Page 362 of Wicked Highland Heroes

“Was it the day you stole me from the abbey? Or perhaps it was somewhere along the way.” She tapped her lower lip with a forefinger. Iain was just beginning to register the perplexing question when she added, “I know.” Her eyes brightened with a seeming revelation. “It must have been the day we arrived at Fauldun Castle. Do you remember?” She gazed at him with rapt attention.

“Aye, love, I remember it well.”

“Then you agree?”

“Agree with what?”

She gave an encouraging nod of her head. “That was the day you understood.”

“Sweet, I have never understood you. Not now, not then, and I begin to fear I never will.”

“But, my lord,” she said, horrified shock coloring her expression, “I am an open book.”

“On the contrary, you are a closed volume, and even the quick peeks I have glimpsed befuddle me.” Her brows knit. “How distressing.”

“Distressing?”

She nodded. “First I find I have shaken your ability to woo a fair maiden, and now I discover you are at a loss to understand me. Are you ill?” She jumped up and placed a hand across his brow, then drew it away. “Nay. You seem well. I suppose, then, ’tis understandable you have the presence of mind to comprehend I am hiding something from you.” With that, she plopped back in her chair.

It had been years, but Iain recognized the heat of embarrassment that flooded his cheeks. Thomas stood in the doorway, laughter on his face.

Iain faced her and consigned his sanity to oblivion as he felt himself fall into the pools of blue that stared up at him. Christ, would he never cease hearing the crash of waves every time she looked at him? A silent prayer, the first since his mother’s death, went up that his heart would not be dashed against the rocks before he found out.