She turned as he walked toward her, his cape swirling about his black boots, his dark hair tossed by the wind. His blue eyes seemed bluer today, probably because they were the only touch of color on him.

She clutched the railing tighter, her fingers growing numb inside her gloves. “I’m not coming in. I get sick in the hold, as you well know.”

“Seasickness won’t kill you; an inflammation might.”

“Cold weather never affects me. I grew up here . . . remember?”

His expression darkened. “Oh, I remember. I’m still astonished by that fact.”

“Hurst, we’ve traveled together for four years now. It’s your own fault for not asking me where I came from.”

“What would you have said if I had asked?”

“I might have told you.”

“Balderdash. You would have prevaricated and you know it.”

She shrugged.

“Ho, don’t even pretend. You’ve done nothing but hide yourself since the day we met. You’re worse than the damned Sphinx.”

“I’ve been in plain sight. You just never bothered to look.”

Thomas took an eager step forward just as Zeus stuck his head into the room. Fia glanced down at her dog and held the door wide. “Stand guard.”

The dog cast a longing look at the fire but walked into the hall, his crooked tail sagging between his legs, and Fia shut the door. “He’ll bark if he sees anyone.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” Thomas said drily. “Where are the guards?”

“Sleeping like babes. I gave them a wee dram of whiskey with their dinner, and I mixed a good dose of sleeping draught in it to make sure they sleep heavily.”

“Mary says you know a way from the castle.”

“Aye, I do.” Her gaze flickered over him, resting on the knotted hosen. She grinned.

“I’m glad you’re amused; I am not. I’ve been waiting for two days to leave this godforsaken place and my temper is thin.”

“I couldn’t come while the Davies clan was still arriving. The last few came this evening, so now the focus will be upon the banquet hall and kitchens.” She tilted her head toward the door. “Mary’s down the hall, serving lookout. Are you ready to leave?”

“I’ve but to pull on my boots.” Thomas limped to retrieve them, pushing his stiff leg to one side as he bent over. As he did so, he lost his balance.

Fia was there in a trice, pressing a bracing shoulder to his, and in the space of a shocked second, Thomas found himself staring into her eyes, surrounded by a wilderness of sooty lashes. His body came alive with a burning heat.

Thomas couldn’t tear his attention from the curve of her lips, wondering if she remembered the kiss in the forest as well as he did.

“We . . . we must go,” she said huskily. The richness of her voice swirled through his stomach and below. He shifted restlessly, and Fia’s gaze locked onto his thigh.

He knew she was wondering about his bruises, but some imp of mischief made him flex the muscle. She wet her lips with the tip of her pink tongue and his body tightened with desire. He ached for a touch, a kiss. Just one, he told himself. A very quick one.

While I have grown older and now know the dance weaves the ribbons, watching it still brings me a sense of joy, innocence and happiness.

“Sophia, stop it.” Ophelia’s cheeks were blazing pink. “He’s unconscious.”

“So?” Sophia gave Ophelia a smug smile. “You’re just upset because you didn’t get to kiss him first.”

Ophelia stiffened, her glasses sliding a notch down on her nose. “I would have if you hadn’t thrown yourself over him and practically smothered him until he coughed and –“

“He coughed?” Harriet asked, looking at Sophia. “I thought you coughed.”

Sophia tossed her hair. “He coughed a little. But I didn’t smother him. I mean . . . I suppose I might have leaned my elbow into his ribs a little. But just a very little.”

“A little?” Ophelia said, looking as astonished as if Sophia had turned into a unicorn before her very eyes. “How can you call that a little? I’m surprised you didn’t break his ribs and–”

“Stop it, both of you!” Harriet glared at her sisters. “You are both driving me mad. Go to the barn and help Jem.”

“But–” Sophia began, only to stop at finding Harriet’s stern gaze fixed on her. Sophia sighed. “Fine. Come Ophelia. We can return after we help Jem.”

Ophelia sniffed. “It’s not my turn, but I’ll come with you. I can see we’re not wanted here, anyway.”

Reluctantly, the two left the room, muttering as they went. Harriet waited for them to leave, then she closed the door.

Stifling a sigh, she approached the bed and looked down at the patient. He seemed sound asleep, no movement on his face, his breath even and deep. “Sophia’s being melodramatic.” Harriet took the cloth she’d dipped in the water and sat on the edge of the bed.

If he’d been handsome before, he was dangerously handsome now that he’d been cleaned up a bit. She frowned again. Was he really asleep? She tilted her head to one side, leaned over and peered closely at him, her nose only an inch from his.

Nothing happened. She breathed a little harder, letting her breath fan over his mouth. Again, nothing happened. His breathing never altered, his lashes didn’t tremble, nothing.

Oh, for heaven’s sake, what am I doing?” If he was awake, he would open his eyes, ask for something to eat, want to know where his horse was—something other than lie there dead to the world.

Relaxing a bit, Harriet straightened, though she found herself smoothing back the man’s hair. Thick and soft to the touch, the black waves slid through her fingers. He remained deeply asleep, his lashes on the crest of his cheeks, his lips slightly parted . . .

