She glanced up then, almost furtively, and their eyes met.
Green, like the deep forest. Her eyes were an intense green that sucked him in, captured him, prevented him from looking away. They widened an instant before darting back down to resume their examination of the floor.
The contact broken, Ian gave himself a mental shake.
How unusual.
“Stay right here. I’ll get something to dry you off and we’ll get you all warmed up.”
He raced upstairs and grabbed an armful of towels, stopping only to pull a blanket off the foot of his bed before returning to his guest.
She stood as he’d left her, huddled into herself, shivering as a small puddle formed at her feet.
Wrapping the blanket around her shoulders, he guided her toward the library. She’d be much better there. Thanks to the fire he’d built earlier in the evening, it was the warmest room in the place.
“Here are some towels. I’ll pop into the kitchen and find something warm for you to drink. Is tea all right, or do you prefer coffee?” She was an American, after all.
“Tea would be wonderful, thank you.” Only a whisper.
She took the towels and began to dry her face and hair as he left the room.
While he waited for the water to boil, he let his thoughts drift to the woman drying off in his library. She intrigued him. A great deal. Which was most unusual in and of itself.
The old saying about eyes being windows to the soul hadn’t become an old saying without very good reason. It was absolutely true. Catching a glimpse of what lived behind those windows, however, was extraordinary. Souls valued their privacy.
Looking into this woman’s eyes, he’d felt an unusually strong energy pulling at him. Her windows had been wide open, her soul leaning out, demanding his attention like the French harlots he’d seen so many years ago, hanging out of the Barbary Coast bordellos.
He couldn’t recall having run across anything like it in all his years. She was something entirely new.
A thrill of anticipation ran through his body. ‘Something entirely new’ was a rare experience for Ian. After six centuries spent shuffling between the Mortal Plain and the Realm of Faerie, he often thought he’d seen it all.
During that time, he’d also learned countless valuable lessons. One of those lessons was that the rare experiences were usually the best. Certainly the most important.
Yes, he was quite intrigued by Miss . . .
“Damn.”
What was her name? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t even remember if Henry had ever told him her name. He’d spent so much time thinking of her as ‘The American,’ her name had been of no importance.
That was certainly changed now. Playing innkeeper to his little American tourist had unexpectedly become a much more stimulating prospect.
* * *
Bending over in front of the fire, Sarah vigorously scrubbed at her hair with the towel. She’d read all about Scotland’s unpredictable climate in the bag full of travel guides she’d bought, but nothing had prepared her for the reality of it. In spite of the fire, the blanket, and the towels, she was still cold and soggy.
And enormously embarrassed.
One look at her host and she might as well have been a teenager again, completely tongue-tied and unsure of herself. That first glance had fairly taken her breath away, leaving her stammering and unable to make eye contact with anything but her own feet. It wasn’t the sort of behavior she expected from a mature woman. Particularly not when she was the mature woman in question.
Handsome men had always had that effect on her, and this one was certainly a prime example. The classic line, “tall, dark and handsome,” could have been written especially for him. He towered over her by a good six inches. His eyes, a brown so dark they might actually be black, matched his hair. Hair a bit too long, curling around his neck, just onto the cream colored turtleneck sweater he wore. The sweater clearly outlined a chest that belonged on a pinup calendar. He could be Mr. January, perfect start to a new year. A man like that might even get more than one month.
He was one outstanding specimen all right. And he was also a good ten years younger than she, at the very least, which made her reaction to him all the more ridiculous. What was wrong with her, anyway?
“Serious jet lag,” she muttered, scrubbing harder at her hair.
“Pardon?”
Sarah jerked upright, dropping the towel to her neck. Her host stood in the doorway holding two steaming cups.
Oh great. He’d caught her talking to herself, a bad habit that had caused her problems more than once. Heat crawled up her neck and over her face.
“I didn’t realize you were back already.”
His only response as he moved into the room was a smile. And what a smile. It played slowly around his lips, growing, spreading to his eyes, where it shimmered like polished jet.
The heat on her face ratcheted up a notch.
“I’ve taken the liberty of adding a touch of honey to yer tea.” He set the cups on a low table. “Please, sit yerself down.”
Sarah started forward, but stopped, looking down at herself.
“Oh, no. I’d hate to sit on your sofa in these wet clothes. Maybe it would be best if you just direct me to the cottage where I’ll be staying.”
His smile altered, a look of chagrin passing over his features.
“Well, that needs some explaining, you see.” He picked the folded towels up from the floor and spread them on the sofa. “Here. Sit.” He held up his hand to stop her when she started to protest. “Sit. Have yer tea and then we’ll get you into some dry things.”
After carefully arranging herself on the towels, Sarah extended her hand to accept the cup he offered her, acutely aware of his penetrating gaze. Trying desperately to think of something to say to fill the silence, she was horrified to hear herself blurt out the first thing that came to mind.
