The Laird’s Christmas Kiss (The Lairds Most Likely 2)

She sank down to cradle her father’s head on her lap. “How is that now, Papa?”

“Better.” The man?

??s lips twisted as he attempted to smile. “If I cut back on the spaghetti, it will be easier to haul me about like a bag of wheat.”

She managed a smile in return. Not a very convincing one. All three of them must be aware that leaving him on the wet, rough grass was a temporary solution.

Now that the immediate threat to life retreated, Fergus realized how cold he was. He wasn’t wearing a hat—he’d expected to be sitting beside his own fireside by nightfall, with a glass of the local spirit in his hand. His hair was sodden, and icy rain trickled down the back of his neck.

The woman must be freezing, too. Beneath the cloak, she wore a blue traveling dress that clung close enough to reveal a bonny, if not overly plump bosom, and a hint of curved hips and long legs. Her black hair was tied up in some folderol around her head. Or at least that must have been the plan. The persistent rain weighted her hair and sent tendrils snaking down around that fascinating face.

“You, coachman, get your bony arse over here and give your coat to the lady before I boot ye into the burn.”

Sullenly, the man approached and unbuttoned his coat. In the rain, Fergus couldn’t be sure, but the man didn’t smell of drink. Rank incompetence rather than drunkenness must be to blame for this accident.

With visible reluctance, the woman accepted the coat and fumbled until it covered her shoulders. “Thank you, Coker.”

“My pleasure, miss.” He couldn’t have sounded less sincere, and Fergus fought the urge to shove him into the water anyway.

The man trudged back to the horses. By now, the poor beasts were so cowed, they’d forsaken all urge to bolt. They didn’t raise their heads when Macushla and Brecon wove around their legs in a canine game.

“He’s my servant, not yours,” the woman said.

“He’s utterly useless is what he is,” Fergus muttered, straightening the coat to offer her better cover from the rain. “I fear his coat’s none too clean, and it might have fleas, but you’ll freeze wearing nothing but that becoming gown.”

“I’m glad you admire my style,” she said drily.

Fergus hunkered down and drew a folding knife from his pocket. With a couple of economical movements, he sliced away the older man’s trouser leg. More muttered Italian curses that lacked the earlier vitriol. Pain and exhaustion were taking their toll.

“Is it broken?” the woman asked, with more of that unfeminine composure. It struck Fergus as almost unnatural. These circumstances would leave the ladies of his acquaintance, including his mother and sisters, completely overcome. He wasn’t sure how to deal with a woman who took calamity in her stride the way a man would.

“Yes.” The man’s shin was misshapen and swollen, although thank God, the skin remained intact. “At least it seems a clean break.”

“That’s something.” The rough garment draped around her should lessen that air of cool control, but she still looked like a duchess.

“There’s a grove of rowans across the bridge. I’ll go and cut a stick to make a splint, then I’ll fetch help.” Fergus closed his knife and slipped it into his pocket again. He passed the lady his hip flask. “Ye might need to give him some of this while I’m gone.”

Those snapping black eyes settled on him with an unreadable expression. He was surprised when she said, “Thank you. You’ve been very kind.”

Something about that assessing gaze made him feel as awkward as a boy at his first ball. Ridiculous, really, when he was master of all he surveyed. Because he didn’t know what to say, he nodded, then stood and left in search of a suitable piece of wood.

Upon his return, he discovered the woman had ripped her petticoat into strips to hold the splint. He gave her credit for initiative, although some devil inside him regretted that he’d missed a glimpse of her ankles.

Achnasheen was well away from the fashionable world, and the advent of an attractive woman was a nice surprise. While she was a wee bit too willful for his taste, this lady was intriguing and easy to look at. He mightn’t want to deal with her long term, but short term he was man enough to enjoy the view.

Even in this deplorable situation.

“Give me the splint,” she said. “I can look after that while you get help. It’s too cold to keep Papa out here long. It’s better you go straightaway.”

Fergus struggled to ignore her managing tone. “Are ye no’ coming back to the castle with me?”

“Someone has to remain with Papa.”

Her father’s eyes were closed, and his lips were starting to turn blue. Fergus hoped to hell that the man was all right.

“There’s no need for you to stay. Let the coachman freeze out here.”

She shot a dismissive glance at the fellow who stood a few feet away, huddling miserably in his sodden shirtsleeves and holding the two coach horses. “I wouldn’t trust him with my worst enemy.”