Her fingers still tucked in the crook of Ian’s arm, they followed at a more leisurely pace. In truth, she was in no hurry to relinquish her hold on Ian. The strength of him beneath her fingers and the power of his body when her shoulder brushed against his arm tantalized her. She’d never feared strong men—her father, while not so tall, was very powerfully built—but she’d never seen the appeal in a large man before either. Robert had been barrel-like in build, and most men of her acquaintance were either similar in stature, running to fat, or far more wiry. Ian was neither burly nor lean but rather settled nicely between. He was so very masculine in form, tall and muscular with a fine military bearing, yet it was a force she felt he kept tightly reined. She felt very feminine by his side, protected without being overpowered.
Far from being comforted by his presence, she instead hovered on the precipice of expectancy. She’d felt a rush of embarrassment earlier when she’d admitted to Ian that at Cuilean she’d always felt as if something were about to happen, yet he left her feeling the same way. Eager. A bit intoxicated by the anticipation.
Waiting for something to happen.
Wanting it to happen.
Not knowinghowto make it happen.
She’d had but one Season before her father had accepted the Marquess of Ayr’s proposal on her behalf. One Season to flirt with other men; a skill that took far more practice than she’d been allowed. After that, she’d been whisked away to Dùn Cuilean and had been content to remain here but for their annual trips to London, Edinburgh, and Balmoral.
Now she wished she were better practiced in the art of flirtation so that she might respond in kind to Ian’s light repartee and further encourage him. She searched her mind for a topic that might interest him but found herself floundering helplessly.
Thankfully, as if sensing her sudden discomfort, Ian broke the silence. “Why does your father refer to you as ‘daughter’ or ‘girl’ rather than calling you by name?”
Grateful to have the dilemma taken from her hands—even though it was definitely not a provocative subject—Hero answered, “I think it is so that he does not inadvertently call me by another name. In the past year, I’ve been called Viola, Portia, Juliet, and even Valerie. My sisters and my mother,” she added at his puzzled look. “I think it is Papa’s way of being correct even when he is confused, and perhaps a way of holding on to the present as well. I look very much like my mother. While I believe Papa enjoys being with me, I sometimes have to wonder if that resemblance bothers him.”
“Were they very close?”
“In truth, I don’t know,” she said and added honestly, “I like to think so.”
Ian didn’t press her further on what might be an uncomfortable topic but instead said, “Tell me what else you know about Cuilean.”
He really did have a rare talent for putting a person at ease, and the subject was a favorite one. “Dùn Cuilean was built as a stronghold in the early fifteenth century. Its name means cave fortress or some combination of the words. It is an excellent location to defend.”
“A frightfully tall cliff does give an advantage.”
“Yes, it does. The original fortress was actually just the tower and the building that now houses the laundry and stables on the north side of the courtyard. The main part of the castle today was built in the sixteenth century and added on to just fifty to sixty years ago, as we talked about last night, bringing the castle to its current size.” She paused, then added, “When I was first brought here as a bride, I was astounded by the size and age of the castle, having been raised solely in London and having left that city only for house parties and weekends in nearby manors or for trips to Bath or Brighton. I was used to the Georgian style of architecture and unprepared for Cuilean’s fairytale proportions, but it swept me away.”
When she’d first come here and witnessed the castle, she had fallen completely in love with Cuilean.
And never stopped loving it.
Staying away for the past year had been heartbreaking, but it wasn’t her home any longer, her mother had insisted. It wasn’t her place.
That hadn’t stopped Hero from returning with the hope that the new marquess would let his predecessor’s widow remain, but she had never imagined that successor would be a man like Ian Conagham.
They reached the pond and Ian paused on the shaded banks and turned to her. She stared up at him, taking in the rugged lines of his face. Her fingers itched to dip into those long dimples, while her body tingled with the urge to press against his. In just a pair of days, there had been so many small moments such as this already. Brief moments of intimacy, the brush of a hand, the tender looks, and that all-too-brief kiss. She wanted so much more, which should have seemed ridiculous given the length of their acquaintance, but again Hero couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d known him much longer. That he’d been with her always. He haunted her dreams, lingering just outside the boundaries of reality before, but was now by her side.
“I’m glad it pleases you so much to be home.”
It pleased her more that she shared that home with him.
“I can never thank you enough for allowing it.”
“Believe me, Hero, it is my greatest pleasure to have you here.” The suggestive tone of his low brogue left her eyes wide but not wary. Instead, they were bright and expectant, he thought. Anticipation, she’d said. That she was waiting for something to happen. He was waiting as well, but where she indicated something more mysterious, he knew exactly what he was waiting for.
He pulled her beneath the hanging branches of a nearby willow and lifting her hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to her palm. Then to the inside of her wrist. “I’d like to kiss you again.” She didn’t respond but only stared up at him. Her lips were parted and moist and he swore he could see her pulse beating rapidly at the base of her throat. “Have you no response?”
“You are,” she whispered. “Kissing me that is.”
A dash of humor lifted his lips. “Aye, but not as I would prefer.”
“My lord—”
“Ian,” he reminded her huskily, leaning in until she was pressed back against the tree trunk. The scent of her, warm and musky from the heat with just a hint of lemon, filled him. She smelled as much like summertime as she looked. He ran a finger along the edge of her neckline, up until his fingers brushed against the length of her neck. Her skin was damp and warm, her pulse fluttering as wildly as he had thought. Unable to refrain, he brushed his lips across the spot and whispered in her ear, “Have you not thought on it at all since last night?” Her soft intake of breath stirred against his cheek but when she remained silent, he persisted. “Do you deny it, Hero, when you did little more than torture me all night?”
Her fingers skimmed along his jaw leaving him as suddenly shaky as her quivering exhale. “Did I? Oh, Ian…”
