Scottish Brides Read Online Free PDF Page B

smell of ancient cloth and old memories.
    Then, as Hadden paced, she pulled out the carefully folded plaids. The MacAllister tartan, the MacNeill tartan, the Ross tartan. All tartans of the families that had, at one time or another, married into the MacNachtans.
    But no MacNachtan tartan, and certainly no marriage kilt.
    She shook her head at the hovering Hadden, and he strode away from her.
    Carefully, she replaced them and covered them with the paper.
    Then, from a distance, she heard the hollow, eerie sound of . . . voices? Swinging around, she demanded, “What was that?”
    â€œYour mice.” He stood frowning at a tall end table as if its location annoyed him.
    Though she strained, she could hear no more. An errant breeze ruffled her hair, and she relaxed. Of course. She could hear the servants speaking from down in the courtyard.
    She moved to the next trunk while, behind her, Hadden dragged something along the floor, entertaining himself in some manly furniture rearrangement. She didn’t care, as long as he didn’t hover.
    The scraping noise stopped, and the back of her neck prickled. Glancing behind, she saw him, lingering too closely for comfort, and she glared.
    He glared back, then swung away, and as she lifted the trunk lid, she heard another something being towed across the floor.
    Men. How well she knew they had to have something to keep them out of mischief.
    Inside the trunk, she found a cured sheepskin laid face down so its fleece could buffer the contents from impact. Plucking that free, she laid it out on the floor, then peered inside at the paper-wrapped, odd-shaped objects that filled the trunk. Removing an item, she weighed it in her hand. Light, oblong, knobby. Uncovering it, she jumped, dropped it—and chuckled.

Five
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    The sound of her laughter softened his ire and irre sistibly drew him to her side. He hovered above her, wanting to brush the tendrils of hair off the delicate skin of her neck and press his lips there. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and love her until she had no energy to tell him no. He wanted to . . . he wanted to talk to her, damn her. Just talk, explore the byways of her mind, get to know her. And that seemed to be what frightened her most. In a soft voice, the one he used to calm a fractious horse, he asked, “What’s so funny?”
    â€œMy great-uncle.”
    He didn’t even know she’d had an uncle. “What about your great-uncle?”
    â€œThe man was a wanderer. He left Scotland as a youth—that was after Culloden; he’d been much involved in fighting against the English, and it seemed a wise thing to do—and he traveled the wide world. When he came back years later, he brought some unusual mementos.”
    She spoke freely, something she had not done since he’d uttered those fateful words— marry me —and Hadden bent closer. “What is it?”
    She picked up a wooden mask, dark, painted with extravagant designs, and staring from empty eye sockets, and waved it at him. “From Africa. Uncle Clarence said the native women hung them in their huts for protection from the evil spirits.” Smiling, she passed the grotesque thing up to him.
    â€œIt would certainly frighten me.” He turned it from side to side.
    â€œAnd this.” She unwrapped a painted clock, carved with intricate swirls and sporting hidden doors. “From Germany.”
    Hadden squatted on his haunches, laid down the mask, and took the clock. “Quaint.”
    â€œUgly,” she corrected.
    â€œWell . . . yes.” His breath caught when she shared a smile with him.
    â€œWhen wound up, it keeps perfect time, and on the hour, a bird pops out and sings.”
    Gingerly, he tried a little humor. “I can’t believe you don’t keep this downstairs in the great hall.”
    â€œWe did until my uncle . . . until he left.” Her smile vanished; she bit