bobbed in a fireplace. A sword and dagger hung over the mantle. The blades pointed toward an antique bowl and pitcher sitting on a small table between an open door in the corner of the room and the floor-length curtains opposite her.
She leaned forward and peered around the door. An ornate four-poster bed stood against the left wall, gray draperies swaged between posts. The burgundy quilt that covered the bed was turned back as if in invitation to crawl between the snow-white sheets. An odd sense of familiarity nudged. Had she been here before?
Hairs on the back of her neck rose to attention. She swung her gaze to the right and sucked in a breath. A man stood in the corner doorway. Intense brown eyes stared back at her just as they had that afternoon when she’d seen him standing in the main entrance of Castle Morrison.
Butterflies tickled the inside of her stomach. Standing this close, she wanted to run her fingers through the tousled dark curls that brushed his shoulders. Low firelight softened the square jaw shadowed by stubble. The green and red checked sash that had draped his shoulders earlier now hung loosely about a kilt held in place by a thick leather belt and buckle. A crisp, white shirt stretched taught across his muscled chest. Margot released a silent breath. Memory hadn’t done him justice. He seemed taller, broader…more dangerous.
His eyes narrowed. “How did ye get here?”
Despite the soft burr that caressed her like a summer breeze heavy with damp heat, she couldn’t miss the recrimination in his voice. She didn't know how she’d gotten here, any more than she knew how he had appeared in the painting of the castle that hung over the fireplace in her room. When she'd arrived at Castle Morrison that afternoon he hadn't been in the picture. But she'd woken from her nap two hours later to see him standing in the main entrance, his expression of anticipation painted in exquisite detail. He’d been waiting for someone. A woman, she realized.
“Did your lady friend show up?”
Surprise flashed in his eyes, but vanished in thin-lipped disapproval. “You will return from whence ye came, if you have any sense about you—” his tone suggested she had no sense, “—and quickly.”
His gaze raked her body, and she glanced down at the gold colored, satin pajamas she’d worn to bed. Her nipples stood at attention. Tit for tat, she figured, and shifted her gaze past the kilt to his bare legs. Her pulse skittered. She’d heard that Scots didn’t wear underwear under kilts. No doubt about it, underwear or no underwear, that outfit would get him arrested in her hometown of Woodville, Mississippi. The entire population, a whopping one thousand, two hundred and fifteen, would show up, Bibles in one hand, rifles in the other, to ensure he dressed as every God fearing person was meant to dress.
“I felt certain you had more sense than the others,” he said, then added in a mutter, “Foolish girl.”
“What others? You know me?”
“If you believe he will let ye escape—”
Awareness zipped up her spine. She glanced sharply behind her through the open door.
“What is amiss?” he demanded.
The faint crash of waves caught her attention and she looked to the curtains at the far side of the room. Memory struck a cord. She had been here before—or in the castle, that is. This was Castle Morrison. She’d arrived that afternoon. Desire ripped through her.
Margot yanked her attention back onto the man. “You wouldn’t be dabbling in bayou magic, would you, sugar?”
She’d never put much stock in the black magic the women back home secretly practiced, but neither had she felt anything mess with her insides like that.
“Magick?” he repeated.
Unease brought the hairs on the back of her neck to attention. “You stay right there,” she ordered, and turned back to the hall.
Margot glanced right, then left, and spotted another door up ahead on the right. Well, damn, another door had magically
She leaned forward and peered around the door. An ornate four-poster bed stood against the left wall, gray draperies swaged between posts. The burgundy quilt that covered the bed was turned back as if in invitation to crawl between the snow-white sheets. An odd sense of familiarity nudged. Had she been here before?
Hairs on the back of her neck rose to attention. She swung her gaze to the right and sucked in a breath. A man stood in the corner doorway. Intense brown eyes stared back at her just as they had that afternoon when she’d seen him standing in the main entrance of Castle Morrison.
Butterflies tickled the inside of her stomach. Standing this close, she wanted to run her fingers through the tousled dark curls that brushed his shoulders. Low firelight softened the square jaw shadowed by stubble. The green and red checked sash that had draped his shoulders earlier now hung loosely about a kilt held in place by a thick leather belt and buckle. A crisp, white shirt stretched taught across his muscled chest. Margot released a silent breath. Memory hadn’t done him justice. He seemed taller, broader…more dangerous.
His eyes narrowed. “How did ye get here?”
Despite the soft burr that caressed her like a summer breeze heavy with damp heat, she couldn’t miss the recrimination in his voice. She didn't know how she’d gotten here, any more than she knew how he had appeared in the painting of the castle that hung over the fireplace in her room. When she'd arrived at Castle Morrison that afternoon he hadn't been in the picture. But she'd woken from her nap two hours later to see him standing in the main entrance, his expression of anticipation painted in exquisite detail. He’d been waiting for someone. A woman, she realized.
“Did your lady friend show up?”
Surprise flashed in his eyes, but vanished in thin-lipped disapproval. “You will return from whence ye came, if you have any sense about you—” his tone suggested she had no sense, “—and quickly.”
His gaze raked her body, and she glanced down at the gold colored, satin pajamas she’d worn to bed. Her nipples stood at attention. Tit for tat, she figured, and shifted her gaze past the kilt to his bare legs. Her pulse skittered. She’d heard that Scots didn’t wear underwear under kilts. No doubt about it, underwear or no underwear, that outfit would get him arrested in her hometown of Woodville, Mississippi. The entire population, a whopping one thousand, two hundred and fifteen, would show up, Bibles in one hand, rifles in the other, to ensure he dressed as every God fearing person was meant to dress.
“I felt certain you had more sense than the others,” he said, then added in a mutter, “Foolish girl.”
“What others? You know me?”
“If you believe he will let ye escape—”
Awareness zipped up her spine. She glanced sharply behind her through the open door.
“What is amiss?” he demanded.
The faint crash of waves caught her attention and she looked to the curtains at the far side of the room. Memory struck a cord. She had been here before—or in the castle, that is. This was Castle Morrison. She’d arrived that afternoon. Desire ripped through her.
Margot yanked her attention back onto the man. “You wouldn’t be dabbling in bayou magic, would you, sugar?”
She’d never put much stock in the black magic the women back home secretly practiced, but neither had she felt anything mess with her insides like that.
“Magick?” he repeated.
Unease brought the hairs on the back of her neck to attention. “You stay right there,” she ordered, and turned back to the hall.
Margot glanced right, then left, and spotted another door up ahead on the right. Well, damn, another door had magically
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