How to Marry a Highlander Read Free

her kiss .
    After that, if she were condemned to spend the remainder of her days in Harrows Court Crossing as the wife of a man she did not like, at least she would have the comfort of knowing she had burned hot and bright for one glorious moment.

 

C HAPTER T WO
----
    S unlight peeked through the smudged windowpane, warming the Indian cotton stretched over his shoulders. But Duncan, seventh Earl of Eads, did not move to draw the drapes or open his eyes to appreciate the weather. It mattered nothing to him if the London day shone or fogged or rained. Nor did it concern him if the sounds issuing from the street below his flat were the clatter of hooves and carriage wheels or the shouts of street vendors.
    All had fallen away, the present world a vanishing shadow only. With eyes closed, back straight, and legs crossed, he remained still, seeking his center. Deep within, in harmony and acceptance with all the creatures of the universe, peace awaited him. Like the petals of a flower, held close yet ready to spread with the touch of the morning sun, the core of his being—
    “Lily! What’ve ye done wi’ ma pink ribbon?”
    “I’ve no touched yer silly ribbon, Effie.”
    “I’ll pull out yer hair if ye’ve ruined it.”
    The swish of skirts .
    Duncan slowly drew air into his lungs with the power of the muscles in his abdomen.
    Slippered footsteps .
    “If ye havena got it, then who has?”
    “Mebbe ye lost it when ye stopped to flirt wi’ those soldiers?”
    “I didna flirt.” Giggle . “I chatted.”
    In tiny increments, Duncan released the breath, holding steady to his concentration, steady and still and—
    “Aye, ye flirted. Deny it if ye will, but I’ll no be believing ye.”
    Another giggle . “There be no harm in flirting, Lily. ’Tis interesting.”
    “If yer wishing for something interesting, ye might open a wee book once in a while.” Creak of a chair . Flutter of a page turning . “Both o’ ye.”
    “Then we wouldna need the ribbons, nou, would we, Abigail?” Laughter .
    Breathe in. Slow, steady, smooth—
    “Moira?” Firm strides between the parlor and bedchamber . “What did ye do wi’ the bill from the fabric shop yesterday?”
    “We’d do better to be storing up prayers than dresses to help us all find husbands, Sorcha.”
    Slow breaths. Seeking serenity. Seeking peace. Breaths as light as feathers yet deep as—
    “No one asked ye, Elspeth, so keep yer sermons to yerself.”
    “Confess, Lily.” Dainty toe tapping . “Ye hid ma ribbon.”
    “I didna, I tell ye. Did I, Una?”
    “Dinna drag me into yer disputes.” Chuckle . “I’ve no got the talent for it.”
    “Moira, the bill?”
    “What’re ye reading anyway, Abby?”
    “Byron, that immoral—”
    “Byron’s poetry isna immoral, Elspeth. ’Tis romantic.” Waft of fragrance . “Here be the bill, Sorcha. I sewed the sleeves this morn.”
    “Thank ye, Moira.”
    Breathe.
    “Ma pink ribbon!”
    “Told ye I didna take it.”
    Deeper.
    “Ye’d best stow it away till ye’ve guid cause to wear it, Effie.” Firm steps . “There willna be new ribbons or dresses or anything else—”
    “Till a miracle brings us all husbands.”
    “ Quiet !”
    Duncan’s roar echoed through the tiny flat.
    Every light feminine footstep went silent. Not a breath stirred except his own, tight and shallow.
    Lily giggled. Or perhaps Effie. His youngest sisters, twins, sounded identical to him, even after eighteen months living under the same roof.
    But at home in Castle Eads, with plenty of space and too much work, he’d rarely seen his sisters. He’d rarely seen the chilblains on their hands when the hearths were empty and ice clung to the insides of rotted doors. He’d rarely seen the patches in their gowns, the holes in the toes of their shoes, and the dirt beneath their fingernails from laboring as no nobleman’s sisters should. And he’d rarely seen their hollow cheeks when dinner was nothing more than mutton broth and barley