a short while later, Murdoch returned to escort her to her room. Pleasantly full after her dinner of soup and oatcakes, she pushed to her feet, the cook and her rantings forgotten.
She was already drowsy from the long journey, and the hearty soup had soothed her nerves. The two drams of fine Talisker whisky she hadn't been able to resist had her yearning for bed.
Her bed.
The wonderfully romantic medieval four-poster she'd fallen in love with in London. She smiled as the steward led her up a winding turnpike stair and then through a maze of dim, musty corridors.
On and on they went until, at last, he stopped before a gleaming oak door. "Nights can be cold here," he said as he opened it. "One of the maids will have put a goonie and a hot-water bottle on the bed for you."
Mara started, hearing only one word. " A goonie ?"
"A long flannel nightgown," Murdoch translated.
"Oh." Feeling a bit foolish and more relieved than she cared to admit, Mara stepped into the room.
A surprisingly icy room.
Not that its cold mattered, with her new bed standing against the far wall, beautifully dressed and turned down in welcome. She could see the promised hot-water bottle making a lump beneath the covers and a carefully folded white gown waited for her on top of the bed's richly embroidered covers.
Murdoch came in behind her. "We call this the Thistle Room because of the thistles decorating the ceiling."
Mara nearly choked, her glance shooting upward.
Sure enough, thistles were everywhere. But the intricate plasterwork looking down at her had nothing in common with her carefully stenciled thistles back home at One Cairn Avenue in Philadelphia.
"You'll have the best view of the sea from here." Murdoch indicated a row of tall windows to the left of her bed. "And you'll have a fire every night," he added, glancing toward a fireplace across the room. "We use wood fires in most of the castle, but, as an American, we thought you'd enjoy the smell o' peat?"
Too cold to think straight, Mara just nodded. "It does smell nice—dark and sweet, exactly as I imagined."
The peats glowed a fine, cheery red, too. But to her shivering regret, the fire's warmth seemed too feeble to dispel the room's cold.
Already chill bumps were rising on her arms.
"I can douse the fire if you prefer?" Murdoch cocked a brow. "It does make the room a bit overwarm."
"No-o-o, I'm comfortable," Mara lied, declining his offer.
What she needed was about a wheelbarrow more peat tossed onto the hearthstone.
Trying not to let her teeth clatter, she rubbed her arms. If the steward didn't soon leave to let her crawl into her bed, she'd grow icicles.
Silently willing him to go, she glanced at the four-poster, pleased to see that the night table held an electric tea maker and a plate of shortbread. She smiled. A steaming cup of tea would be just the thing to warm her.
"If there's nothing else you'll be needing, I'll be leaving you," Murdoch said, moving at last toward the door. "Sleep well."
"I'm sure I will," Mara told him, hoping her relief didn't show.
Or her great weariness.
Half afraid she wouldn't even make it to her bed before sleep overcame her, she closed the door behind him and turned around.
Then she screamed.
The hottie Scottie from Dimbleby's lounged upon the bed!
Some ancient-looking plaid slung over his shoulder, he lay back against the pillows, his long, muscular legs crossed at the ankles.
And, if it were possible, he regarded her with an even more insolent smirk than he'd worn in London.
The smirk made her mad. Angry enough to overlook his incredible masculine beauty, the way her knees turned to water despite her shock and annoyance.
She glared at him. "What are you doing here?"
"Guarding my bed—as I told you I do."
"The bed is mine," she objected, disbelief coursing through her. "I bought it and you can get yourself out of it. Now!"
But he only folded his arms behind his neck and stared back at her. "I think not, wench."
" Wench ?"
She was already drowsy from the long journey, and the hearty soup had soothed her nerves. The two drams of fine Talisker whisky she hadn't been able to resist had her yearning for bed.
Her bed.
The wonderfully romantic medieval four-poster she'd fallen in love with in London. She smiled as the steward led her up a winding turnpike stair and then through a maze of dim, musty corridors.
On and on they went until, at last, he stopped before a gleaming oak door. "Nights can be cold here," he said as he opened it. "One of the maids will have put a goonie and a hot-water bottle on the bed for you."
Mara started, hearing only one word. " A goonie ?"
"A long flannel nightgown," Murdoch translated.
"Oh." Feeling a bit foolish and more relieved than she cared to admit, Mara stepped into the room.
A surprisingly icy room.
Not that its cold mattered, with her new bed standing against the far wall, beautifully dressed and turned down in welcome. She could see the promised hot-water bottle making a lump beneath the covers and a carefully folded white gown waited for her on top of the bed's richly embroidered covers.
Murdoch came in behind her. "We call this the Thistle Room because of the thistles decorating the ceiling."
Mara nearly choked, her glance shooting upward.
Sure enough, thistles were everywhere. But the intricate plasterwork looking down at her had nothing in common with her carefully stenciled thistles back home at One Cairn Avenue in Philadelphia.
"You'll have the best view of the sea from here." Murdoch indicated a row of tall windows to the left of her bed. "And you'll have a fire every night," he added, glancing toward a fireplace across the room. "We use wood fires in most of the castle, but, as an American, we thought you'd enjoy the smell o' peat?"
Too cold to think straight, Mara just nodded. "It does smell nice—dark and sweet, exactly as I imagined."
The peats glowed a fine, cheery red, too. But to her shivering regret, the fire's warmth seemed too feeble to dispel the room's cold.
Already chill bumps were rising on her arms.
"I can douse the fire if you prefer?" Murdoch cocked a brow. "It does make the room a bit overwarm."
"No-o-o, I'm comfortable," Mara lied, declining his offer.
What she needed was about a wheelbarrow more peat tossed onto the hearthstone.
Trying not to let her teeth clatter, she rubbed her arms. If the steward didn't soon leave to let her crawl into her bed, she'd grow icicles.
Silently willing him to go, she glanced at the four-poster, pleased to see that the night table held an electric tea maker and a plate of shortbread. She smiled. A steaming cup of tea would be just the thing to warm her.
"If there's nothing else you'll be needing, I'll be leaving you," Murdoch said, moving at last toward the door. "Sleep well."
"I'm sure I will," Mara told him, hoping her relief didn't show.
Or her great weariness.
Half afraid she wouldn't even make it to her bed before sleep overcame her, she closed the door behind him and turned around.
Then she screamed.
The hottie Scottie from Dimbleby's lounged upon the bed!
Some ancient-looking plaid slung over his shoulder, he lay back against the pillows, his long, muscular legs crossed at the ankles.
And, if it were possible, he regarded her with an even more insolent smirk than he'd worn in London.
The smirk made her mad. Angry enough to overlook his incredible masculine beauty, the way her knees turned to water despite her shock and annoyance.
She glared at him. "What are you doing here?"
"Guarding my bed—as I told you I do."
"The bed is mine," she objected, disbelief coursing through her. "I bought it and you can get yourself out of it. Now!"
But he only folded his arms behind his neck and stared back at her. "I think not, wench."
" Wench ?"
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