Sam’s eyes nearly popped as she looked at the tiny slip of a woman who stood before her. “Eight!”
“Aye, and no birth took longer than six hours.”
Sam considered her carefully. “And you ate oatmeal?”
Was that the beginning of a smile tugging at the corners of Old Mag’s disapproving mouth? “Every morning.”
Sam sighed and picked up her spoon. “Then who am I to argue with success?”
She dug in.
Chapter 10
Sam ate what she could of the oatmeal under Old Mag’s watchful eye. They said little to each other, but Sam sensed they’d turned a corner in the relationship and she was glad. It was obvious that the housekeeper would throw herself on a sword for Duncan, and Sam knew her life at the castle would be a great deal easier if she had the fierce old woman on her side.
Mag was busy paring potatoes when Sam finished the last of the cereal, so she washed her dishes then dried them and put them away in the cupboard.
“Thank you for breakfast,” she said to Mag. “It was delicious.”
“You don’t have to wash up next time, lassie. ‘Tis my job to do for you.”
“A little work won’t kill me,” Sam said, smiling easily for the first time.
“You’re a good one,” Mag pronounced. “He chose well this time.”
Sam took a deep breath and decided to plunge in. “That’s the second time you’ve said something like that.”
Mag looked away. “I’m an old woman. Sometimes my tongue runs away with me.”
“Why did you dislike his first wife so much? What—”
“Robby calls me,” Mag said, then hurried from the kitchen as if the hounds of hell were at her heels.
So much for discovering any of Duncan’s secrets.
Sam went upstairs to brush her teeth and fix her makeup. And, she admitted to herself, to see if her husband might have returned to their bedroom. Unfortunately, everything was exactly the way she’d left it an hour ago. She straightened the bed, then sat by the window. It wasn’t quite nine in the morning and the day stretched out in front of her, an endless string of empty hours waiting to be filled.
She could either spend them wondering about her husband’s past or she could get on with building her new life. She didn’t need to be told which was the better bet.
With a little luck, her work files would arrive by the end of the week, which meant she had to have someplace to store them. A work space, she thought. An office, even. She was living in a gazillion-room castle. It shouldn’t be too terribly difficult to come up with a place where she could work.
She would have to ask Duncan to show her around and help her pick the best spot. Of course, to do that she’d have to find him first.
Sam went downstairs. She peeked into the library, the parlor and the dining room, then walked to the kitchen. Neither Old Mag nor Robby was anywhere to be seen. She stepped out the back door into the garden, where she discovered bed after bed of chervil and oregano and thyme and rosemary, among many others, all planted in neat rows on either side of the stone path. In another month or so, the scent would be downright heavenly.
She followed the path past a gardener’s shed and what looked to be the remnants of some sort of arsenal. You could almost see the shimmer of history, like the mist curling up from the sea. Knowing that her child would be linked to all who had come before filled Sam with a sense of wonder she’d never known.
The path led past the garage, where Robby and two young men were busy doing something that required lots of power and equal amounts of noise. Sam waved at them and continued walking. She considered asking them if they’d seen Duncan anywhere but decided against it.
A small stone building, obviously modern, stood about one hundred yards away from the garage. It had a high, flat roof and enormous windows and looked as if it had been dropped on the castle grounds by mistake. She wondered if it was a guest house, although why you’d need a guest house when you owned a castle was beyond her.
She approached the building and tried to peer through one of the windows. The only thing she saw was her reflection peering back at her. Mirrored glass. Wouldn’t you know it? She walked around the side of the building and found the same thing, and from there she went to the front where she was pleased to find the door was slightly ajar.
She didn’t hesitate a second. She pushed it open then stepped inside and she instantly understood where she was.
Duncan’s studio.
The room was awash in the purest light imaginable and all of it seemed to be centered on the man himself. Her chest felt tight as she looked at him. His shirtsleeves were rolled to the elbow, and her eye was drawn to the way the muscles of his forearms tensed each time he tapped hammer to chisel. Chips of marble glittered like diamonds in the sunlight as they flew up and away from his chisel.
She stood quietly by the door, scarcely breathing. So this was how magic happened, from hard muscular work and genius. She should have known. The earthy sensuality of his sculptures wasn’t the result of some intellectual exercise. It was born in the body, of muscle and sinew and sweat, and those things are what gave it dimension.
A voluptuous shiver rippled through her as he shifted position. His chest and forearms glistened, and she found herself longing to draw the tip of her tongue along each swell of muscle.
“Step inside and close the door, lassie.”
She jumped at the sound of his voice. “How did you know I was standing here?”
“Your perfume,” he said.
Another shiver went through her as she shut the door.
“I didn’t realize this was your studio,” she said.
“Come closer,” he
