The time was nearing.
And her heart was freezing, breath by bitter breath. She shivered as a crisp breeze tumbled through the open window of Lydia's bedroom. She crossed the room intending to close it, but froze, one hand upon the cool stone ledge. She stared mesmerized into the night.
I will remember this, always.
She drank in Dalkeith, committing each precious detail to memory. The full moon held her spellbound as it bathed the ridge in silvery brilliance. It seemed closer to the earth and so much larger than usual. Maybe she could step into the sky to stand right next to it—perhaps give it a firm nudge and watch it roll across the horizon.
Adrienne marveled at the beauty of it all. This place is magic.
She had a perfect view of the feast from the window. The ridge was alive with hundreds of people spread about the fires on bright tartans, talking, feasting, and dancing. Wine, ale, and Scotch flowed freely as the people celebrated the harvest to come. A rich harvest, her husband had seen to that.
Children played children's games, running and squealing and circling back to loving parents. And the music… oh, the music drifted up to the open window, blending with the soft roar of the ocean. The powerful hypnotic beat of the drums, the pipes and wild chanting.
Between the two circles of fire, she could just make him out, the laird of Dalkeith-Upon-the-Sea was dancing with his people, his head tossed back, adding his deep butterscotch cry to the song. Her husband. At least she'd gotten to love him for a while—maybe not forever, but…
The beat of drums intensified, and she watched him circle the fire. So primitive and savage, yet so incredibly tender and loving.
I adore this place, she thought. If I could have ever dreamt a place to go, back in the twentieth century, I would have dreamt this one.
She let her forehead fall against the cool stone wall a long moment and squeezed back the tears. "I love him more than life itself," she whispered aloud.
And that had been the deciding point.
* * * * *
"Nay." The Hawk raised his hands in mock protestation. "You must leave me with strength to wed and bed my wife, this eve," he teased the laughing women who tried to lure him into yet another dance.
Despite the disappointed looks and saucy remarks about his virility, the Hawk made his way higher up the ridge. He'd seen Lydia wander that way with Tavis while he'd been dancing. He paused a moment and looked back at the castle, his eyes searching the windows intently. There it was. Lydia's room, his wife's silhouette visible against the brightly lit window. He watched her turn her back. She was on her way.
A chill slithered up the nape of his neck as he studied her back. He watched a long moment, and when she didn't move, he wondered what she was doing.
I should have insisted she keep the guard with her.
Will they button my gown for me? she'd teased, and a swirl of jealousy at the thought of any of his guards touching his wife's silken skin had sealed it.
He could watch every step of her progress from the ridge, and the castle wasn't entirely deserted. The ridge was a short walk, a few minutes or less. She should be fine. Yet he worried…
"Have you seen Grimm?" Lydia touched his arm lightly to get his attention.
Hawk tore his gaze from the window. "Nay. Have you?"
"Nay. And that worries me. He's your best friend, Hawk. I thought he'd be here. What might have kept him?"
Hawk shrugged and glanced quickly at the castle. Ah, finally. The candles were out and his wife was on her way. Lydia's room was full dark. Suddenly Grimm seemed inconsequential. Even his irritation at Grimm's lies slid off his shoulders with the thought of his beloved Adrienne.
Tonight I will bind her to me for all eternity, he pledged silently.
"Hawk?" Lydia waved her hand in front of his face and he dragged his gaze from the castle with an effort.
"Hmmm?"
"Oh my," Lydia sighed. "How you do remind me of your father when you look like that."
"Like what?" Hawk drawled, watching the front steps for the first glimpse of his wife.
"Like some savage Viking set to conquer and take captive."
"I'm the captive in this, Mother," Hawk snorted. "The lass has fair spelled me, I think."
Lydia's laughter tinkled merrily. "Good. 'Tis as it should be, then." She gave him a brisk kiss. "She'll be here any moment." Lydia straightened his linen that didn't need straightening, smoothed his perfect hair that didn't need smoothing, and in general clucked over him like a nervous hen.
"Mother," he growled.
"I just want you to look your best—" Lydia broke off. She spared a nervous laugh for herself. "Just look at me, a jittery mother, all in a tizzy at her son's wedding."