Pleasured Read Free

buildings ahead. Is that part of Duncally?”
    Damon craned his neck in the direction Lynette was looking and chuckled. “No, that’s not Duncally, not even the gatehouse. You’ll know Duncally when you see it.”
    “But how? I’ve never been there before.” Lynette spokewith a shyness that never failed to send a pang of regret and guilt through him.
    He smiled at her. “You will see.”
    “Is it like Edinburgh Castle?”
    “No, it’s not grim. It looks—oh, like a castle on the Rhine, I suppose. Or a drawing in a book. My grandfather apparently had a sense of the dramatic. Those buildings you see ahead are, I suspect, the village nearest the castle. Kincannon, Kenkilling, something like that.”
    “Kinclannoch,” Lynette corrected him, then looked a trifle abashed. “I looked it up when I learned we were coming here.”
    “Yes, you are right. Kinclannoch. Not a very prepossessing village.”
    “No. But look at the thatched roofs. They’re quaint, aren’t they?”
    “Yes. I can see you are prepared to like the place.”
    “Yes, I am.” His daughter blushed faintly. “Are we Scots, then?”
    “I suppose. Partly. My grandmother, your great-grandmother, was Scottish, the last of her line. The Countess of Mardoun in her own right, so when she married, the title came to her husband, Lord Rutherford, and then to their son. But Grandfather was English, of course, and my mother, as well.”
    “And mine.” Lynette sighed. “So I am only . . . an eighth Scottish?”
    He nodded. “You sound disappointed.”
    “A little.” Color tinged her cheeks. “It seems very romantic. Tragic Queen Mary, fleeing with Bothwell and riding through the night. Bonnie Prince Charlie.”
    “Also fleeing. Not exactly comfortable fates.”
    “No. I suppose not.”
    “But decidedly exciting.”
    Damon was rewarded by the way her delicate face lit up again. “But, look, we are stopping. Is this an inn? Will we not reach Duncally today?”
    “No, it’s not far. I suspect the coachman’s gone to ask directions. The roads are rather ill marked.” He leaned across to look out the curtains on the opposite side of the carriage. His hand stilled on the drapery.
    A woman stood across the narrow street, chatting with a young gentleman. She was attired in a simple blue cotton dress, a little too low-waisted to be fashionable, and not even a ruffle around the skirt for adornment—but then, that sweetly curved body needed no adornment. Her arms below the short cap sleeves were bare—white and soft and shapely—and she wore no gloves. Her head, too, was bare and, in the glint of the afternoon sun, was a riot of thick, red curls. Her face was heart-shaped, with rounded cheeks and a firm little chin.
    She turned and looked toward the carriage and her eyes met Damon’s. For an instant it seemed as if his heart stopped. Her eyes were glorious—large and wide set and rimmed with thick, dark lashes, and their color was stunning, a brown so light, so clear, they appeared golden.
    “Oh, Papa, look at that lady,” his daughter said in a hushed tone. “Isn’t she beautiful?”
    “Yes,” he agreed, his voice a trifle husky. “Yes, she is.”

    Meg Munro turned toward the noise of horses’ hooves, and her eyebrows rose at the sight of the elegant black vehicle and matched team of four coal-black horses. “Look at that.”
    Beside her, Gregory Rose looked in the same direction. “Well, well.”
    “The Earl of Mardoun, do you think?”
    “I’d guess. All of Kinclannoch has been buzzing ever since his staff arrived last week. Still, I never thought he would actually come. Ah, look, the lord is surveying the peasants.”
    A man’s face appeared in the carriage window. Thick, black hair swept back from a square-jawed face, his skin as fair as his hair was dark, his eyes under the prominent ridge of his brow echoing the jet black of his hair. Arrogance and boredom colored his expression in equal measure, but neither could detract