The Highlander's Christmas Quest (The Lairds Most Likely 5)

The girl shrugged. "I told

ye we dinnae stand on ceremony here. Even if we did, who’s to know? You’re safe from my wiles."

To his mortification, heat flooded his face. "But ye dinnae ken if you’re safe from my wiles, mistress. I’m a stranger, and ye shouldnae be too trusting. It’s a matter of honor."

He couldn’t altogether interpret the look she cast him. "Are ye saying I cannae rely on yours, Mr. Drummond?"

Damn, why was he still blushing? "Of course ye can, mistress."

She turned and continued up the steps. He thought he heard her mutter something under her breath that sounded like "pity." But surely his ears must deceive him.

"It’s the appearance of the matter," he said uncomfortably. "It’s no’ done for young unmarried ladies to pop in and out of young unmarried gentlemen’s bedrooms. Askaval might be isolated, but it’s no’ that isolated."

She headed down a corridor and stopped to open a door. "Your chamber, sir. To preserve your modesty, I will remain safely on the threshold. Your virtue is safe."

Plague take her, how had she managed to make him seem like a pettifogging old turkey? He was in the right, and she was in the wrong. Her dismissal of his perfectly reasonable – and gallant, even if he did say so himself – attempts to protect her good name marred his picture of himself as a valiant and virtuous knight.

"A lassie should be careful." He stepped into a pleasant room with a view south over islands scattered across the silver sea. "Especially when she’s as bonny as ye are."

When he turned, he caught astonishment on her face. "Bonny?"

She looked like it had never before occurred to her that she possessed an inch of attraction. Maybe he was wrong, and Askaval was as isolated as that.

His annoyance with being made to feel pompous and old before his time faded. Perhaps it was a lucky thing, though, that Ruth and a brace of maids bustled in at that moment, pushing past Miss Macbain with a word of excuse. He’d been about to launch into a list of the many things he found charming about his hostess.

Complimenting another woman when he’d dedicated himself body and soul to Fair Ellen smacked of disloyalty.

Chapter 3

By the time Dougal had bathed and changed into clean clothes, most of them unfortunately too small for him, he was ravenous. So ravenous, he bit back his automatic protest when Miss Macbain appeared in his doorway to escort him downstairs.

This wasn’t his house. He had no right to insist on the girl showing a shred of care for her reputation – and he smarted from the set-down she’d already given him on the subject. But he was a man who made his mind up quickly about people, and within five minutes of meeting her, he’d decided he liked this unusual lassie. He hated to think of some pudding-brained brute mistaking her free manners for an invitation to take advantage of her.

In fact, it was surprising quite how much he hated it. He might like the lass, but they’d only just met. Once he repaired his boat and sailed away, he’d probably never see her again.

"Oh, dear," she said, inspecting him with bright gray eyes and a barely hidden smile.

She’d changed out of her jacket and breeches and now wore a devilish becoming dark blue woolen gown. He’d hoped once he saw her in female garb that he’d find his hostess less compelling. As his gaze took in how the dress clung to her lush bosom and slim waist, he realized that his hope had been for nothing. She still drew his eye like a fiery beacon on a hill, and seeing her in skirts did nothing to mute the snapping energy that sparked in the air around her.

A self-derisive smile curled his lips. "Och, I’m an awfu’ big beast. I’ve never been able to borrow anyone’s clothes. Will I do for breakfast? I’ve got shirts on the boat, but they’re wet as herrings."

"I told ye we dinnae…"

"Stand on ceremony. Aye, so I gather." He felt like he was wrapped up in swaddling. If he dared to flex his muscles in the tight white linen shirt, he was sure to tear it. Someone on the estate had big feet. The shoes were about the only things that fit him properly. "But I’m hardly decent to meet the laird."

"Papa won’t mind, and at least the kilt fits."

"Thank God." If it hadn’t gone round him, he’d be running around, bare-arsed as a newborn bairn.

"I’ll send a maid down to the boat to fetch your clothes, if ye like. We’ll have them washed and ready to go before ye know it. In this wind, linen dries in two shakes of a lamb’s tail."

The quiet after the storm had proven short-lived. Now a gale rattled the windows and whistled down the chimney. The sun still shone, but sailing conditions weren’t much better than they’d been during the night.

"I only plan to stay until I repair my boat," he said.

She frowned. "Would ye no’ rather reach your destination looking fit to be seen?"

Her tactless question held no spite and made him laugh. "Aye, I would."