rounded. “You were listening at my door?”
Nae, I was guarding it.
The true answer hung unspoken between them. She needn’t know he was troubled by certain goings-on at Dunroamin and meant to look into them.
Or that he hoped doing so would help him to keep his mind off of her.
His mouth twitched on that impossibility.
The great silvery Kyle would sooner dry up and all the noble peaks of the north slip back into the earth before he could put her from his mind.
She’d bespelled him more thoroughly than that wart-nosed, bent-backed bard of old could have done in his wildest conjuring dreams.
Watching her, he almost laughed at his predicament and would have if he didn’t wish to upset her even more. Seeing her naked had nearly undone him. Feeling her sleek warm skin, all smooth and wet beneath his hands when he’d caught her, was a torture he couldn’t risk again.
If he’d held her a moment longer, even the Dark One’s threats wouldn’t have mattered.
As it was, he’d almost nipped and nuzzled her neck when he’d bent to whisper in her ear. He’d even considered slipping a hand between her legs and using one expertly circling finger to show her the kind of bliss a man could give a woman after seven hundred years of experience.
An urge that was surely responsible for causing one of the hell hags to gurgle a laugh from the shower. In the same moment, he caught a whiff of root-dragon’s breath, its foulness chilling his blood.
He blinked against the lingering steam, certain the Dark One’s hags and dragons wouldn’t sneak so openly into this earthly realm. Yet he swore he saw sharp nails and the flash of a scaly tail.
He shuddered, turning back to Cilla when the image faded.
Even now she tempted him.
Damp, disheveled, and wearing a Dunroamin plaid robe with her name stitched across the breast in ridiculously large letters, she stirred him more than any other lass he’d ever known.
Having seen her naked was a gift .
And a worse burden than the curse that had plagued him for so many centuries.
“So?” She was still staring at him, her gaze intent. “Were you eavesdropping or not?”
He frowned. “I have ne’er done the like in my life. Or thereafter.”
“Oh, that’s right.” She swept her hair behind an ear. “Let’s not forget you’re a ghost.”
The words ripped him. “Would that I could.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’d rather hear what you were doing outside my door.”
Hardwick considered how much he should tell her.
“Two lads carried coffers up here earlier and I followed them.” That was certainly true enough. He just didn’t mention he hadn’t liked the looks of them.
Tall, red-haired, and strapping, they’d struck him as too young, too bonny, and—most damning of all—too alive.
“Coffers?” She’d come closer, her blue eyes rounding.
Hardwick blinked, the two youths forgotten.
“Aye, coffers.” He glanced to where the strong-boxes stood near the shuttered windows. “They looked heavy and—”
“Those aren’t coffers.”
He surveyed them carefully, certain they were.
To his surprise, she laughed.
Not a mocking sort of laugh, but a light and breezy kind that slid through him with ease, warming him in ways that were more than dangerous.
“Those are packing crates full of chipped and cracked porcelain.” She went to stand beside them. “Uncle Mac never throws out anything, and he said I could have them. The boys you saw are Roddie and Robbie, Honoria’s nephews. Aunt Birdie mentioned they do odd jobs around the estate. They brought the crates down from the attic.”
Hardwick’s brows drew together. It annoyed him that she knew the lads’ names. Not to mention so much about their business.
Even more irritating, although he considered himself most enlightened to the ways of her world, he’d never heard of packing crates .
Nor had he suspected that Mac MacGhee’s fortunes had turned so poorly that he’d be forced to give his visiting niece
Nae, I was guarding it.
The true answer hung unspoken between them. She needn’t know he was troubled by certain goings-on at Dunroamin and meant to look into them.
Or that he hoped doing so would help him to keep his mind off of her.
His mouth twitched on that impossibility.
The great silvery Kyle would sooner dry up and all the noble peaks of the north slip back into the earth before he could put her from his mind.
She’d bespelled him more thoroughly than that wart-nosed, bent-backed bard of old could have done in his wildest conjuring dreams.
Watching her, he almost laughed at his predicament and would have if he didn’t wish to upset her even more. Seeing her naked had nearly undone him. Feeling her sleek warm skin, all smooth and wet beneath his hands when he’d caught her, was a torture he couldn’t risk again.
If he’d held her a moment longer, even the Dark One’s threats wouldn’t have mattered.
As it was, he’d almost nipped and nuzzled her neck when he’d bent to whisper in her ear. He’d even considered slipping a hand between her legs and using one expertly circling finger to show her the kind of bliss a man could give a woman after seven hundred years of experience.
An urge that was surely responsible for causing one of the hell hags to gurgle a laugh from the shower. In the same moment, he caught a whiff of root-dragon’s breath, its foulness chilling his blood.
He blinked against the lingering steam, certain the Dark One’s hags and dragons wouldn’t sneak so openly into this earthly realm. Yet he swore he saw sharp nails and the flash of a scaly tail.
He shuddered, turning back to Cilla when the image faded.
Even now she tempted him.
Damp, disheveled, and wearing a Dunroamin plaid robe with her name stitched across the breast in ridiculously large letters, she stirred him more than any other lass he’d ever known.
Having seen her naked was a gift .
And a worse burden than the curse that had plagued him for so many centuries.
“So?” She was still staring at him, her gaze intent. “Were you eavesdropping or not?”
He frowned. “I have ne’er done the like in my life. Or thereafter.”
“Oh, that’s right.” She swept her hair behind an ear. “Let’s not forget you’re a ghost.”
The words ripped him. “Would that I could.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I’d rather hear what you were doing outside my door.”
Hardwick considered how much he should tell her.
“Two lads carried coffers up here earlier and I followed them.” That was certainly true enough. He just didn’t mention he hadn’t liked the looks of them.
Tall, red-haired, and strapping, they’d struck him as too young, too bonny, and—most damning of all—too alive.
“Coffers?” She’d come closer, her blue eyes rounding.
Hardwick blinked, the two youths forgotten.
“Aye, coffers.” He glanced to where the strong-boxes stood near the shuttered windows. “They looked heavy and—”
“Those aren’t coffers.”
He surveyed them carefully, certain they were.
To his surprise, she laughed.
Not a mocking sort of laugh, but a light and breezy kind that slid through him with ease, warming him in ways that were more than dangerous.
“Those are packing crates full of chipped and cracked porcelain.” She went to stand beside them. “Uncle Mac never throws out anything, and he said I could have them. The boys you saw are Roddie and Robbie, Honoria’s nephews. Aunt Birdie mentioned they do odd jobs around the estate. They brought the crates down from the attic.”
Hardwick’s brows drew together. It annoyed him that she knew the lads’ names. Not to mention so much about their business.
Even more irritating, although he considered himself most enlightened to the ways of her world, he’d never heard of packing crates .
Nor had he suspected that Mac MacGhee’s fortunes had turned so poorly that he’d be forced to give his visiting niece
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