Harriet looked at his mouth. Heaven had never made such a perfect pair of lips. Never.

Sophia had kissed those lips. Harriet wondered for just the barest moment what it had been like. Heaven knew she hadn’t ever kissed such a beautiful man. She supposed she never would.

Harriet’s heart lowered. It was a pity there was no real Captain John Frakenham. If there had been, she’d want him to look just like this man, with his dark hair and blue eyes . . She sighed, admonishing herself for her silliness.

Still, somehow her fingers found their way through the man’s hair, and then traced the line of his brow to his cheek. His skin was warm beneath her fingertips, his skin shadowed by a day’s growth of facial hair.
If this really were the captain, she could kiss him with impunity. Kiss him because he was a man and because he was hers. The idea made her tingle, and, without another thought, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his.

For an instant, a warm shiver shot through her, raising the fine hair on her arms and tightening her chest. It was as if she’d stepped through a blast of hot air, her body absorbing the warmth.

Then something happened. The heat intensified. Harriet opened her eyes and found she was right. She had indeed stepped into a blast of heat—one that emanated from his blue, blue eyes. The man was no longer asleep.

Just as in the story, Prince Charming had awakened with a kiss.

Click here.

In honor of the superstitious types, I thought I would share some other odd bits of lore you might want to be aware of. . .

Salty soup means the cook is in love.

If you hang a horseshoe in the bedroom, it will keep bad dreams away.

Starting a trip on Friday means you will meet misfortune.

When you move to a new home, never bring your old broom with you – toss it and buy a new one.

Scottish lore advises to keep a knife under your pillow. It prevents the fairies carrying you off when you sleep.

What other bits of superstition or folk lore have you heard?

********

     Sopping wet, Michael and Jane made their way to the inn. Mrs. Macpherson didn’t look at all happy to see them, tsking loudly as they both dripped steadily in front of the fireplace. “I warned ye aboot the rain,” she said, glaring at them as if they’d caused it.

“So you did,” Michael said with a grin. “But we had things to do.”

“Humph.” She nodded toward the stairs. “Ye both need to change into some dry clothes. If ye’ll peel off the wet ones and put them outside of yer rooms, I’ll spread them afore the fire in the kitchen and let then dry.” She took their cloaks and coats. “I’ll take these to the kitchen and spread them out and then come back to get the clothes.”

“Thank you,” Michael said to her retreating back. He turned to Jane. “I hope there’s a fire in my bed chamber, though I somehow doubt it.” ‘

Jane grabbed her wet skirts and began to wade toward the stairs, the heavy, soaked cloth dragging about her.

“You look like a duck.”

“I feel like one, too. My skirts are as heavy as two brick-loaded portmanteaus.”

“Take them off.”

Jane sent him a startled glance. “I can’t undress here.”

“Why not?”

“Someone could come in and there I’d be in a wet chemise. It’s not—“

Michael scooped her into his arms and began to carry her up the stairs.

“Just what do you think you are doing?”

“Quieting your ridiculous complaints.” He strode up the stairs as if they were flat ground, not even winded at the exertion, leaving Jane speechless.

As he neared the top, he looked down at her. “I’ll carry you to your room but you’re on your own after that. I must get ready for my visit with Lady MacDonald.”

Jane, who’d been enjoying being carried to that point, clamped her mouth closed over a very unladylike retort. It would have been easy to pretend that Michael’s efforts meant more than the impulse of the moment. A weaker woman would slip her arms around his neck. A more needy woman might even press herself to his strong shoulders and enjoy the feel of his strength as he carried. But Jane was neither weak nor needy, so instead she made a fist and punched the lout in the shoulder.

He gave a muffled ‘oof’. “What was that for?”

“I know why you’re going to see Lady MacDonald, and I don’t like it.“

“What I do with my free time is my own business. And need I remind you who is the boss here? I don’t need your permission to visit anyone.”

“Jackanapes.”

He favored her with a brief smile. “Weakling.”

She crossed her arms and stared straight ahead. “Barbarian.”

“Froofy female.”

“Over muscled Viking spawn.”

“Weak-kneed blue stocking.”

Ah ha! She gave him a superior smile. “I like being called a blue stocking.”

“Good,” he said, kicking open the bed chamber door and stalking across the floor. “Then I’ll call you that every chance I get.” He paused by the bed and smiled down at her. “You know what happens now?”

Something in his eyes made her suddenly breathless as she imagined the possibilities. Would he place her on the bed and then join her? Hold her in his arms and kiss her senseless? She shivered at the thought as she asked in a breathless voice, “What happens now?”

“This.” And with that, he threw her onto the bed with such vigor that she bounced twice before coming to a lopsided rest.

“Oh! You-you-you—“

He laughed and turned on his heel. “You should call for a bath to warm you up. I’d take one, too, but I don’t wish to be late for my visit with Lady MacDonald.”

“To visit–No!” Jane propped herself up and scooted to the edge of the bed, her clinging clothes making even that simple action difficult. “You can’t go. It’s still raining. Hard.”

He stopped by the doorway and sent her a glinting smile. “Oh, I’d noticed. That’s why I’m not changing my clothes.”

