Page 81 of Bride of Ice
Was that regret he heard in her voice? Did she not believe in happy endings? In his dream, at least, the ending had been happy. It had been more than happy. It had been fulfilling. Inspiring. Satisfying.
But it had only been a dream. Just as Isabel’s play was only a story.
Hallie probably didn’t believe in dreams. She seemed to be a lass firmly rooted in reality, who had no time for sentiment or romance. If he’d realized that yesterday, he might have been able to see through the ruse of her lusty advances.
Still stinging from her deception, he wanted to forget how easily he’d been gulled. In fact, considering how thoroughly she’d deceived him, he figured he owed her a bit of revenge.
“An unlikely ending, to be sure,” he agreed. But then he let a wicked gleam enter his eye. “After all, everyone knows dragons aren’t that choosy.”
Hallie, rising to the bait, whirled to face him in disbelief. “What?”
“Dragons,” he said, shaking his head. “They’re pesky, to be sure. And they eat once a week, not once a year. But they’re not at all picky about their fare.”
“You’re jesting, aye?”
“Nay, ’tis true,” he assured her. Then he whispered as if in confidence, “They can’t actually tell the difference between the flesh of a virgin and that of a harlot.”
She stared at him for a moment, as if questioning his sanity. “There’s no such thing as dragons.”
He shrugged. “Maybe not in theLowlands.”
There was a tiny instant of doubt in her eyes before she noticed the twinkle in his.
“Bloody knave,” she chided, clucking her tongue.
He lifted one corner of his mouth in a sly grin.
Then, as smoothly as she’d slipped the notebook from his belt, she added, “Everyone knows the only strange beasts in the north are those that come from Highlanders swiving sheep.”
Her insult was so unexpected and comical that he almost snorted frumenty out of his nose. “Swivin’ sheep? Ach, ye’re a wicked lass.” The hint of amusement in her gaze only encouraged him. “The rumors are completely unfounded. After all, why would we swive sheep when we’ve got so many bonnie coos?”
The laugh that burst out of her was broken and rusty, as if it hadn’t been used in a while. But it was open. And honest. And it rocked him to the core.
He wanted more of it. More of her musical laughter. More of her brilliant smile. More of her humor-softened gaze.
“Ian’s dragon, though…” He whistled.“Thatwas a thing o’ beauty.”
“For shite’s sake,” she teased, her eyes dancing, “have you no lasses in the Highlands?”
None as beautiful as ye.
That was his first thought. But it would have been foolish to blurt that out, no matter how true it was. So instead he asked, “Have ye ne’er been to the Highlands?”
She shook her head.
He suddenly longed to whisk her away to the home he loved. To take her by the hand and run laughing with her across the moors, through the woods, past the lochs, into the mountains.
“Och, lass, ye’d love the mac Giric land.” For the moment, his lust was at bay and his breakfast forgotten. “There’s not a bonnier spot in all o’ Scotland.” He set the platter aside and rose with the aid of his crutch.
“Despite the dragons?” she quipped.
“Despite the dragons.” He grinned.
She smirked. “It can’t be as beautiful as Rivenloch.”
“’Tis…different.” He hobbled toward the window to join her. “The mac Giric property is bordered by majestic peaks o’ stark stone,” he said, waxing poetic. “In winter, they’re covered in snow, whiter than sheep’s fleece. But in spring, they weep waterfalls as tall as a castle.” He gazed out toward the rolling hills and thick forest, painting a different landscape in his imagination. “Under the summer sun, the lochs gleam like a fierce blue blade. And at this time o’ year, the hills are cloaked in brilliant purple heather. Burns flow through the glens, silvery and bright, like…” He hesitated and let his gaze roam down her fair tresses. “Like your hair.”
Only then did he realize how close he was standing to her. Close enough he could have twined a lock of her bright hair around his finger. Close enough to feel her warm breath upon his face. To smell the womanly fragrance of her skin. To gaze into her eyes and glimpse the sparkle of reflected enthusiasm. Shared joy. And the tiniest glimmer of hope.
