How the devil did she get in? The old oak door was solid and permanently barred—at least it had been the last time he saw it—to keep out anyone foolish enough to try to venture inside.
She was some foolish local girl, no doubt, here on a Midsummer revel, or she’d climbed the rotting tower on a dare. It had once been a favorite trysting place, especially at this time of year. Did she not understand the danger she was in? Panic gripped him. What if his sisters were also in the tower?
He called out a command in Gaelic to come out before the bloody tower fell on her.
She turned to look down at him, her eyes meeting his, her hair a russet tangle around her face, and he felt a shock pass through him.
She was beautiful.
CHAPTERELEVEN
It was cool inside the tower, and dark. A family of doves cooed among the last few rotting rafters high above, watching Caroline curiously as the she entered. Was that what she’d heard? She shaded her eyes with her hand and looked up at them. Four chicks. Beyond their nest, the roof was open to the sky. There must be other creatures living here as well. The place had a heavy odor of damp and rot, with plenty of dark corners. A massive fireplace took up the entirety of one wall, the dark maw warmed only by a few weak shafts of sunlight now. Save for the fluttering of the doves, and the jaunty whistle of the wind, the tower was silent. There were no children in peril. The thick stone walls blocked out the rest of the world, and Caroline felt oddly safe here. This place had once been a sanctuary, a home, and the echoes of that remained despite years—centuries—of disuse.
She stepped forward, and her skirts rustled over the dry leaves and fallen stones that covered the flagstone floor. Moss fringed everything in green velvet. Light streamed down through broken windows and the missing roof to pool in the center of the floor. She crossed and stood there, felt the ancient place hum around her. Caroline turned in a slow circle, delighted.
A set of crumbling stone steps led upward. At the very top, the light from a narrow window turned the mossy steps to a path of emeralds. The view must be spectacular.
She began to climb. The room dropped below her as she moved higher, and she clung to the cold stone wall and refused to look down. She could hear the cackle of pebbles as they fell from the crumbling steps to the distant floor, but she ignored them, her heart growing lighter the higher she went, the air sweeter. She reached the window at last and paused, breathless, to look out.
The view was indeed wonderful, a sweeping vista down the length of the valley, across the shining loch and up to the very door of the new castle. The valley was green and purple with heather, dotted with yellow and white wildflowers under a brilliantly blue sky. The wind was scented with an intangible perfume that she could almost taste. It made her giddy. She leaned out into the wind, felt it pluck at a loose tendril of hair from the tight knot she’d pinned at the back of her head, stroke it through cool fingers. It felt wonderful. She reached up and took out the pins, and put them in her pocket, and let her hair fly free. How easy it was to believe in magic and true love and old legends here. She was a princess in a fairy tale, and all that was needed was a handsome prince.
An angry male voice yelled something in Gaelic.
Caroline looked down to see a man staring up at her. He had no coat or cravat, and his sleeves were rolled up, revealing muscular forearms. He had his eyes shaded against the sun with one hand, and his dark hair blew in the wind, revealing a wide brow. He yelled again, his voice deep and filled with angry authority. She didn’t recognize him as anyone she’d met at Glenlorne.
“I don’t speak Gaelic,” she called back, and waved him away, not wanting anything or anyone to interrupt this perfect moment.
His jaw dropped. “Good Lord, you’re here already? I suppose the chapel is already set for the wedding too,” he said in English.
Wedding? Caroline blinked at him. Was this some kind of Midsummer trick, to propose to a stranger? She hid a smile. At least he was more pleasant to look at than Mandeville or Speed. A giggle escaped.
“Come down. The tower isn’t safe,” he said, his tone still stern, but coaxing too. With his hand held out to her, she could almost believe he had indeed come for her, a prince who would take her away and marry her. She need only reach out, grasp his hand, and let him carry her off.
“I accept,” she breathed, leaning out the window, caught in the giddiness of the moment, drunk on the perfume of flowers, the silken caress of the wind on her face. He was handsome, or at least she thought he must be. It was hard to tell from her perch so high above him. She leaned still farther out to get a better look, Juliet to his Romeo. He didn’t smile and hold out his arms. His eyes widened in horror.
“Don’t lean any further out the window. I’ll come up and fetch you down. Don’t move!” He was gone then, dashing around the tower out of her sight.
She blinked at the grassy spot where he’d been standing and felt a moment’s disappointment. Perhaps she’d imagined him after all, a fairy king who’d crossed through the veil between the worlds while it was thin at Midsummer. How foolish! She’d do better to go and find the girls, take them back to the castle to dress for tea. If they were late, Countess Devina would scold Caroline, then her daughters, then Caroline again.
She turned to hurry down, watching her feet on the narrow steps. If he had been real, he must have gone for help, thinking she was daft, standing in a rotting tower with her hair wild around her shoulders.
Suddenly he was there before her, standing on the stair below her. She gave a whoop as she nearly crashed into him, and retreated up a few steps. He was indeed handsome—and tall, and broad-shouldered. His white shirt glowed in the dim light of the tower. He stared at her for a moment, his brow furrowed.
“What the devil are you doing?”
Had she heard that voice before? Impossible. He was no one she knew. A man like this one would be hard to forget. She raised her chin. “I was just coming down,” she said in her best lady-of-the-manor tone.
He didn’t move, or step aside to let her pass. He stood there staring at her, his deep gray eyes intent on her face, her hair, sweeping over her body, and pausing. She realized she’d forgotten her skirt was still tucked up. She loosened it with nervous fingers and let it fall, covering her ankles. She straightened her spine, substituting a prim governess look for the lady-of-the-manor expression, though she could feel hot blood filling her cheeks.
He grinned at her, the change of expression sudden, transforming his face from handsome to heart-stopping. Her breath caught in her throat. He was the finest-looking man she’d ever seen. It was the kind of smile that stole a woman’s breath, a lover’s knowing grin. No one had ever looked at her like that—not Sinjon or William, and certainly not Speed or Mandeville. Her heart skipped a beat. Her bodice felt too tight, and it was hard to breathe.
“Are you looking for someone?” she asked, as if he, not she, was the one trespassing.
“I came looking for my sisters. I didn’t expect to see you here. Not so soon, at least.”
Now what did that mean? She swallowed, wondered if he were dangerous. She backed up one more step. “I’m the only one here, I’m afraid. Perhaps you’ll excuse me. I must go.” She waited for him to move, but he stood staring at her instead.
“If you please, I—”
