The Prince Kidnaps a Bride by Christina Dodd

Author:Christina Dodd [Dodd, Christina]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Historical Romance, Adult
ISBN: 9780061340901
Google: vtMzVXKu8CkC
Amazon: 0060561181
Barnesnoble: 0060561181
Goodreads: 22229
Publisher: Avon
Published: 2006-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 16

Sorcha couldn’t quite put her finger on what was so unique about this village.

The houses looked different from the other houses in Scotland. Yes, they were humble, but their roofs had a bit of a tilt at the front of the ridge beam. The windows were lower and wider. Silver crosses were tacked up over the front doors—crosses she recognized. Crosses identical to the one she wore around her neck.

Revelation struck Sorcha with the power of a sledgehammer. This was a Beaumontagnian village transplanted to the wilds of Scotland.

“I recognize this place,” she said.

“You’ve been here before?” Arnou lifted a skeptical eyebrow.

“No. Yes.” She didn’t know what she meant. “It reminds me of my home.”

“Isn’t that a coincidence?” He didn’t sound particularly surprised. “I hear there’s a good inn here, and staying there would be a chance for you to clean up before we arrive in Edinburgh.”

“Is that really the reason you want to stay at an inn?” She shot him a flirtatious glance.

“Yes.”

“Yes.” She sighed. Why was the man so stubborn? Why wouldn’t he make love to her? Last night they had slept together in a barn, and all night long he’d been ready and willing. When he had held her for warmth, she’d felt his cock pressed against her back.

Still... “Cleaning up is a wonderful idea.” To take a bath, a real bath in a real tub, sounded like heaven. Not as much heaven as sleeping naked in Arnou’s arms, but she wouldn’t mention it again. At least not now. A covert attack might serve her better. She’d bathe and wear the nightgown that the ladies at Madam’s had given her. She’d display herself to Arnou and he’d be stricken with craving and give in to her desires... .

They turned into the street that led to the town square. There she could see that the buildings were taller and wooden signs hung over the doors—the Red Rock Pub, the Glacier Peak Butcher, the Silver Springs Inn. A cluster of a dozen men and women were gathered around the well in the middle of the square. The women wore small embroidered caps and white aprons. The men wore black breeches and red suspenders. Finally, clinching her suspicion that this was a group of exiles, she saw that the well had a small pointed roof and posts painted blue.

“Look at that!” She pointed.

“It’s a well,” Arnou said prosaically.

“It’s more than a well. The point on the roof deflects any evil from above. The blue blesses the water and keeps away the evil eye. These are traditions in Beaumontagne and in Richarte.” To see the reality of it again fed a longing she’d denied for a long time.

“So Beaumontagne and Richarte share the same traditions?” Arnou sounded as if he knew the answer but was humoring her.

“They share a border. They share traditions. They share a language. They share a church. They fight about everything.” She grinned, because for Beaumontagnians to complain about Richartians and for Richartians to complain about Beaumontagnians was the most ingrained tradition of all.

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