“You’re not at all what I’d pictured.” If she got any redder, surely flames would erupt from the top of her head.
“No what you’d pictured? What were you expecting?” He was smiling again.
“Well, Mr. McCullough, you sounded much older when we spoke on the telephone.”
“Ah, well, that explains it then. I’m no Mr. McCullough.”
“What?” Had that squeak actually come from her?
He placed a restraining hand on her arm as she started to rise.
“Let me rephrase that. I am Mr. McCullough, just no the one you spoke to. That would be Henry, he’s . . . ” he paused for a moment, glancing away from her as he moved his hand from her arm to pick up his cup. “I’m Ian McCullough.”
“Oh.” That explained why he didn’t look at all like the sweet old man she’d imagined Henry McCullough to be. “But you’re also a McCullough. You’re related?”
“Aye. We’re as related as an uncle and nephew can be.” He briefly flashed that brilliant smile again.
“Where is your uncle?”
“Henry? Oh, in hospital, actually. Minor knee surgery. He’ll be home in a few days. In the meantime, I’m supposed to be looking after things, but I’m afraid I’ve mucked them up a bit.” The smile reappeared. “Starting with knowing nothing about my lovely guest, no even her name.”
“Oh.” Her conversational skills were rapidly disappearing in his presence. The blush returned. “I’m Sarah. Sarah Douglas.”
“Sarah.” He repeated the name slowly. “It suits you. Now that we know one another, we’ve only the problem of the cottage, it seems.”
Uh-oh. “My cottage?”
He nodded. “Regrettably, our caretakers were called away on emergency this morning, so the cottage isna prepared for you. With the storm, I dinna think it a huge problem. I was sure you’d stay in the city when you saw the weather. Which reminds me,”
His eyebrows lifted in a manner reminiscent of a school principal about to chastise an errant student.
“This is no night to be out on the roads, lass.
Did you no think about the risk you were taking by driving here in this tempest?”
His tone implied lecture, not a conversational question. It might even have been offensive if not for his lovely accent. The lightly lilting brogue made everything he said sound good. The brogue and the deep baritone.
“I guess I didn’t at the time. But I certainly recognize it now.” She put down her tea. “Mr. McCullough—”
“Ian,” he corrected.
“Ian.” She briefly made eye contact and smiled. “If the cottage isn’t prepared, then . . . ”
“It’s no worry. We’ll put you up here in the main house for tonight.”
He sat back, looking very satisfied, and took a drink of his tea.
“I was under the impression that you didn’t rent out rooms here.” Henry had been rather emphatic about that point, assuring her there would be no other lodgers.
“We dinna. You’ll join us tonight as my guest. We’ll get you set up in the cottage tomorrow. Now . . . ,” Ian stood and held out his hand in invitation. “Let’s get you settled. When did you eat last?”
“On the plane.”
She rose to her feet, clutching the now damp blanket tightly around her. If he’d noticed she’d avoided his hand, he gave no sign of it.
“We’ll remedy that right after we get you in some dry clothing.” He paused, tipping his head to the side. “Come to think of it, I dinna recall seeing your auto in the drive.”
“It’s not exactly in the drive. It’s down at the entrance gate.” She shrugged. “I sort of slid off the road and got stuck in the mud. I can go back down and get my suitcase.”
As they neared the door, thunder rumbled ominously close, rattling windows.
“I’m thinking that’s probably no the best idea. In fact, I’m sure we can find you something dry to slip into here. We’ll collect your things, and your vehicle, in the morning when the rain’s done.”
He’d stopped talking so she risked a quick glance up. It appeared he was waiting for that, catching her eyes and once again extending his hand. Perhaps he had noticed her earlier evasion after all.
“Here. Come with me.”
There was no chance this time to avert his touch without seeming unusually rude, and she couldn’t bring herself to do that. He’d been much too nice.
Simply one hand against another. No way to prevent her unprotected skin from contact with his. No blanket or clothing to filter it through this time. She’d simply have to steel herself against the assault she knew would come with the touch, as it always did.
She’d learned to accept it. From childhood she’d suffered the trauma of absorbing other people’s thoughts and emotions when she touched them, and the strange random “feelings” that assailed her, trying to direct her actions. Almost worse had been the pain of knowing she was “different” from everyone else. She’d accepted that long ago, too.
While her preference was, as always, to escape the unavoidable result, sometimes, like now, it couldn’t be helped.
She took his hand.
* * *
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An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by Melissa Mayhue
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-3286-6
ISBN-10: 1-4165-3286-2
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-4520-0 (eBook)
This Pocket Books paperback edition July 2007
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Cover design by Min Choi
Art by Jaime DeJesus
Thirty Nights With a Highland Husband Page 30
