self-consciousness such haughty individuals sometimes roused in her.
Then she turned around and her flash of insecurity slid away.
The highly cultured voice belonged to a rather nondescript man somewhere in his fifties. Of slight build, he wore a rumpled suit of light gray and had carefully combed his thinning hair across a bald spot on the top of his head.
And even though he was standing as erect as if he'd swallowed a broom, she topped him by a good three inches.
For once glad of her height, Mara nodded agreement. "Yes, it is amazing. I've never seen anything like it." She glanced at the bed. "Is it Tudor?"
The man rubbed his chin. "Could be, but I suspect it is much older, perhaps fourteenth century. I wouldn't be surprised if it dates back even earlier. It's most unique, the finest piece of medieval furniture you'll find outside a museum."
He studied her with sharp blue eyes. "I'm afraid it's quite dear."
"Oh, I don't want to buy it," Mara said, wishing she could. "I was just admiring it. Do you know its history?"
"Only what I can surmise, Miss… ?"
"McDougall. Mara McDou—" A resounding crash snatched her words, the loud bang reverberating through the room and jarring the glass and porcelain antiques.
Mara froze. Her nerves sprang to life again, and icy little prickles broke out all over her. She looked at the Englishman, but he appeared totally unperturbed.
"It's only the window." He indicated a milky double-hung affair across the room. "It's a bit dodgy and sometimes slams down on its own," he added, arching a brow at her. "I trust it didn't alarm you?"
"No-o-o, not at all," Mara fudged, not about to admit that the noise had set her reeling.
Rubbing her arms, she regretted not wearing a sweater. A jumper as the Brits called it. Sheesh, all of a sudden, she was freezing. Enough that she could hardly believe her teeth weren't chattering.
She hoped she hadn't caught Nellie Hathaway's cold. The ghost-hunting bookkeeper from Pittsburgh had been sneezing without cease ever since they'd spent the night in a cemetery outside Exeter.
"It's a bit cold in here," she said, still trying to rub away her gooseflesh.
" Cold ?" The man gave her a quizzical look. "But it's quite stuffy, my dear." As if to prove it, he produced a white linen handkerchief and dabbed at his brow. "Word is, this is the hottest June we've had in decades."
Mara bit her tongue. Something was seriously wrong. It was so cold, she could hardly think straight. Only an Eskimo would consider the room even halfway warm.
"Allow me to introduce myself," the man was saying, clearly oblivious to her discomfort. "Donald Dimbleby, proprietor, at your service. It is a pleasure to see a young American interested in antiques."
Mara blinked, determined to focus on him and not the room's iciness. "A lot of Americans like antiques."
Donald Dimbleby sniffed. "Ah, but are they interested in a piece's origin and history or merely wanting a quaint bit of Merry Olde to take home with them?"
"I couldn't take home this bed even if I could afford it. I'd have no place to put it," Mara said, thinking of her minuscule Philadelphia apartment.
The massive bed wouldn't fit into her living room and bedroom combined—even if she threw out everything else to make room for it. A pang of pointless regret shot through her at the thought, but she shoved it aside and smoothed her hand along the bedpost again.
To her surprise, it now felt warm beneath her touch.
Slightly heated, and somehow charged… as if a strong electrical current sizzled and leapt beneath the wood's smooth surface.
"You don't know the bed's history?" she asked the proprietor, her fingers tingling.
"Unfortunately, I have not been able to trace its origin. A great pity, as I am certain it has a fascinating background." He pulled a pair of glasses from his pocket and donned them before moving to the elaborately carved headboard.
"Take a look at this." He touched a finger to the graceful swirls of
Then she turned around and her flash of insecurity slid away.
The highly cultured voice belonged to a rather nondescript man somewhere in his fifties. Of slight build, he wore a rumpled suit of light gray and had carefully combed his thinning hair across a bald spot on the top of his head.
And even though he was standing as erect as if he'd swallowed a broom, she topped him by a good three inches.
For once glad of her height, Mara nodded agreement. "Yes, it is amazing. I've never seen anything like it." She glanced at the bed. "Is it Tudor?"
The man rubbed his chin. "Could be, but I suspect it is much older, perhaps fourteenth century. I wouldn't be surprised if it dates back even earlier. It's most unique, the finest piece of medieval furniture you'll find outside a museum."
He studied her with sharp blue eyes. "I'm afraid it's quite dear."
"Oh, I don't want to buy it," Mara said, wishing she could. "I was just admiring it. Do you know its history?"
"Only what I can surmise, Miss… ?"
"McDougall. Mara McDou—" A resounding crash snatched her words, the loud bang reverberating through the room and jarring the glass and porcelain antiques.
Mara froze. Her nerves sprang to life again, and icy little prickles broke out all over her. She looked at the Englishman, but he appeared totally unperturbed.
"It's only the window." He indicated a milky double-hung affair across the room. "It's a bit dodgy and sometimes slams down on its own," he added, arching a brow at her. "I trust it didn't alarm you?"
"No-o-o, not at all," Mara fudged, not about to admit that the noise had set her reeling.
Rubbing her arms, she regretted not wearing a sweater. A jumper as the Brits called it. Sheesh, all of a sudden, she was freezing. Enough that she could hardly believe her teeth weren't chattering.
She hoped she hadn't caught Nellie Hathaway's cold. The ghost-hunting bookkeeper from Pittsburgh had been sneezing without cease ever since they'd spent the night in a cemetery outside Exeter.
"It's a bit cold in here," she said, still trying to rub away her gooseflesh.
" Cold ?" The man gave her a quizzical look. "But it's quite stuffy, my dear." As if to prove it, he produced a white linen handkerchief and dabbed at his brow. "Word is, this is the hottest June we've had in decades."
Mara bit her tongue. Something was seriously wrong. It was so cold, she could hardly think straight. Only an Eskimo would consider the room even halfway warm.
"Allow me to introduce myself," the man was saying, clearly oblivious to her discomfort. "Donald Dimbleby, proprietor, at your service. It is a pleasure to see a young American interested in antiques."
Mara blinked, determined to focus on him and not the room's iciness. "A lot of Americans like antiques."
Donald Dimbleby sniffed. "Ah, but are they interested in a piece's origin and history or merely wanting a quaint bit of Merry Olde to take home with them?"
"I couldn't take home this bed even if I could afford it. I'd have no place to put it," Mara said, thinking of her minuscule Philadelphia apartment.
The massive bed wouldn't fit into her living room and bedroom combined—even if she threw out everything else to make room for it. A pang of pointless regret shot through her at the thought, but she shoved it aside and smoothed her hand along the bedpost again.
To her surprise, it now felt warm beneath her touch.
Slightly heated, and somehow charged… as if a strong electrical current sizzled and leapt beneath the wood's smooth surface.
"You don't know the bed's history?" she asked the proprietor, her fingers tingling.
"Unfortunately, I have not been able to trace its origin. A great pity, as I am certain it has a fascinating background." He pulled a pair of glasses from his pocket and donned them before moving to the elaborately carved headboard.
"Take a look at this." He touched a finger to the graceful swirls of
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