My Heart's in the Highlands by Angeline Fortin (ebook reader screen TXT) 📕

Drawing Room?” he asked. The room had once been called thePicture Room, a silly name, Ian had thought when Boyle had givenhim his initial tour of the castle. The Long Drawing Room was along narrow space that was once a part of the Great Hall of theoriginal castle. At the present time, the room held just a fewchairs and small settees for viewing the oils, watercolors, andpastels that engulfed every inch of wall space with their heavilygilded frames. There were some family-oriented portraits, as wellas some portraits of past monarchs, but the bulk were landscapesthat, Ian assumed, had been collected over the course ofgenerations.

He knew absolutely nothing about any of them,but Hero had a spark in her eye that told him she did and liked theidea of being dared to show off her knowledge. He liked that shewasn’t merely some wilting lily. Women of intelligence were farmore intriguing than those who pretended to know nothing … orworse, truly did.

Eager to see more of her spirit, Ianchallenged her to a test of her abilities and offered her his arm,leading her out into the hall and around the staircase to the roomunder discussion, which fronted the castle at the head of thestairs. Stopping just inside the room, Ian pointed to a largelandscape of a loch hung at chest height to the right of the doors.It was perhaps two feet by three in width and seemed rather darkand dreary to him. “This one?”

“An oil on canvas landscape by AlexanderNasmyth, who has been called by some the father of Scottishlandscapes. Untitled and fairly recently done, probably within thelast fifty years,” she said promptly.

“Untitled, hmm?” Ian raised a mischievouslyskeptical brow. “Seems rather convenient to me.”

Hero laughed merrily. “You doubt my skills,Lord Ayr? Choose another then.”

Ian stepped back a pace and scanned the wall,picking out another that seemed nearly indefinable to him. Just anaverage farm scene edged in forests with a little farmhouse andwagon. “That one.”

“Hmm,” Hero considered, drawing closer to thepiece. “Constable for sure. The Hay Wain, I’mcertain. Early 1820s.”

“There.”

“The Gleaning Field. Palmer,1833.”

“This one?”

“Windmills, Montmartre. GeorgesMichel. French, eighteenth century.”

He pointed again and again and began laughinggaily as she shot out the answers without hesitation. “BernardManskirch’s Smiling Village. It should be in a museum, youknow?”

“Perhaps I should just donate them all,” hesaid lightly before pacing a few steps down the wall. Ian shook hishead at the pleasure he was taking in this odd moment. Watching herface light with confidence and deviltry as she displayed herknowledge was as gratifying to him as her more appreciativeglances. Taking joy in such a small thing was new to him. Ian felthe could have stood there all night listening to the laughterlurking behind her scholarly tones. “How about this one?”

It was a night scene of a wooded park done inblues with a couple waltzing in the moonlight. It was a veryromanticized scene. “That’s one of mine,” she whispered softlythen, drawing Ian’s eyes back to her.

“You painted it?”

“No,” she amended. Her expression heldsadness and … longing? Ian wasn’t sure. She went on, “I brought itwith me when I came here. It’s Mongin’s Vue de Marly. It waspainted around the turn of the century. I loved it so much as agirl that Papa let me take it when I married Robert.”

“It’s certainly of a different feel than theother landscapes.”

“Robert thought it romantic twaddle,” shetold him more briskly, stepping back from the painting. “His words,not mine. I always thought it was lovely, if a bit fantastical. Imean, who would actually waltz alone in a moonlit park? It’s such asilly thing.”

“I would if I were dancing with you, Hero.”Ian surprised himself with the husky tone of his voice, if not withhis words, and frowned with no small amount of disgust. Where thosesappy words had come from, he had no idea. He had never consideredhimself a romantic, had never seriously courted a woman—or wantedto—in all his days. Though he had read the great poets, like mostmen he considered voicing a recitation in earnest to be an insultto his manhood.

It just went to show that a man should neversay never. In the right situation, with the right woman, poetry wasno longer mere words but so much more. Inspiration was obviouslythe missing element of his long-held dismissal of “romantictwaddle,” as Hero had called it moments ago, and she was a mostinspiring lady.

Still, it was an affront to his principles tospout such nonsense to a woman he’d just met. Ian shook his head toclear the thickening webs of desire away but they clung to himtenaciously. Aye, and wouldn’t that be just the thing to prompt herto leave Cuilean? The unwanted attentions of a man Hero considereda cousin.

But did she? Ian studied Hero through heavylids as she rubbed her palms down her skirts. She looked uncertain,with her brilliant eyes wide, but not chagrined by his words.

Heavy silence fell around them but it was notas weighty as the desire that was pulling at him. Hero was solovely in the candlelight cast by the wall sconces. Her golden hairgleamed, her skin shone like ivory, her lips were moist and full.The shadows ebbed and peaked over the swell of her breasts withevery breath she took. Ian wanted nothing more than to take her inhis arms and to press those delicious curves against him, to feelthose breasts well against his chest. He wanted to touch thoselips. Make love to them—nay, worship them—with his own.

What he wanted most was to know that thedesire to do so was mutual.

Hero’s pulse beat visibly along her long neckas she stared at him in surprise, making him believe that it was.If he ran a finger along that line, Ian wondered, would he find itfluttering as madly as his own? Whether her eyes were wide withexcitement or the fear of a deer ready to bolt, Ian wasn’t certain.Clearing his throat uncomfortably, Ian took a pace back in anattempt to break the spell. “You mentioned you enjoy the rampartsas well. Would you care for a stroll before we retire for theevening?”

A deep sigh escaped her. Disappointment?Gratitude? Ian wished he knew.

“Thank you,