Kiss of the Highlander
Page 58

She took a deep breath, sorting through her thoughts. She’d left the States because she despised her life. She’d embarked upon a trip to Scotland to lose her virginity, see if she had a heart, and shake up her world.
Well, she’d certainly accomplished all her goals.
No simple cherry picker for me, she thought. I get a time-traveling genius who comes with a world of problems and sends me back through time to fix them.
Not that she minded.
She’d decided the words soul mate and Drustan MacKeltar were synonymous. She’d finally met a man who made her feel with an intensity she’d never imagined, was brilliant, yet wasn’t cold in his brilliance. He knew how to tease and be warm and passionate. He found her beautiful, and he was a phenomenal, erotic lover. Simply, she’d met the perfect man and lost him, all in three days. He’d awakened more emotions in her in that short time than she’d felt in her entire life.
Slowly, she opened her eyes. Although the room was dim, the muted golden light of a fire spilled about the chamber. She blinked at the profusion of purple surrounding her, then recalled Drustan’s fascination with the purple running suits in Barrett’s. His insistence on purple trews or a T-shirt, a request she’d refused.
That sealed it. She was definitely in Drustan’s world now.
A sumptuous violet velvet coverlet was tucked beneath her chin. Above her, a lavender canopy of sheer gauzy stuff draped the elegantly carved cherry bed. A lilac sheepskin—oh really, she thought, I know there are no lilac sheep—was spread across her feet. Purple pillows with silver braided trim were strewn about the headboard.
Small curio tables were draped in orchid and plum silks. Brilliant plum and black tapestries in complicated patterns adorned the two tall windows, and between them hung an enormous ornate gilt-framed mirror. Two chairs were arranged before the windows, centered around a table that held silver goblets and plates.
Purple, she mused, with sudden insight. Such an electrifying, energetic man would naturally choose to surround himself with the color that had the highest frequency in the spectrum.
It was a hot color, vivid and erotic.
Like the man himself.
She pressed her nose into the pillow, hoping to catch his scent in the linens, but if he’d slept in this bed it had been too long ago, or the coverings had been changed. She turned her attention to the frame of the exquisitely carved bed in which she lay. The headboard had numerous drawers and cubbyholes. A sweeping footboard was etched with delicate Celtic knotwork. She’d seen a bed like it once before.
In a museum.
This one was as new as anything one might find in a modern-day furniture gallery. Raking her bangs out of her face, she continued surveying the room. Knowing she was in the sixteenth century and seeing it were two very different things. The walls were fashioned of pale gray stone, the ceiling was high, and there were none of those moldings or baseboards that always looked so out of place in “renovated” castles frequented by tourists. Not one outlet, not one lamp, merely dozens of glass bowls filled with oil, topped by fat, blackened wicks. The floor was planked of honey-blond wood, polished to a high sheen, with rugs scattered about. A lovely chest sat near the foot of the bed, topped with a pile of folded blankets. More cushioned chairs were arranged before the fire. The fireplace was fashioned of smooth pink stone, with a massive hewn mantel above it. In it, a peat fire steamed, sheaths of heather stacked atop the dried bricks scenting the room. All in all, it was a deliciously warm room, rich and luxurious.
She glanced at her wrist to see what time it was, but apparently her watch had wafted off into the same quantum foam that had devoured her clothing and backpack. She was momentarily distracted by the garment she was wearing: A long, sheer white chemise edged with lace, it looked positively old-fashioned and frivolous.
She shook her head, swung her legs over the edge of the bed, and felt painfully short when her toes dangled a foot above the floor. With an exasperated hop, she dropped down out of the high bed and hurried to the window. She pulled the tapestry aside to find the sun shining brightly beyond the paned windows. She fumbled with the latch a moment, then pushed it open and breathed deeply of the fragrant air.
She was in sixteenth-century Scotland. Wow.
Beneath her stretched a lovely terraced courtyard, enclosed by the four inner walls of the wing of the castle she was in. Two women were beating rugs against the stones, chatting as they kept an eye on a gaggle of children kicking a lopsided sort of ball about. She peered at it, squinting. Eeew, she thought, recalling that Bert had said he’d read that medieval children had played with balls fashioned from bladders of animals and such.