Love in the Time of a Highland Laird (A Laird for All Time Book 3) by Angeline Fortin (whitelam books .TXT) 📗

at her and she returned the favor. It was like stepping into a living museum, reminding her of a trip she’d taken with her parents to Colonial Williamsburg when she was little. The huge fireplace with spits of meat and iron pots hanging over it. Wooden tables and women in caps and long aprons.

Her guide kept moving and Al followed, absorbing the change from rustic to tidy to elegant as they moved from room to room. Frowning, she scanned the space, trying in vain to absorb her surroundings. Grand halls, velvet drapery. Gilded art works?

It was cool, quiet, and calm. Rather like a museum.

The woman stopped in front of a set of doors and an ancient old man dressed splendidly in a neat kilt and blue coat bowed before opening them.

Stepping aside with a smirk, her guide gestured toward the door. “After ye.”

Chapter 7

Scratching bewilderedly at her matted hair, Al stepped through the doors and stared up in awe at the room within. It was a glorious library at least thirty feet long with towering bookshelves on both sides. Shelves filled from floor to ceiling with leather-bound books of varying thickness. Dazed, she walked slowly into the room, aware of the thick carpets beneath her bare feet and of the frescoed ceiling high above resplendent with cherubs.

Surely it wasn’t his. All those books, the elegance, just didn’t jive with what she’d seen of her captor. She wasn’t even confident he knew how to read.

It must’ve come with the house.

The candles in the wall sconces and chandelier above were all unlit but sunlight filled the room from the bank of floor to ceiling windows dominating the far wall. Drawn by the light and sun she’d been missing for so long, Al wandered that way. Finding a door in the glass, she passed through it only to have her breath taken away.

Beyond the elegant terrace was the most magnificent garden. Not a garden in the manner she’d ever seen. No veggies for sure and in truth, not an overabundance of flowers either. It was a classical English garden with pathways cut across from all sides and corners of the huge walled-in area. They crossed here and there to create the impression of starbursts and pinwheels. All of it converged in the center where a marvelous fountain spouted merrily.

As if that were not splendid enough, the triangles formed by the pathways and the pristine hedgerows lining each side were filled with more hedges cut into elegant twists and twirls that boggled Al’s mind. Sculpted trees rose here and there like classical statuary. And beyond it all, as far as she could see, a wide swatch of trimmed lawn stretched into the distance, separating the woodlands on either side. A body of water filled the picture to the horizon.

She turned back toward the door, her eye drawn up, and then farther upward until she staggered back against the balustrade. Speechless.

It was a castle!

Her dark, dank dungeon had its very own castle. That would mean… No. It wasn’t possible. She returned to the library shaking her head. No, there was no chance her abductor and jailer belonged to a place so elegant and refined.

He was a brute. A bully. A sava—

Al stumbled to a halt as she spotted the man leaning on a desk on the far side of the room near the door. She recognized the massive form but could not reconcile what she saw now with what she knew to be true. He was clean-shaven, every plane of his gorgeous face bared to an even more stunning effect. Gone was the filthy shirt. The ragged and bloodied kilt. In its place was an elegant, thigh-length jacket of gray that hugged his broad shoulders, with dozens of silver buttons lining the front edges. Beneath it, he wore a long vest of silvery gray that appeared to be silk and a knotted linen neckcloth. Matching knee breeches, white stockings that hugged his calves, and shoes with silver buckles. He should have looked ridiculous, but he did not.

But for his wild mop of wavy black hair, he looked almost like a gentleman… and a rather dashing one at that.

An involuntary sigh of pure appreciation escaped her.

He seemed as surprised by her appearance as she was by his, which made no sense. She looked exactly as she had when he’d abandoned her to the dungeons, minus her lab coat. But she was suddenly very aware of her dirty silk blouse hanging untucked over her black skirt. Her bare legs and feet tingled under his raking glance and she couldn’t help fidgeting, shifting to one foot, chafing one calf with the arch of her other.

His surprise fell away into an expression of shock and disgust. She couldn’t blame him there. She was a bit more crusty and far more noxiously fragrant than she’d been before. Then anger descended over his handsome face. It was familiar enough. She’d been privy to that expression before. His eyes narrowed and Al shivered in dread for what was to come next. More chains? Knives? Something worse? Why bring her up here at all and risk ruining the lovely rug on the floor if he could have tortured her with what was available in her cell?

Perhaps he didn’t like the stink down there any more than she did.

Abruptly, he turned on his heel and strode to the door, anger evident in his every step. Throwing it open, he bellowed at the top of his lungs, “Maeve! Tae me now!”

The woman who had escorted her through the castle appeared in haste. So quickly, Al thought she might have anticipated being recalled to the room. A tiny smile lifted the corner of her mouth. She seemed as pleased by his reaction as she’d been upon finding Al in the dungeon, not even flinching when Keir laid into her with a rough stream of what Al could only assume was Gaelic, since the woman had questioned her in it before.

Maeve stood her