"Do you sleep in the tower?"

The smile finally overwhelmed his frown. "No. But the room I thought to give you is adjoined by a small turret."

"Am I not to share your room?"

The crumbled ruins of the old spring house slipped past them, distracting him from the conversation. Just a few bare moments—

"Collin? Are we to have separate beds?"

"No. No! The chambers are small and I doubt we could manage to fit your wardrobe into mine. We could share your larger room and I will keep my room for dressing and bathing. I am usually covered in muck by the end of the day. I should not like to drag manure into your sitting room."

"Well, that's a lovely thought then. I wouldn't . . . I wouldn't want to sleep alone at night."

He managed a weak smile, despite that they were driv­ing alongside the stones of the old stable walls. The long black nose of his best stud poked itself from the shadows over a stall door.

"Look at him, Collin!"

"That's Othello," he muttered.

"Oh, isn't he fine? Will you show me the horses tomor­row, at least? I know you're busy—"

"Ho!" a voiced boomed from far ahead.

Collin winced, the churning anxiety in his gut spiked with a sudden, strange urgency. Fergus had come to greet them. Of course he had.

The outbuildings fell behind, and the horizon straight­ened itself as they gained the flat yard of the old bailey. Collin felt the handle of the door bite into his hand and re­alized he had gripped it with bruising force, just as Fer­gus's grin appeared in the window.

"Welcome to Westmore!" he cried, pulling the door open with a flourish and nearly detaching Collin's fingers in the process. "My guid Lady Westmore."

Fergus wrapped his fingers around Alexandra's out­stretched hand and swept her down from the carriage, set­ting her blue skirts swinging. Her eyes shone, sparkling with excitement.

"This is Fergus MacLean, my manager. Fergus, Alexan­dra Blackburn. My wife."

"I am at yer service," Fergus smiled, leaning over her hand. Collin stepped from the coach and into the man's shoulder before his lips could touch her.

He had forgotten to worry about this—his handsome, well-bred, dapper, witty friend. He'd forgotten to think of Fergus's charm and the unmistakable truth that, no matter how poor, he was the true son of a baron. The fourth son, yes, but certainly closer to Alex's respectability than Collin. The man had been raised as a noble.

Alex exchanged a few words with him, laughed up at his easy smile, reached out to touch her fingers to his sleeve. Collin glared at her hand.

"Come," he snapped, pleased when her fingers jumped away from his friend.

She nodded and moved them to Collin's sleeve where they belonged. He stared steadily ahead, not watching her as they crossed the yard and approached the simple wood door. He had wanted to see her face, her reaction, the first time she stepped into her new home. He'd wanted to watch for horror or disgust or resignation, or maybe for some­thing good which he couldn't let himself hope for.

Now, he found, he could not bear to look.

Stone and fresh water—that was the smell that struck her when she stepped inside Collin's home. The keep smelled like the outdoors—clean and cool. . . cold, actu­ally. A shiver took her, though she tried to stop it.

Dark as it was, she could barely see, but as she peered around she began to make out the sheer size of the room before her. The far wall was at least forty feet away, per­haps more, and the ceiling rose up to more than thrice her height.

Finally, her eyes adjusted, and she stared in astonish­ment. It was just like the paintings she'd seen of ancient castles. Several long wooden tables stretched out in front of the largest fireplace she'd ever seen. Did they roast whole animals in there? The table and benches took up the largest part of the room, and other sections were delineated by plush rugs set over the gray stones of the floor. No rushes were strewn about, at any rate.

A settee and chair hunched in one corner, looking strange and modern against the tapestry on the wall. In an­other corner, wooden stools and benches were scattered about a low table piled with leather and tools. An arched doorway led to another room that clattered and clanged with noise. The kitchen, no doubt.

Alex swung her head about, measuring the space and comparing it to her study of the outside walls. This was the whole of it. This and the kitchen, and the small door to her right that gave way to stairs.

Well, it was not much, but since Collin had not an­swered questions about Westmore and she had been too uncertain to press, she had arrived with absolutely no pre­conceived notions about her new home. She'd been rather afraid it was going to be above the stables. Oh, the stables he'd spoken of, just not the house. The keep. She did not giggle, though it was close. Perhaps she could order him a suit of armor and they could play at knight and maiden.

Lips twitching, she looked up to find Collin's face a cold mask. Her temptation to giggle faded. Of course, he wanted to know what she thought of it. Laughing in his face would not send the right message.

Tags: Victoria Dahl Somerhart Erotic
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