She slept soundly, for it was an ungodly hour, and she hadn’t heard Skog scratching at the door.As usual, Roag had noticed. He’d climbed from the massive and magnificent four-poster bed they now called their own and had carried Skog down the stair and out onto the grassy moorland behind the tower so that the old dog could take his late-night comfort.Roag didn’t mind.In truth, he secretly suspected Skog had come to prefer him to Gillian.It was a notion he wouldn’t dare voice to her.He did take a moment to stand admiring her. Chiefly daughter that she was, and already more beautiful to him than any woman he’d ever seen or could imagine, she looked even more lovely in the new bed.A huge, glorious piece that—he’d learned—had taken three of Mungo MacGuire’s sons, two of his own men, and also William Wyldes to assemble. Crafted of heavy black oak, the wood was smooth and satiny to the touch. The four bedposts, the headboard, and even the ceiling board were carved with thistles, sheaves of heather, galleys, mermaids, and heraldic shields so old that whatever family they’d once honored could no longer be discerned for the wood was so age-worn.Roag didn’t care.The bed was grand enough for royalty.
