Page 23 of The Highlander's Temporary Bride
I-I had no idea it would be so beautiful.
A strange pang went through her, a wistfulness that had her forcing out a laugh.
Of course, this isn’t what I would want. Ever.
But she stood up and turned in a slow circle.
Right?
CHAPTER 10
After a hearty meal of broth,bread, roast chicken, and potatoes, a comely maid showed Emma to a suite that was even lovelier and brighter than the parlor she’d been in. She found herself admiring the murals on the walls, the garden scenes, and the comfortable chairs.
There was even a window seat overlooking the loch and the twinkling village beyond. She’d never felt such an instant connection to a place—she’d never known she could.
At Wells Manor, she’d felt proud and happy to be home, but there was always a sort of emptiness there. One that she could better sense now that she was in another place.
I dislike how much I like Banrose.I can never let Laird Ronson know that.
She thought she would see the mysterious Laird again, but she did not, and she tried to ignore the feeling of disappointmentand frustration. She was even too tired to wonder why the Laird had taken her to Scotland, at this point.
Rather, as she got ready for bed, donning the night clothes that were left for her, her mind whirled with all the glimpses of the big castle around her. And once she lay in the big, soft bed, staring up at the canopy, she could not quieten her mind nor her growing curiosity. Finally, she threw back the covers and furs, snatched up the crimson dressing gown, and slid her feet into her worn boots.
Stone floors were stone floors, after all—cold as ice, even in spring.
She snatched up a candle before she padded to the door and eased it open. Taking a deep breath, she peered out. Back in Wells Manor, there were always maids and guards. But here, everything was quiet.
Biting her lip, her excitement rising, Emma felt a curious sense of possibility and adventure hovering all around her.
When was the last time I felt like this?she silently wondered as she stole down the hall, noting the splashes of moonlight across the stone. And the answer came in a memory of playing pretend in the gardens behind the manor, dancing and laughing all day long. Until she was forced to mind her governess, to dress in tight gowns, and prepare to be a wife.
Pausing in a ream of moonlight, Emma put a hand to her chest and gazed out at the loch. She had not thought of that in along, long time. Of all places to recall such happy moments and feel such longing. But of course, a Lady of Cumbria and Fairisle Lakes did not long for such things. She had London to dream of.
Only, the city seemed far away, almost a smoky haze compared to the span of endless stars outside and canny, inviting twists of halls and rooms.
Emma poked her head into one and gasped, then stepped inside. She found herself inside a room that stretched up and up, with stairs up the sides leading to the higher levels. Books—books, maps, and art—were everywhere.
Her heart gave a swift throb, and she made to walk in further, but then she paused, her hand clenching.
Better to have a glimpse than tempt herself more. With one final and lingering glance, she stepped outside. She turned around, unsure which way she had come. About to take a guess, she noticed a faint light and hurried toward it.
A hall branched off at a curve, a torch flickering somewhere, and her feet carried her in that direction. It was narrower and older, offering breathtaking glimpses of the shore below and the mountains beyond through tall, narrow windows. Finally, it brought her to a landing with a grand staircase beyond, and she paused.
At the top of the landing, flanked by great tapestries, was a floor-to-ceiling painting of Laird Ronson. Younger and lankier, hisdark hair even wilder and longer than it was now, his green eyes seeming to burn as she lifted her candle.
Her eyes widened as she took in the half-healed wound on his cheek, the bruise on his jaw, and the hand clenched on the pommel. That hand was wrapped in a bloodied rag. Meanwhile, the other hand was wrapped around the arm of a chair. Emma suddenly got the sense that he’d been moments from throwing it at the painter—or perhaps the viewer.
She’d never seen a painting where a nobleman looked so… raw. Usually, they were sleek and proud, attempting to dazzle the eye. This Laird seemed barely contained, the howl of wilderness reverberating through him and into the frame. More, he was deeply tanned and seemed to have just emerged from a battle.
He wanted it like this.
She studied the younger version of the Laird. Such rage and pain on that face, while now it seemed tempered—or at least had morphed into dark amusement.
A strange ache bloomed in Emma’s chest.
“Who are you?” She lifted a hand as though to touch the bloodied, bandaged one, but then she pulled back. “What could you possibly want from me?”
“Seven nights.”
