Why wouldn’t the contents of the castle be from centuries long past? The occupants were.
After steering her into a library, he deposited her there, then hurried off to “gather the rest of the clan and bring your man in. My brother and our wives will join you anon.”
Now, waiting by herself, she proceeded to take a thorough, fascinated peek around.
The library was a beautiful, spacious, yet cozily inviting retreat, reminding Jessi much of the understated, impeccable elegance of Professor Keene’s office.
Tall bay windows, draped in velvet, overlooked a manicured garden. Cherry bookcases were recessed into paneled walls. An enormous, dusky-rose stone and marble fireplace climbed one wall, the elaborate mantel climbing all the way to the ceiling. There were many richly brocaded, overstuffed chairs and ottomans arranged in various conversation areas, beside lavishly carved, leather-detailed occasional tables. The trey ceiling had ornate embossing and three tiers of elegant moldings. A stately bar was custom-crafted into a section of the bookshelves.
From what she’d seen on her rushed way through, the entire castle was a historian’s dream, liberally scattered with antiques and relics, and the library was no different.
Centuries-old tapestries adorned the walls. The room was illumed by exquisite—and she was willing to bet real—Tiffany table lamps that cast a stained-glass amber and rosy glow about the room. The majority of the books on the shelves were leather-bound and some looked quite old, resting with care on their flats, not their spines. A massive desk with a top inlaid of three gleaming burled panels divided by intricate Celtic knot-work occupied one corner, with a tall leather chair behind it. Library tables perched beneath spotlighted portraits of Keltar ancestors. Muted antique rugs warmed the room, accented by an occasional plush lambskin. A pretty ladder with sides of carved scrollwork slid along the walls of bookcases on padded wheels, atop the gleaming perimeter of wood floor.
She was just moving toward the ladder, to push it to an especially interesting-looking pile of manuscripts, when two pretty blondes burst into the library, followed by a man she initially mistook for Dageus.
“Welcome to Castle Keltar,” one of the blondes said breathlessly. “I’m Gwen and this is my husband, Drustan. This is Dageus’s wife, Chloe.”
“Hi,” Jessi said tentatively. “I’m Jessi St. James.”
“We know. Dageus told us,” Gwen said. “We can’t wait to hear your story. You can start now if you’d like,” she said brightly. “We’ve been waiting all day.”
Dageus walked in then, toting the mirror, holding it by the sides.
She’d half expected to hear furious bellows heralding his approach, and was somewhat surprised that the glass was silent.
He crossed the room and propped the mirror up against the bookcase, near the conversation area where she and the MacKeltars had gathered.
She peered at it. It was flat silver and there was no sign of Cian.
Jessi hurried over to the looking glass, reaching instinctively for it.
At the same moment, Cian’s hand rose within the silver as he stepped forward, making himself visible.
She heard feminine gasps behind her.
“So there he is,” one of the women exclaimed. “Not only did he refuse to answer any of our questions, he wouldn’t even show himself until you got here.”
The world receded around her and narrowed down to nothing but Cian. The expression in his whisky gaze was stark.
“Och, Jessica,” he said, his butter-rum voice rough and low. He was silent a moment, drinking her in. “I’m not much of a man when I can’t even protect my woman. The bloody glass reclaimed me and I couldn’t get to you!”
My woman, he’d called her. She could see in his eyes and hear in his voice that the day of worrying had been hell on him too. She was sorry it had been; and she was glad. Glad it hadn’t been just her going crazy. Glad because it meant his feelings matched hers. “Yes, you are,” she told him fiercely. “You’re more man than any I’ve ever known. You’re more man than any other man could ever hope to be. You’ve saved my life twice! I’d be dead if it weren’t for you. Besides, you couldn’t possibly anticipate that your stupid descendant would steal you. Who could have seen that coming?”
Behind her, someone cleared his throat. She thought it might be Drustan, but he and Dageus were so alike that it was hard to be sure. Then she knew it was Dageus because, with a note of wry amusement in his voice, he said, “His stupid descendant wishes to know how you release him, lass.”
She pressed her other palm to the glass. Cian aligned his to hers. They stared hungrily at each other. After being afraid she’d lost him, she needed to touch him, ached to feel his body against hers, to taste his kisses. To feels his hands claiming her. His woman, he’d called her, and she was pretty sure those weren’t words a ninth-century Highlander ever used lightly.