Page 62 of A Virgin for the Icy Highlander
He hadn’t thought Lilian was capable of a scowl like that. It seemed that, when it came to her friends, the quietest of the group knew how to roar, after all.
“Hunter, you’re scaring me,” Grace muttered, drawing his attention back to her. “What did that man mean?”
Hunter exhaled slowly. “I’ll tell ye everythin’ soon enough, but nae here. Trust me for a short while longer, and ye’ll understand.”
24
It had been a lifetime since Grace had ridden a horse, and she hadn’t been much good at it back then. The motion always made her queasy, the side-saddle position often making her back ache, and it was rare that a horse liked her enough not to throw her off.
But she had neverriddenwithsomeone before.
And I can’t enjoy a moment of it.
She should have been all smiles, pressed close to her future husband, savoring the roll of his hips as he moved with the motion of the horse. Instead, she gripped the pommel of the saddle and pulled herself forward every time she slid back against him. Her hands were sore, and her thighs hurt from sitting astride.
Additionally, she was terrified.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked quietly.
They had been riding for some time, away from the pretty village of Ayrford and out into the sweeping moorland. The shadows of clouds chased each other across the bruised heather and the autumn plumage of grass and plants that dared to grow in such a wild place. The endless undulation of the low hills was disorienting to Grace’s untrained eye.
Maddie was forever scolding her about the importance of having a sense of direction and the means to find her way if she ever got lost, but she couldn’t remember a single thing her friend had taught her.
And I wouldn’t know where to go either. I don’t know which way Castle MacLogan is—or Horndean, for that matter.
“Hunter?” she pressed when he didn’t answer. “I’ll jump down from this horse right now if you don’t tell me where you are taking me.”
He sighed, his warm breath tickling the nape of her neck. “Ye’ll see soon.”
“You say that, but your opinion of ‘near’ and ‘soon’ is not quite the same as mine,” Grace shot back, her nerves fraying. “Why can’t you just tell me what that man meant about his cousin? Surely, we are far enough away from the village now?”
Hunter cleared his throat. “It’s nae about bein’ away from the village.” He paused. “Just have a little more patience.”
Patience…
Her traitorous body tingled at the word. Her stomach twisted into knots that only pleasure could untie. She closed her eyes, imagining it was yesterday and he was standing behind her, his arm wrapped around her, letting her feel the effect she had on him. He had teased her with the threat of abstinence.
Stop that, at once. This isn’t the time.
Her eyes snapped open. The cold autumn wind and the first drizzle of rain cooled her ardor. Until she knew what on earth was going on, she wouldn’t allow herself to think of him with any sort of… temptation, nor would she permit herself to luxuriate inthatmemory.
Come on, Grace. You are a clever woman. You can piece this together.
Ellie had called that man ‘Uncle,’ but the man had mentioned his cousin, not his sister, when he’d delivered that stark remark before departing. Grace had already jumped to the conclusion that the cousin in question was her predecessor, Hunter’s first wife, but she couldn’t get the blood relations to make any sense.
Unless Ellie just callshim ‘Uncle’ for ease, the way Ailis calls Ellie ‘niece’?
She was so invested in trying to figure things out that it took her a moment to see the beauty that had appeared in front of her.
The horse had just crested the rise of a low hill, and down below, sheltered on both sides, was the most magical stream, with a little wooden bridge curving across it. It had been built there just for the whimsy of it, or so it seemed, for a big leap would see most people safely to the other side.
“Oh…” she gasped, noticing the two slender trees that guarded each end of the bridge.
Like the fireflies in the meadow, a miracle seemed to be on display in this mysterious corner of Scotland, for it looked like the trees were in full bloom. The faint breeze rustled the blossoms, but not a single one fell. Nor were there any on the grass, as if the trees were somehow enchanted.
Upon closer inspection, she realized they weren’t blossoms at all, but little pouches of white fabric tied to the branches.
I wonder what they’re for.
