Read Online My Heart's in the Highlands by Angeline Fortin - Free Book Online
Authors: Angeline Fortin
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the great poets, like most men he considered voicing a recitation in earnest to be an insult to his manhood.
It just went to show that a man should never say never. In the right situation, with the right woman, poetry was no longer mere words but so much more. Inspiration was obviously the missing element of his long-held dismissal of "romantic twaddle," as Hero had called it moments ago, and she was a most inspiring lady.
Still, it was a n affront to his principles to spout such nonsense to a woman he’d just met. Ian shook his head to clear the thickening webs of desire away but they clung to him tenaciously. Aye, and wouldn’t that be just the thing to prompt her to leave Cuilean? The unwanted attentions of a man Hero considered a cousin.
But did she? Ian studied Hero through heavy lids as she rubbed her palms down her skirts. She looked uncertain, with her brilliant eyes wide, but not chagrined by his words.
Heavy s ilence fell around them but it was not as weighty as the desire that was pulling at him. Hero was so lovely in the candlelight cast by the wall sconces. Her golden hair gleamed, her skin shone like ivory, her lips were moist and full. The shadows ebbed and peaked over the swell of her breasts with every breath she took. Ian wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and to press those delicious curves against him, to feel those breasts well against his chest. He wanted to touch those lips. Make love to them—nay, worship them—with his own.
What h e wanted most was to know that the desire to do so was mutual.
Hero’s pulse beat visibly along her long neck as she stared at him in surprise , making him believe that it was. If he ran a finger along that line, Ian wondered, would he find it fluttering as madly as his own? Whether her eyes were wide with excitement or the fear of a deer ready to bolt, Ian wasn’t certain. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Ian took a pace back in an attempt to break the spell. “You mentioned you enjoy the ramparts as well. Would you care for a stroll before we retire for the evening?”
A deep sigh escaped her. Disappointment? Gratitude? Ian wished he knew.
“Thank you, Lord Ayr. I believe some fresh air would be lovely.”
“I thought we agreed you would call me Ian,” he reminded her in a brogue still heavy with desire. Again he tried to cast it away, only to remain entrapped.
Hero’s lips parted with a swift intake of breath before she released it shakily. “I’m sure that would be most inappropriate, Lord Ayr,” she countered softly as Ian led her down the length of the picture room.
“Nonsense . We are family, are we not?” he asked lightly.
Chapter Eight
Hero didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she remained silent as Ian led her down to the main floor, through the library, and into the armory. From there a series of heavy doors separated the two parallel stone walls that surrounded the courtyard, a tall inner wall and a shorter outer wall that fronted the cliffs of the firth. The shallow passage between the two walls had been the first line of defense in ancient days, when attacks might be made on the castle from the sea.
Facing the Firth of Clyde, the narrow outer wall of the ramparts stood no more than three feet in height and a foot in thickness. Periodically the wall was notched out into lower sections where the business end of a cannon might be aimed toward the firth to fight off invasion. Should that fail, the inner walls were ten feet in height and more than two feet thick.
Ian motioned for Hero to precede him into the narrow walk of the embattlements and she walked ahead of him holding her hooped skirts up on one side, creating an angle to their bell shape that allowed her to fit down the narrow passage. She trailed her fingers along the top of the firth-side ramparts, lifting them over the gaps as she went.
One … two
It just went to show that a man should never say never. In the right situation, with the right woman, poetry was no longer mere words but so much more. Inspiration was obviously the missing element of his long-held dismissal of "romantic twaddle," as Hero had called it moments ago, and she was a most inspiring lady.
Still, it was a n affront to his principles to spout such nonsense to a woman he’d just met. Ian shook his head to clear the thickening webs of desire away but they clung to him tenaciously. Aye, and wouldn’t that be just the thing to prompt her to leave Cuilean? The unwanted attentions of a man Hero considered a cousin.
But did she? Ian studied Hero through heavy lids as she rubbed her palms down her skirts. She looked uncertain, with her brilliant eyes wide, but not chagrined by his words.
Heavy s ilence fell around them but it was not as weighty as the desire that was pulling at him. Hero was so lovely in the candlelight cast by the wall sconces. Her golden hair gleamed, her skin shone like ivory, her lips were moist and full. The shadows ebbed and peaked over the swell of her breasts with every breath she took. Ian wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and to press those delicious curves against him, to feel those breasts well against his chest. He wanted to touch those lips. Make love to them—nay, worship them—with his own.
What h e wanted most was to know that the desire to do so was mutual.
Hero’s pulse beat visibly along her long neck as she stared at him in surprise , making him believe that it was. If he ran a finger along that line, Ian wondered, would he find it fluttering as madly as his own? Whether her eyes were wide with excitement or the fear of a deer ready to bolt, Ian wasn’t certain. Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Ian took a pace back in an attempt to break the spell. “You mentioned you enjoy the ramparts as well. Would you care for a stroll before we retire for the evening?”
A deep sigh escaped her. Disappointment? Gratitude? Ian wished he knew.
“Thank you, Lord Ayr. I believe some fresh air would be lovely.”
“I thought we agreed you would call me Ian,” he reminded her in a brogue still heavy with desire. Again he tried to cast it away, only to remain entrapped.
Hero’s lips parted with a swift intake of breath before she released it shakily. “I’m sure that would be most inappropriate, Lord Ayr,” she countered softly as Ian led her down the length of the picture room.
“Nonsense . We are family, are we not?” he asked lightly.
Chapter Eight
Hero didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she remained silent as Ian led her down to the main floor, through the library, and into the armory. From there a series of heavy doors separated the two parallel stone walls that surrounded the courtyard, a tall inner wall and a shorter outer wall that fronted the cliffs of the firth. The shallow passage between the two walls had been the first line of defense in ancient days, when attacks might be made on the castle from the sea.
Facing the Firth of Clyde, the narrow outer wall of the ramparts stood no more than three feet in height and a foot in thickness. Periodically the wall was notched out into lower sections where the business end of a cannon might be aimed toward the firth to fight off invasion. Should that fail, the inner walls were ten feet in height and more than two feet thick.
Ian motioned for Hero to precede him into the narrow walk of the embattlements and she walked ahead of him holding her hooped skirts up on one side, creating an angle to their bell shape that allowed her to fit down the narrow passage. She trailed her fingers along the top of the firth-side ramparts, lifting them over the gaps as she went.
One … two
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