much show of nonchalance as he could muster, considering the state of his arousal. Wearing nothing but knee-high red socks, he ambled across to the chest and took his time finding a pair of briefs.
Folding his naked body into the upholstered chair near the bed, he drew one leg up, then the other. With unhurried movements that would have done justice to an exotic dancer, he teased the briefs along his thighs, arching his back a little. His sense of drama had won him A’s in the college acting classes he’d taken for fun.
Finally he stood, slid his hands over his rump, tested the briefs’ waistband, and gazed down at himself in solemn scrutiny. “Well, what do you think, Goldie? Impressive, isn’t it?”
From across the room came the deep, resonant drone of snoring.
Douglas gazed at her dark form in disgruntled surprise. It took him a second to realize that the snoring was absurdly exaggerated.
He grinned. By the time he got into bed he was laughing so hard that tears came to his eyes. He was the prisoner of a woman who had infuriated, harrassed, and insulted him more than any person in the world. He hated to admit it, but he was beginning to like her.
Four
The mists of Talrigh still mourn,
Haunted by spirits of Kincaid and MacRoth.
Replayed eternally: Theft of the brooch,
Clash of the steel,
Spectral blood shed for honor of clans;
War and wizardy—neither shall save them;
Only true love shall soothe the pain and Heal wounds of the past,
That ancient sorrows may sleep at last.
Elgiva read the old poem again, and frowned.
Only true love shall soothe the pain
. Her mother, solemn and practical, had always said that the line referred to love for Scotland. But her father, a daydreaming romantic, had insisted that it meant the love between a man and a woman. Considering their opposite natures, it was amazing that her parents had been so perfect together.
One Christmas night twenty-five years ago was etched indelibly in Elgiva’s mind. She and Rob had tiptoed from bed, shivering, and had hidden behind the shabby drapes in the master hunt room at MacRoth Hall, giggling over the fact that both of their parents were tipsy from too much ale.
She and Rob had been entertained watching theirnormally reserved mother and father snuggle close together on a sagging couch while a musty stag’s head peered down at them with its one remaining glass eye. Rob had wrinkled his nose at the kissing and hugging, but Elgiva had been old enough to appreciate the romance of it.
Though it had hardly sounded like romance.
“David, you’ll be a silly old man, the kind who sings to himself and dances under the full moon,” Mother told Father between kisses.
Father laughed. “Aye, and I plan to live to be a thousand just to torment you.”
“I’ll scold you every day of it,” she retorted, but nibbled his ear. Then she looked at him and said so low that Elgiva could barely hear, “When you pass on, I wish to follow the next second.”
Mother had gotten that wish, though much sooner than a thousand years. Swallowing hard, Elgiva shut the book of poetry and sat gazing wistfully at the worn leather cover.
“That must be a cookbook. You look pensive—as if you’ve lost the recipe for something.”
Douglas Kincaid’s droll, richly timbered voice slipped into her veins like sweet wine. She looked up at him and blinked owlishly. He lounged in one corner of his cell, wearing nothing but his trousers. His torso glistened with sweat from all the push-ups he’d performed during the past two hours. The muscles of his chest and stomach trembled and flexed each time he inhaled.
“Lost the recipe,” she repeated blankly.
Elgiva stared at the potent masculinity being displayed only a few meters away, behind thick bars. Who needed protecting from whom? She was beginning to resent those bars.
She had taken to reading the book of Scottish poetry to keep from ogling him helplessly. The sight of his hard, lean body pumping like an
Folding his naked body into the upholstered chair near the bed, he drew one leg up, then the other. With unhurried movements that would have done justice to an exotic dancer, he teased the briefs along his thighs, arching his back a little. His sense of drama had won him A’s in the college acting classes he’d taken for fun.
Finally he stood, slid his hands over his rump, tested the briefs’ waistband, and gazed down at himself in solemn scrutiny. “Well, what do you think, Goldie? Impressive, isn’t it?”
From across the room came the deep, resonant drone of snoring.
Douglas gazed at her dark form in disgruntled surprise. It took him a second to realize that the snoring was absurdly exaggerated.
He grinned. By the time he got into bed he was laughing so hard that tears came to his eyes. He was the prisoner of a woman who had infuriated, harrassed, and insulted him more than any person in the world. He hated to admit it, but he was beginning to like her.
Four
The mists of Talrigh still mourn,
Haunted by spirits of Kincaid and MacRoth.
Replayed eternally: Theft of the brooch,
Clash of the steel,
Spectral blood shed for honor of clans;
War and wizardy—neither shall save them;
Only true love shall soothe the pain and Heal wounds of the past,
That ancient sorrows may sleep at last.
Elgiva read the old poem again, and frowned.
Only true love shall soothe the pain
. Her mother, solemn and practical, had always said that the line referred to love for Scotland. But her father, a daydreaming romantic, had insisted that it meant the love between a man and a woman. Considering their opposite natures, it was amazing that her parents had been so perfect together.
One Christmas night twenty-five years ago was etched indelibly in Elgiva’s mind. She and Rob had tiptoed from bed, shivering, and had hidden behind the shabby drapes in the master hunt room at MacRoth Hall, giggling over the fact that both of their parents were tipsy from too much ale.
She and Rob had been entertained watching theirnormally reserved mother and father snuggle close together on a sagging couch while a musty stag’s head peered down at them with its one remaining glass eye. Rob had wrinkled his nose at the kissing and hugging, but Elgiva had been old enough to appreciate the romance of it.
Though it had hardly sounded like romance.
“David, you’ll be a silly old man, the kind who sings to himself and dances under the full moon,” Mother told Father between kisses.
Father laughed. “Aye, and I plan to live to be a thousand just to torment you.”
“I’ll scold you every day of it,” she retorted, but nibbled his ear. Then she looked at him and said so low that Elgiva could barely hear, “When you pass on, I wish to follow the next second.”
Mother had gotten that wish, though much sooner than a thousand years. Swallowing hard, Elgiva shut the book of poetry and sat gazing wistfully at the worn leather cover.
“That must be a cookbook. You look pensive—as if you’ve lost the recipe for something.”
Douglas Kincaid’s droll, richly timbered voice slipped into her veins like sweet wine. She looked up at him and blinked owlishly. He lounged in one corner of his cell, wearing nothing but his trousers. His torso glistened with sweat from all the push-ups he’d performed during the past two hours. The muscles of his chest and stomach trembled and flexed each time he inhaled.
“Lost the recipe,” she repeated blankly.
Elgiva stared at the potent masculinity being displayed only a few meters away, behind thick bars. Who needed protecting from whom? She was beginning to resent those bars.
She had taken to reading the book of Scottish poetry to keep from ogling him helplessly. The sight of his hard, lean body pumping like an
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