Bride Read Free

settled herself.
    A clock ticked. Not loudly—but definitely. She could discern the instrument only as a corner shadow.
    When she moved, the bench creaked.
    The darkness seemed to have a substance, a thickness that settled around her, cool and oppressive—and alive.
    Darkness was not alive; she was not a fanciful woman.
    “Modest, circumspect, pious, and above reproach.” How often had she been complimented on her virtues by Grand-mama's friends?
    Virtues!
The devil take virtues. The time had come to make one last grab for happiness, and Justine was willing—no, glad to toss her virtues to anyone in need of them in exchange for freedom.
    She could stay at Castle Kirkcaldy if she wanted to. No one would be rude enough to tell her she wasn't welcome.
    Ooh, what a moonstruck widgeon she was. She stood up. Why had she thought Struan might be glad to see her? Why had she thought he'd welcome the proposition she'd decided to make him?
    Footsteps sounded on stone outside the castle doors.
    Justine plopped back down and held her breath.
    An echoing grind meant the iron ring handles were being turned. A scrape, followed by a rush of icy air, told Justine someone had opened the doors.
    Why had she dared to come?
    She would hold very still, make not a sound, and return to her rooms the instant she could do so without being seen—by anyone.
    Heavy steps clanged on flagstones. Scrabbling sounded and light flared from a candle atop an ancient chest opposite Justine's hiding place. Before the chest, his back to her, stood a tall, cloaked figure.
    She heard a drawer opening and the rustle of something being removed. Then she heard a low, angry oath and tried to grow at once smaller.
    The man paced out of her sight, then back again, his boots cracking on stone, his cloak swinging away from his powerful shoulders. His voice came to her in a low, rumbling, unintelligible stream. It was Struan's voice.
    Then he stopped pacing and stood, in profile, his sharply defined jaw outlined against the candle's light.
    And this time Justine's heart did stop beating entirely.
    Struan bore with him the very wind that streamed through the still-open doors. The cold air, snapping with scents of moor and mountain and crystal night, flowed about the folds of his cloak and settled in his ruffled black hair.
    Struan, Viscount Hunsingore, appeared a man at one with the night. The flickering flame caught the glitter of eyes as black as his hair and his slanting brows. Shadows found the lean planes of his face, the slash of high cheekbone and straight, narrow-bridged nose. The same flame glimmered on white teeth between flaring, drawn-back lips.
    Night became the man, even when rage made of his features a stark mask. Perhaps especially then.
    She was not herself.
    Without thinking, she walked into the archway to see the man she loved more clearly.
    His head snapped toward her.
    Justine took a backward step and stumbled. The cold had stiffened her leg.
    His eyes narrowed, but then he moved. Swiftly. He strode toward her as she moved farther into the tiny porter's room.
    “My God,” he exclaimed, reaching for her.
    She felt her lips part, but she couldn't form a word.
    His strong hands clasped her waist, lifted her, swung her. Justine was a tall woman, but Struan was so very much taller.
    She was sure he was angry with her. He'd found her spying on him in whatever this trouble was that turned his eyes the shade of devils’ designs.
    He swung her around and up into his arms. “Justine,” was all he said, his voice breaking a little in its depths.
    She still could not speak.
    “I cannot believe this,” he said, holding her against his wide chest.
    Justine dared look no higher than his beautiful mouth. The scents of the untamed Scottish country prickled in her eyes and wrinkled her nose. His hair—longer than when she'd last seen him—curled at the high collar of his cloak.
    At last she managed to say, “I did not mean to startle you.”
    “You almost