them early. The leaves are up, though tight, and they will flower soon. I was going to plant them in the garden at Duncrieff.”
“I’ll find a way to snatch your garments, but I’m not going to plant flowers before I leave Duncrieff.”
“Then bring them here and I’ll put them in your flower beds.”
“Flower beds? There are no fancy gardens here.”
“But Mrs. Evans—my maid—may not remember to water them and plant them. She will be too distraught over my disappearance to think of it.”
“No doubt. Your potted bulbs must take their chances, madam.”
“They’ll die unless I plant them there, or here.”
“They’ll definitely die if you plant them here. Nothing grows at Glendoon.”
“That’s silly. Everything grows. Surely you have a kitchen garden or a flower garden.”
“Do you not know your own family legends?”
She touched the silver pendant at her throat that winked like a star. “Le-legends?”
“They say that Castle Glendoon is cursed, that nothing will survive up here, not a weed, not a flower, nor even the castle’s inhabitants, madam.” He shot her a dark look.
“I remember something—but it’s nonsense. There are grasses and buttercups in the meadow outside the castle. And you live here,” she pointed out. “How long have you survived at Glendoon?”
“A little more than a year.”
“Well, then,” she said.
“Nonetheless, there may be some truth to it. The ground up here is barren—mostly rock covered by poor, thin soil. Nothing grows but the toughest heather and gorse.” He stabbed at the fire and made a shower of sparks. “At any rate, I’ll fetch laces but not tulips. And you may borrow whatever you need in the meantime from that trunk over there.”
She nodded wearily, then stretched her arms towarm her hands before the fire. Kicking off her shoes, stumbling a bit, she lifted her skirts to expose her feet and ankles to the warmth.
He watched her, heated by the sheer sight of her. Keen excitement coursed through him. If he allowed his body to dictate events, very shortly his marriage to Kate MacCarran would be indisputable.
His bride combed her fingers through her tangled hair and raised her arms to sweep the skein over her shoulder in a shower of gold and honey.
Desire shot through him, crown to root. He wanted to touch her hair, her creamy skin, wanted to remove every stitch of her damp clothing and warm her, body and soul, against him. The very thought of loving her made the blood steam in his veins. But he was not a brute, he told himself, though she felt the need to fortify herself with whiskey.
Studying the lovely slender profile of her waist and bodice, he saw her waver where she stood. The girl had a better head for whiskey than he thought, but she was showing the effects of it now. She was drunk, and no doubt. He wished he was a bit more sodden himself.
“Is this your bedchamber?” she asked. “Will you sleep here…or elsewhere?”
He sighed, then stood. He reached out and took her arm to draw her toward him. She watched him like a lamb regarding a wolf. He brushed back the golden curls that edged her brow.
Turning her around by the shoulders, he began to work the fastenings at the back of her dress. It was time, he told himself. His heart thumped like a drum.
Earlier he
“Hang for a penny, hang for a pound,” he said lightly.
“A pound of laces,” she said, slurring the sounds.
“Even better,” he said. “I will bring your necessary things back for you.”
“H-How?” She hiccuped.
“I have my ways. You’ll need just one trunk, I hope. It’s a long way up this hill.”
“That will do for now. Oh, and we must do something about my potted bulbs.”
He quirked a brow. “Your what?”
“My tulip bulbs, already started. I planted them in pots during the winter to start them early. The leaves are up, though tight, and they will flower soon. I was going to plant them in the garden at Duncrieff.”
“I’ll find a way to snatch your garments, but I’m not going to plant flowers before I leave Duncrieff.”
“Then bring them here and I’ll put them in your flower beds.”
“Flower beds? There are no fancy gardens here.”
“But Mrs. Evans—my maid—may not remember to water them and plant them. She will be too distraught over my disappearance to think of it.”
“No doubt. Your potted bulbs must take their chances, madam.”
“They’ll die unless I plant them there, or here.”
“They’ll definitely die if you plant them here. Nothing grows at Glendoon.”
“That’s silly. Everything grows. Surely you have a kitchen garden or a flower garden.”
“Do you not know your own family legends?”
She touched the silver pendant at her throat that winked like a star. “Le-legends?”
“They say that Castle Glendoon is cursed, that nothing will survive up here, not a weed, not a flower, nor even the castle’s inhabitants, madam.” He shot her a dark look.
“I remember something—but it’s nonsense. There are grasses and buttercups in the meadow outside the castle. And you live here,” she pointed out. “How long have you survived at Glendoon?”
“A little more than a year.”
“Well, then,” she said.
“Nonetheless, there may be some truth to it. The ground up here is barren—mostly rock covered by poor, thin soil. Nothing grows but the toughest heather and gorse.” He stabbed at the fire and made a shower of sparks. “At any rate, I’ll fetch laces but not tulips. And you may borrow whatever you need in the meantime from that trunk over there.”
She nodded wearily, then stretched her arms towarm her hands before the fire. Kicking off her shoes, stumbling a bit, she lifted her skirts to expose her feet and ankles to the warmth.
He watched her, heated by the sheer sight of her. Keen excitement coursed through him. If he allowed his body to dictate events, very shortly his marriage to Kate MacCarran would be indisputable.
His bride combed her fingers through her tangled hair and raised her arms to sweep the skein over her shoulder in a shower of gold and honey.
Desire shot through him, crown to root. He wanted to touch her hair, her creamy skin, wanted to remove every stitch of her damp clothing and warm her, body and soul, against him. The very thought of loving her made the blood steam in his veins. But he was not a brute, he told himself, though she felt the need to fortify herself with whiskey.
Studying the lovely slender profile of her waist and bodice, he saw her waver where she stood. The girl had a better head for whiskey than he thought, but she was showing the effects of it now. She was drunk, and no doubt. He wished he was a bit more sodden himself.
“Is this your bedchamber?” she asked. “Will you sleep here…or elsewhere?”
He sighed, then stood. He reached out and took her arm to draw her toward him. She watched him like a lamb regarding a wolf. He brushed back the golden curls that edged her brow.
Turning her around by the shoulders, he began to work the fastenings at the back of her dress. It was time, he told himself. His heart thumped like a drum.
Earlier he
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