afraid you’ve greatly overestimated both my charms and his devotion to them.”
Jamie was silent for so long she was afraid he was trying to figure out the kindest way to agree with her. When he finally spoke, his voice was even gruffer than before. “The castle was just the first thing the Hepburns stole from us, not the most valuable.”
With that, he kicked the horse into a brisk canter, making further conversation impossible.
I AN HEPBURN BURST THROUGH the door of his great-uncle’s study, then wheeled around to slam the door behind him. He gave the brass key in the lock a savage twist and backed away from the door, barely resisting the urge to shove a piece of furniture in front of it—a Hepplewhite chair perhaps or the massive twelve-drawer secretary his uncle had ordered from Madrid. If he had bricks, mortar and a trowel at his disposal, he would have consideredsealing the door like the entrance to some ancient Egyptian tomb.
His ears were still ringing from the cacophony he had fled, but the study itself was blessedly quiet. If he was seeking a haven, he had chosen well. His uncle had spared no expense on his part and no effort on the part of others to create a chamber that could rival any Parisian salon or Mayfair mansion in its beautifully appointed elegance.
The earl might seek to impress the local populace by wearing a traditional kilt and plaid to his wedding but all traces of their unfashionable Scots heritage had been abolished from this room. There were no crossed claymores with tarnished blades hanging on the wall, no moth-eaten tartans draping the chairs, no ancient shields embellished with the Hepburn coat of arms on proud display.
From the plush Aubusson carpet beneath Ian’s feet to the cream-painted panels of the wainscoting to the modern arched windows that had replaced the mullioned ones, the room reflected the tastes of a man who valued the display of his own wealth and power above any sentimental attachment to heritage or history.
The three-tiered chandelier hanging from the center of the domed ceiling had only recently adorned the palatial ballroom of a French aristocrat who had followed his entire family to the guillotine. His unclehad chuckled when the enormous crate containing it had arrived, saying any fool not clever enough to outwit the peasants of Paris deserved to lose both his head and his chandelier.
His uncle had always treated the chamber more like a throne room than a study; a place where he could summon those beneath him—and that included just about everyone of his acquaintance, including Ian—into his exalted presence.
Since Ian hadn’t been summoned, he shouldn’t have been surprised his uncle chose to ignore his rather unconventional arrival. The earl was standing in front of the massive window framing the majestic crags of Ben Nevis, his hands locked at the small of his back and his feet splayed as if the study were the foredeck of some mighty ship and he its captain. He might play the role of kindly, doddering old man when it suited his purposes—such as when courting a new bride—but here in this sanctuary, he still ruled with an iron fist.
Ian had seen him in that exact posture innumerable times before: standing in front of that very window and gazing up at the mountain as if trying to understand why he could not bring it under his dominion when he had so easily conquered the rest of the world. Ian had long suspected his uncle would trade all of his influence and every priceless treasure he had accumulated over the years for one chanceto rule those peaks and the men wild and arrogant enough to call them home.
One man in particular.
Ian cleared his throat. His uncle did not budge. Ian could feel resentment rising like bile at the back of his throat, its taste both bitter and familiar. Despite the man’s advanced age, Ian knew his uncle could still hear a footman drop a fork on the carpet from two rooms away.
He approached the window, barely managing to
Jamie was silent for so long she was afraid he was trying to figure out the kindest way to agree with her. When he finally spoke, his voice was even gruffer than before. “The castle was just the first thing the Hepburns stole from us, not the most valuable.”
With that, he kicked the horse into a brisk canter, making further conversation impossible.
I AN HEPBURN BURST THROUGH the door of his great-uncle’s study, then wheeled around to slam the door behind him. He gave the brass key in the lock a savage twist and backed away from the door, barely resisting the urge to shove a piece of furniture in front of it—a Hepplewhite chair perhaps or the massive twelve-drawer secretary his uncle had ordered from Madrid. If he had bricks, mortar and a trowel at his disposal, he would have consideredsealing the door like the entrance to some ancient Egyptian tomb.
His ears were still ringing from the cacophony he had fled, but the study itself was blessedly quiet. If he was seeking a haven, he had chosen well. His uncle had spared no expense on his part and no effort on the part of others to create a chamber that could rival any Parisian salon or Mayfair mansion in its beautifully appointed elegance.
The earl might seek to impress the local populace by wearing a traditional kilt and plaid to his wedding but all traces of their unfashionable Scots heritage had been abolished from this room. There were no crossed claymores with tarnished blades hanging on the wall, no moth-eaten tartans draping the chairs, no ancient shields embellished with the Hepburn coat of arms on proud display.
From the plush Aubusson carpet beneath Ian’s feet to the cream-painted panels of the wainscoting to the modern arched windows that had replaced the mullioned ones, the room reflected the tastes of a man who valued the display of his own wealth and power above any sentimental attachment to heritage or history.
The three-tiered chandelier hanging from the center of the domed ceiling had only recently adorned the palatial ballroom of a French aristocrat who had followed his entire family to the guillotine. His unclehad chuckled when the enormous crate containing it had arrived, saying any fool not clever enough to outwit the peasants of Paris deserved to lose both his head and his chandelier.
His uncle had always treated the chamber more like a throne room than a study; a place where he could summon those beneath him—and that included just about everyone of his acquaintance, including Ian—into his exalted presence.
Since Ian hadn’t been summoned, he shouldn’t have been surprised his uncle chose to ignore his rather unconventional arrival. The earl was standing in front of the massive window framing the majestic crags of Ben Nevis, his hands locked at the small of his back and his feet splayed as if the study were the foredeck of some mighty ship and he its captain. He might play the role of kindly, doddering old man when it suited his purposes—such as when courting a new bride—but here in this sanctuary, he still ruled with an iron fist.
Ian had seen him in that exact posture innumerable times before: standing in front of that very window and gazing up at the mountain as if trying to understand why he could not bring it under his dominion when he had so easily conquered the rest of the world. Ian had long suspected his uncle would trade all of his influence and every priceless treasure he had accumulated over the years for one chanceto rule those peaks and the men wild and arrogant enough to call them home.
One man in particular.
Ian cleared his throat. His uncle did not budge. Ian could feel resentment rising like bile at the back of his throat, its taste both bitter and familiar. Despite the man’s advanced age, Ian knew his uncle could still hear a footman drop a fork on the carpet from two rooms away.
He approached the window, barely managing to
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