The Duke of Beaumont turned away from the window to eye Ian with open speculation. “Are we indeed?”
Ian nodded. “If it pleases your grace.”
The duke’s brow furrowed. “Are you my son then?”
Ian cast Hero a curious look.
“Papa, Lord Ayr is only saying that we are welcome at Dùn Cuilean and will be treated as part of his family.” She pointed out the window. “See there? You can catch a glimpse of the castle through those trees.”
Hero’s father leaned forward eagerly. “Do you think they have pudding in Scotland?”
“Of course, Papa.” Mikah found herself patting the hand of the older gentleman by her side. Hero’s father. Her father. “Scotland is not so different from England, and Cuilean’s cook is an excellent one.”
“Perhaps a nice treacle then?”
Mikah smiled affectionately. Memories came to mind of the Duke of Beaumont, each as vivid as her memories of her own dad. The realization gave her a moment’s pause. The duke looked nothing like her father. Beaumont was a tall, thick man of about sixty years with a deep, booming voice that suited him perfectly. His face was deeply lined, creased from years of responsibility and solemnity, but his hair was still dark, with less gray than even Ian possessed. While Ian’s dark hair was shorter and combed back from his face, the duke’s hair stood out riotously from his head.
“Glorious castle,” the duke said in an abrupt subject change. “Didn’t you say it has a remarkable dungeon, Daughter?”
“It does, Papa.” Hero glanced back to Ian. “Have you seen the dungeons yet, my lord?”
Dungeons?Mikah wondered, though a mental image immediately followed.
“I have not.” His boyish grin matched her enthusiasm. “I believe my steward mentioned their presence, but I hadn’t thought they were of much note.”
“Oh, but they are!” she rejoined earnestly. “I’ve been telling Papa all about them, about Cuilean and the Firth and the gardens. The dungeons are vastly interesting and quite unlike anything I’ve even read about. You simply must see them.”
“And so we shall. It will be too late to do so when we arrive, but perhaps you might join me for a walk in the morning?” he asked politely. When she nodded, he added, “And perhaps dinner tonight if you’re not too fatigued from our journey?”
Mikah felt a rush of heat in her cheeks and knew Hero was blushing over the masculine appreciation in Lord Ayr’s eyes and voice. Had she been more naïve, a blush may have been her first response as well. Even so, she was positively giddy at the thought of his company tonight, tomorrow, and in the days to come. “Yes, my lord, that would be lovely.”
Turning to look out the window once more, Mikah’s breath caught at the sight of the old castle breaking through the dense trees.
Dùn Cuilean.
Her heart leapt in time with Hero’s.
Home,they thought together, and Hero’s joy mirrored Mikah’s own.
Mikah leaned to the side so she could see out the carriage window more fully, hoping to catch the first glimpse of the entire castle. The dichotomy of thought and feeling was so peculiar. Seeing the castle again.
Seeing it for the first time.
And that summed up the essence of her conundrum. She didn’t feel delusional or insane. Just rather dually occupied. As if she were only—how to put this—mostlyMikah.
And her portion of the mental pie was becoming smaller with every minute that passed.
Chapter Five
Later that evening, Ian stood in the pillared circular hall that marked the center of the castle, waiting for the marchioness to join him for dinner. The sweeping central staircase had become a symbol of the majesty of Dùn Cuilean to him, a visual focal point for the pride that engulfed him whenever he thought about being the Marquess of Ayr. That pride flooded him whenever he put a foot on that first tread or descended them, as he just had.
Dùn Cuilean was a magnificent castle, ancient in history yet glorious. This central hall, for example, was comprised of a wide white marble staircase split halfway up at a landing into two sweeping wings. Both wrapped back around to the first floor, curving along the sides of the oval. On each level, the balustrade was made up of an ornate railing of wrought iron shields upon long spikes that awed visitors with their metaphor of power. Twelve Corinthian columns and arches encircled the oval hall on the ground floor and were topped by Ionic columns on the first floor in a reversal of classic style that emphasized the height of the oval opening all the way to the ceiling some fifty feet above. There, a glass-domed cupola allowed a shaft of light to beam down at the marble floor of the lowest hall as if the place were under the grace of God himself.
To know that it was all his was empowering. Ian felt his chest expand with that knowledge as he waited for Hero. The way she had looked at him during the carriage ride home was just as emboldening, he realized. The attraction between them had been instantaneous and intense. He couldn’t remember ever feeling anything like it.
The urge to touch her, to hold her hand or caress her cheek, overwhelmed. It had been difficult not to act on that attraction, to assume the familiarity he felt. Instead he settled for watching her. Watching her expression as she’d looked out the window of the carriage as Cuilean had come into view had enthralled him. Her anticipation and excitement had been palpable, rousing an answering anticipation in him. But it was her expression when she looked at him that beguiled Ian the most. She looked at him as if he were godlike, like something she’d never seen before, and Ian felt the same when he looked at her. It was intoxicating.
It was magical.
