Page 20 of A Promise of Love

"A month." It ticked through her mind like a symphony of raindrops, one perfect sphere at a time.

There was only a month left at this ramshackle old castle.

How odd that each day seemed to remind her of something she would regret leaving behind.

Oh, Sophie, of a certainty. Judith would never forget those sparkling blue eyes and that mouth always pursed in a laugh or a smile.

She would miss this sweet lady who seemed to grow more fragile each passing hour .

A month, then, to savor the sunset over the cove, the sweet scent of pine wafting into her bedroom window at night. A month in which to learn to live without the burr of Malcolm's accent, or the soft breeze which billowed like a lover around Tynan .

"Twenty-eight days," Alisdair corrected softly. "I can count , also ."

His voice seemed to lower when he spoke to her, as if that tone was reserved only for her. If anything was dangerous, it was the sound of that voice, skittering over her skin like the lightest touch of a feather .

In twenty-eight days, then, her mind would become hers once more, and she would not be lulled into thinking forbidden thoughts. No more silly games and sillier notions and childish dreams that should have died when she was a child .

No more thoughts of him, unbidden and dangerous .

Did he know how different he appeared even from his own kind?

His clean shaven face was as out of place among these bearded highlanders as a cow among the sheep.

And yet, it suited him, the same way his smile suited him.

Judith had witnessed at least ten versions of them - the tender smile when he nuzzled Douglas's hair with his chin, the smile he gave to Granmere when she said something outrageous that quirked his humor, the grin he gave to Malcolm when the old Scot refused to back down and gave him measure for measure, the smile of accomplishment as he looked out over his crops, his land, his sheep.

And the odd, almost tender smile Judith noted on more than one occasion, when she turned and found him studying her again .

Twenty-eight days, four weeks. No more wondering, at the end of those days, what life would have been like if she were different.

No more pretending that the past had not happened, that she was untouched by it.

No more wishing, in odd little moments, that it could have been different if they had met somewhere else, some earlier time.

Perhaps they could have greeted each other in the way civil strangers do.

Perhaps even become friends. That bond would have allowed her to ask him all the questions she so longed to ask, questions forbidden because of their intrinsically personal nature .

She would be gone soon, Alisdair thought, and this strange link welded between them by Malcolm's words and his grandmother's good intentions would be sundered

He should feel triumphant, should he not ?

Instead, he was suddenly irritated beyond belief, and his aggravation had at its center his English wife.

Now was not the time to notice that her face softened more often into a smile, to linger upon her full lips, or remember that her eyes darkened at night until they were almost black and reminded him of a storm at sea during the day.

He did not want to recall the long line of her magnificent legs outlined in the threadbare cloth of her dress .

Nor did Alisdair wish to remember the night before, when her laughter had stirred his interest and something more, and her smile had lit up her face until she was almost beautiful.

He had no wish to encourage the curious protective impulse he felt, that feeling that he alone could banish the look of sadness she unwittingly divulged or the flicker of quickly masked fear in her eyes.

It was a foolish thought. As idiotic and nonsensical as the curiosity which made him wonder why she still eyed him with caution as if she were a Highland deer, and he a skilled hunter.

It would do no good to open doors not easily closed again .

Yet, he was not a bad prize as husbands go.

He was a learned man, a man of principles.

And although he might not be Adonis, at least he did not frighten children.

Of a certainty, he did not possess the legendary experience of his fallen brother, but at least he knew what pleased a woman.

He was getting older, true, but he still had strength in his limbs, was able to work as hard as he had in the past. Other than a tumbler full of brandy now and then, he had no terrible habits.

While it was true that the legacy of Tynan was more a millstone around his neck than a blessed inheritance, still, he possessed a castle and not many men could boast of that, could they ?

He was not that bad a prize .

His nod was curt, dismissive. His look was filled with irritation .

Judith watched him as he walked down the glen, wondering what she had done to spark his displeasure.

It was difficult not to notice how his trousers were pulled tight against his legs by his long, firm strides, or that the sun made his hair appear almost blue-black, or his broad back strained the seams of his white shirt .

What manner of man was he, this laird MacLeod, who could tell a tale with such charm one moment, then change to become almost frosty with rudeness .

Who was he, really ?

She should not wish to know .