“My name is Marina Lucchetti.”
“And you’re Italian?”
“Half. Mamma was a wellborn English lady. She met Papa in Florence when she was eighteen and eloped with him.”
“So that explains why ye speak like a Sassenach.”
“Sassenach?”
“Aye, the English.”
Her mother had tutored her in British history. She could well imagine her accent wasn’t a welcome sound in this corner of the world.
“I hope you’ll overlook my unfortunate antecedents,” she said with a smile that came far too easily. “Perhaps it will help if I tell you Mamma’s family disowned her after her marriage, and I’ve never met them.”
“In the circumstances, I’ll forgive the connection, then.”
She gave a gurgle of laughter and didn’t miss the interest brightening his eyes. “Grazie.”
He rose and crossed to lift a decanter from the sideboard. “I hope you don’t mind dining with me. I realize it’s not strictly proper for us to be alone, but we’re not so finicky about the rules of society here in the Highlands as they are down in London. If you’d rather, I can have a tray sent to your room. Or I could ask one of the maids to sit with us if you’d like a chaperone. But it’s a pity to waste the chance for some interesting conversation, when I get so few visitors at Achnasheen.”
Another compliment, and one for her mind, not for her looks. Accompanied by something that could almost be an apology for assuming she’d join him for dinner without checking with her first.
It became more and more difficult to recall how he’d barked orders to her down by the bridge. Diavolo, this charm was dangerous. Already she knew she’d be sensible to avoid his company. He wasn’t at all her sort of gentleman. And he’d given her a perfect excuse to say her goodnights.
She stayed exactly where she was. “We’re not so careful in Italy either, especially as I’m neither an aristocrat nor just out of the schoolroom. I think my reputation will survive a meal with you.”
“I’m delighted to hear that.” The warmth in his eyes lit an answering warmth in her blood. “Would ye like a wee glass of wine?”
“Yes, please.”
He poured two glasses of claret. “So what is a pretty half-Italian lady doing in wildest Scotland?”
“Shivering,” she said, accepting her wine. She really must tell him not to waste any more time on compliments. They never worked with her. Well, they usually never worked. “I’d lay good money our coachman was lost when we crashed. We’re supposed to be on our way to the Isle of Skye.”
The Mackinnon sat down beside her again, stretching his long legs out toward the fire. Marina was painfully conscious that mere inches of blue velvet separated them. One subtle shift, and their hips would brush.
The thought tightened her throat. Down by the bridge, he’d touched her, slinging her around like a piece of furniture, and she’d wanted to slap him. When had that changed?
He raised his glass. “Slàinte mhath.”
“Salute.” She returned his toast, then sipped the wine, which turned out to be excellent. What else did she expect? She had a feeling the Mackinnon arranged everything here to suit himself.
“You’re undertaking a tour?”
“In a way.” She swallowed some more wine and strove to keep her mind on the conversation and not on her stirring attraction to her host. “I’m an artist. The Duke of Portofino has commissioned some Highland scenes. On the Continent, Scotland is all the rage.”
Interest sharpened his gaze. “You work for a living?”
“I do.” His skepticism, the standard reaction she received from the male half of humanity, reminded her that she was too old and pragmatic to throw her bonnet over a windmill for the sake of a pair of handsome gray eyes. Even if the eyes were bellissimi indeed. “I told you I don’t come from society’s exalted ranks.”
He ignored the unspoken dig at his background. “And you’ve had some success as a painter?”
“I’ve been lucky,” she said.
He paused as if he was considering her reply, then his frown melted away. “By God, I think I’ve seen your work. M.R. Lucchetti? Is that you?”
She shouldn’t be so pleased. “It is.”