“Hunter Hall. Built by the first baron during the reign of
Elizabeth I and restored to its present splendor while Victoria was on the
throne.” His voice took on the stentorian tones of an English tour guide.
“Indoor plumbing upgraded by the present baroness. Having a mere fifteen
bedrooms, each boasts its own en suite commode.”
TC laughed and then gasped. “Good Lord, it’s a castle.” Time
had faded the bricks to pale pink and now, set as it was in the middle of lush
green lawns, the castle looked opalescent—as if the sun had come out solely to
give her this first, awesome view of Ian’s home.
Home? How could a person live in such a place and call it by
such a simple name? This palace was older than any building in the United
States and people, Ian’s family, had lived here for more than four hundred
years.
Shading her eyes against the sun, she looked up. “Are those
cupolas on the roof?”
“They look like cupolas, but were used for less pleasant
purposes. They served as archers’ towers like those on the corners of the lower
level. Or, if the knights were away with their lord, a place where the women
would pour boiling oil on their enemies.”
She shivered, but it was a pleasant kind of chill—like
watching a scary movie, knowing she was safe within the walls of her very own
room.
“Sometimes, as a boy, I would climb up to those towers and
lie there listening to the rain pound the slate shingles.”
“How old were you when you and your mother came to live
here?”
“I cannot remember living anywhere else.”
If his answer was evasive, she had no opportunity to
consider it. Ian no sooner brought the car to a stop on the gravel drive than
the single wooden door of the castle flew open and two diminutive tornados
whirled out. One spun toward Ian’s door, the other toward hers before veering
off to follow her companion to Ian. Each squealed like gauchos riding
neck-or-nothing across the pampas.
Her muscles protesting being stretched, she eased out of the
low-slung Jag and heard the girls chattering at Ian, one beginning a sentence
that the other finished. She heard madre and padre and assumed
these were Ian’s sisters, the twins.
Looking at them smiling into Ian’s face, seeing him smile
back with tenderness and love in his dark eyes, TC felt a pain around her
heart, twin emotions of joy and envy.
The twins’ faces mirrored each other. Patrician noses, ebony
hair and brows, dark eyes so like their brother’s, their cheekbones high and
pronounced, but their cheeks fuller, softer, with the mark of childhood still
on them. They were simply lovely.
Ian lowered them to the ground, then held out his hand to
her. Just as she had in London, she went to him, but stopped short of going
into his arms. She felt…shy of these girls, like an unwanted guest at Christmas
dinner, tolerated solely because a loved one had invited her. And, dressed as
she was in baggy corduroy trousers and a faded UCLA sweatshirt, she looked like
a frump, especially when compared to the elegant young creatures now eyeing her
with unconcealed curiosity.
What had Ian told them about her? About her bruised and
abraded hands and face? Merde ! His family would think she was a battered
woman fleeing a monster, something she should have considered before she let
Ian bully her into this trip. Only his threat to call her “husband” had gained
her acquiescence for her removal from London.
The twins’ olive complexions bore no trace of acne, while
hers looked like a war zone, right eye black and red and swollen half-shut. Her
faded pants and sweatshirt looked like rejects from the ragbag, while their
clothing seemed to proclaim their individual personalities.
“This is Peace,” Ian said, nodding at the twin who wore
jodhpurs, polished English riding boots and a peacock-blue blouse. “And this is
Adeen who, like her name, dresses like a little fire.”
“Hi,” TC said, taking in Adeen’s black leather jeans and
vest, the
Elizabeth I and restored to its present splendor while Victoria was on the
throne.” His voice took on the stentorian tones of an English tour guide.
“Indoor plumbing upgraded by the present baroness. Having a mere fifteen
bedrooms, each boasts its own en suite commode.”
TC laughed and then gasped. “Good Lord, it’s a castle.” Time
had faded the bricks to pale pink and now, set as it was in the middle of lush
green lawns, the castle looked opalescent—as if the sun had come out solely to
give her this first, awesome view of Ian’s home.
Home? How could a person live in such a place and call it by
such a simple name? This palace was older than any building in the United
States and people, Ian’s family, had lived here for more than four hundred
years.
Shading her eyes against the sun, she looked up. “Are those
cupolas on the roof?”
“They look like cupolas, but were used for less pleasant
purposes. They served as archers’ towers like those on the corners of the lower
level. Or, if the knights were away with their lord, a place where the women
would pour boiling oil on their enemies.”
She shivered, but it was a pleasant kind of chill—like
watching a scary movie, knowing she was safe within the walls of her very own
room.
“Sometimes, as a boy, I would climb up to those towers and
lie there listening to the rain pound the slate shingles.”
“How old were you when you and your mother came to live
here?”
“I cannot remember living anywhere else.”
If his answer was evasive, she had no opportunity to
consider it. Ian no sooner brought the car to a stop on the gravel drive than
the single wooden door of the castle flew open and two diminutive tornados
whirled out. One spun toward Ian’s door, the other toward hers before veering
off to follow her companion to Ian. Each squealed like gauchos riding
neck-or-nothing across the pampas.
Her muscles protesting being stretched, she eased out of the
low-slung Jag and heard the girls chattering at Ian, one beginning a sentence
that the other finished. She heard madre and padre and assumed
these were Ian’s sisters, the twins.
Looking at them smiling into Ian’s face, seeing him smile
back with tenderness and love in his dark eyes, TC felt a pain around her
heart, twin emotions of joy and envy.
The twins’ faces mirrored each other. Patrician noses, ebony
hair and brows, dark eyes so like their brother’s, their cheekbones high and
pronounced, but their cheeks fuller, softer, with the mark of childhood still
on them. They were simply lovely.
Ian lowered them to the ground, then held out his hand to
her. Just as she had in London, she went to him, but stopped short of going
into his arms. She felt…shy of these girls, like an unwanted guest at Christmas
dinner, tolerated solely because a loved one had invited her. And, dressed as
she was in baggy corduroy trousers and a faded UCLA sweatshirt, she looked like
a frump, especially when compared to the elegant young creatures now eyeing her
with unconcealed curiosity.
What had Ian told them about her? About her bruised and
abraded hands and face? Merde ! His family would think she was a battered
woman fleeing a monster, something she should have considered before she let
Ian bully her into this trip. Only his threat to call her “husband” had gained
her acquiescence for her removal from London.
The twins’ olive complexions bore no trace of acne, while
hers looked like a war zone, right eye black and red and swollen half-shut. Her
faded pants and sweatshirt looked like rejects from the ragbag, while their
clothing seemed to proclaim their individual personalities.
“This is Peace,” Ian said, nodding at the twin who wore
jodhpurs, polished English riding boots and a peacock-blue blouse. “And this is
Adeen who, like her name, dresses like a little fire.”
“Hi,” TC said, taking in Adeen’s black leather jeans and
vest, the
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