Beyond the Highland Myst(35)
A woman could fall in love in a place like this. Tumble silken tresses over dainty satin slippers to land in a mass of ribbons and romance right at the perfect laird's perfect feet.
At that very moment, as if summoned by her wayward thoughts, the Hawk walked into her line of vision in the bailey below, leading one of the largest black chargers she'd ever seen. Adrienne started to turn away, but her feet would no more walk her away from the window than her eyes would avert themselves, and in spite of her best intentions to ignore him, she stood watching in helpless fascination.
With a fluid leap, the kit-clad Scottish laird tossed himself onto the back of the snorting fiesty stallion.
And as he mounted, that lovely kilt went flying up, giving Adrienne a sinful glimpse of powerfully muscled thighs, beautifully dusted with a bit of silky black hair. She blinked a moment, refusing to ponder what else she thought she'd seen.
Surely they wore something under those kilts. Surely it was only her overactive imagination, absurdly overlaying the stallion's obvious masculinity upon the Hawk's body.
Yes. That was it, decidedly. She'd noticed the stallion's prominently displayed attributes in the periphery of her vision while she'd been looking at the Hawk's legs, and managed to muddle the two together, somehow. She certainly had not seen that the Hawk was, himself, hung like a stallion.
Her cheeks flushed with that thought. She turned sharply on her heel to squelch it firmly and sought the next unsurveyed room. She had decided to explore the castle that morning, in large part to keep her mind off that dratted man. It just figured that he'd have to walk by the one window she was looking out. And toss up his skirts to add fuel to the proverbial fire.
She forced her mind back to the lovely architecture of Dalkeith. She was on the second floor of the castle, and had already traipsed through dozens of guest rooms, including the chamber in which she'd spent her first night. Dalkeith was enormous. There must have been a hundred or more rooms, and many of them appeared as if they'd lain unused for decades. The wing she currently explored was the most recently renovated and frequently utilized. It was finished in light woods, polished to a fine gleam, and not a speck of dust could be seen. Thick woven mats covered the floors, no rushes or cold bare stones here. Bunches of fragrant herbs and dried flowers hung upside down from nearly every window ledge, scenting the corridors.
A shaft of sunlight drew Adrienne's attention to a closed door halfway down the corridor. Etched into the pale wood was an exquisitely detailed prancing horse, rearing elegantly, mane tossing in the wind. A single horn spiraled daintily from its equine brow. A unicorn?
Her hand on the door, she paused, suddenly suffering an odd premonition that this room might be better left alone. Curiosity killed the cat…
When the door swung silently inward, she froze, a hand fluttering on the jamb.
Unbelievable. Simply incomprehensible. Her astonished gaze swept the room from floor to rafter, end to end and back again.
Who had done this?
The room appealed to every ounce of woman in her body. Face it, Adrienne, she told herself grimly, this entire castle appeals to every ounce of woman in your body. Not to mention the sexy, masculine laird of the keep himself.
This room was made for babies. Crafted with such loving hands that it was almost overwhelming. A cacophony of discordant emotions skittered through her before she shoved them away.
There were cradles of honey oak, curved and sanded smooth so not one splinter could work free and harm baby-soft skin. The east wall displayed high windows, too high for a toddler to risk harm, yet open to the golden glow of the morning sun. Wood floors were smothered with thick rugs to keep baby feet warm.
Brightly painted wooden soldiers dotted the shelves, and lovingly crafted dolls reclined on tiny beds. A miniature castle, replete with turrets, dry moat, and drawbridge was filled with tiny carved people; an honest-to-goodness medieval dollhouse!
Fluffy blankets dotted the cradles and beds. It was a huge room, this nursery. A room in which a child (or a dozen) could grow from baby to young teen before seeking a more adult room elsewhere. It was a room that would fill a child's world with love and security and pleasure for hours on end.
As if someone had created this room thinking like the child he or she used to be, and designed it with all the treasures that had given him or her such pleasure as a wee lad or lass.
But the thing about the room that struck her so hard was that it seemed to be waiting.
Open and warm and inviting, saying, fill me with laughing babies and love.
All was in readiness, the nursery was merely biding time—until the right woman would come along and breathe into it the sparkling life of children's songs and dreams and hopes.
A pang of such longing flashed through her that Adrienne wasn't even sure what it was. But it had everything to do with the orphan she'd been, and the cold place she'd grown up in—a place nothing at all like this lovely room; part of a lovely home, in a lovely land, with people who would lavish love upon their children.