“But you’re wet through!”

“And I’ll be even wetter when I arrive at Lady MacDonald’s. She’ll invite me in once she notices and take pity of me, while secretly being pleased that I went through a storm to reach her. I’ll get much more information from her then.”

She was astonished at how correct he was. That was exactly the sort of quixotic gesture that would appeal to Lindsee. “You’re a scoundrel, Michael Hurst. A complete and total scoundrel.”

He chuckled. “I know. Don’t wait up on me; I may be a while. I have a lot of questions to ask Lady MacDonald. A lot.”

With a wink, he left, closing the door behind him.

Jane listened to his footsteps as he went down the steps and to the front door, which he closed with an exuberant slam.

Jane grabbed her pillow and flung it at the door where it landed with an unsatisfying thud. Then, sighing her frustration, she threw herself back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. “Blast you, Hurst! I hope you catch your death of the ague.”

*********

I hope you enjoyed an early peek of The Taming of a Scottish Princess!

Even saying something businesslike, she sounded seductive. He forced himself to turn his gaze on the ivory box and its contents. “I don’t see an inscription – ah. Wait.” He moved to one side so that the light caught the faint lines. “I thought this might be Roman, but I can see now that it’s Greek.” He peered at it through his monocle, then finally turned to her. “It’s an unusual -”

The room was empty.

“Damnation!” He raced to the door and almost ran into Mr. Bancroft, who was just entering.

“Ah, Mr. Hurst!” The man’s gaze flickered to the table behind Robert. “I see Mrs. MacJames showed you the box and vases. Astonishing, aren’t the-”

“Where is she?”

Mr. Bancroft blinked and then peered past Robert. “She isn’t here? But I thought -”

“She left. Did you see her?”

“No. I just came in from the terrace, and the hall was quite empty.”

Robert cursed. He whirled back to the room, his gaze sweeping over the long windows. Could she have gone through them? No, he would have heard them open. Where in the hell is she? She can’t disappear in a puff of smoke. She had to - His gaze locked onto a faint line in the patterned wallpaper. In a trice he was at the hidden door, searching for the latch. “How do you open this?”

Bancroft had followed him across the room and now shook his head. “I don’t know. I’d never noticed that doorway, and -”

Click. Robert had found the hidden latch and the door swung open, a hidden entrance for servants who might need quicker access in order to efficiently meet their master’s and mistress’s needs.

Robert ducked his head and raced into the small hallway, which quickly grew dark. The passage was narrow, the flagstone floor worn smooth with use, and the faint scent of freshly baked bread let him know where the final door would open. He had to duck his head to as not to hit the wide timbers that occasionally appeared as he made his way. He rushed along and turned a corner, the light disappearing completely. But Robert maintained his speed by the simple expediency of trailing his hands along each side.

Urgency pressed him forward. He couldn’t let her escape.

“Mr. Hurst!” Bancroft called after him. “When you see Mrs. MacJames, please remind her that the items must be ready soon and . . .” The voice faded as Robert ran down the twisting hallway.

The fool. Moira MacAllister was gone and would never reappear. She had to know something about the onyx box; he’d seen a flicker in her gaze.

Robert cursed as he stumbled down a step, twice bumping his head painfully when an especially low bean crossed the ceiling. The hallway ended at a small door that swung open to reveal the kitchens.

At his entrance, several undercooks turned and stared in astonishment.

One stepped forward. “Pardon, monsieur, but you are lost, no?”

Robert brushed a cobweb from his shoulder. “Did you see a woman come out this door?”

“Oui,” gulped the cook. “She ran though and went to the stables.”

“How do you know she was heading for the stables?”

“Because she took an apple for her horse.”

Robert muttered his thanks and ran out the door. The stables were set across the small cobblestone courtyard, and he rushed inside and collared the first groom he saw. “Have you seen Mrs. MacJames?”

At the man’s blank stare, Robert added, “An attractive redhead.”

The groom’s expression cleared and he said in a thick Scottish brogue, “Och, tha’ one. She had a mount already saddled and took off like the hounds o’ hell were after her.”

“Blast it!” Robert looked out the stable doors toward the long drive that lead up to the house. “Send someone for my carriage. I left my groom walking the horses in the drive and-”

“Lor’ love ye, guv’nor, but ye’ll no’ catch her in a carriage. She dinna go down the drive, but tha’ way.” The man nodded over Robert’s shoulder.

He turned and his heart sank as he faced the wide fields that led into a thick copse of woods.

“Aye,” the groom continued, admiration coloring his voice. “She took tha’ horse right o’er the fence and through the field. Tha’ lassie rides like the wind. She’s a crackin’ good horsewoman.”

“She’s a royal pain in the ass.”

The groom chuckled. “Och, most women are.”

Robert walked out toward the high fence that bordered the field, his gaze on the copse of trees. The wind stirred their leaves, but no other movement enlivened the moment. He fisted his hands, struggling to contain the anger that threatened to choke him.

She’d escaped yet again.

A TIARA!

Jen sent me a note with this clip to show her joy at winning something so sparkly.

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