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

"Aye."

Again a flat response, where flat was a word he’d never yet applied to this vivid lassie.

"I cannae ignore the injustice she suffers." Damn it, it sounded like he protested too much.

Kirsty subjected him to another long stare, and he had the unwelcome feeling that she wasn’t entirely pleased with what she saw. "Chivalry and all that."

"Aye." Despite knowing he was in the right, he shifted under that assessing gaze like a schoolboy caught stealing honey cakes out of the larder.

"We could take the boat around now, then join Papa for breakfast and start the repairs after that."

When she changed the subject to practicalities, he released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. "Excellent idea."

"Aye," she said, still sounding lackluster.

"But ye might no’ want to get your skirts wet."

"You’ll need someone to bail."

"We could ask Johnny or Bill or Jock."

"They’ll be asleep at this hour. I’ll hitch up my skirts. If they get wet, it’s only a matter of rinsing the saltwater out of them later."

"Ye should have worn your breeches."

She cast him a sharp look that once again he couldn’t totally interpret. "Are ye mocking me, Dougal?"

"You’re in a gey funny humor today, Miss Macbain," he said with a frown. "Would ye rather I’d gone with the morning tide after all?"

To his surprise, she laughed. "No’ at all. I told ye, we’d dearly love to keep you here until after Christmas."

He relaxed. This sounded more like his blithe companion from yesterday. "And I was serious about your breeches. If you’re clambering over a beached boat, they’re a devil sight more convenient than fifty layers of petticoats."

She looked surprised. "I was sure ye didn’t approve."

"I was surprised when I first saw ye, but from what I can see, your unconventional costume is practical and raises no eyebrows on the island. It’s obvious that whatever you wear, you’re respected and loved as the laird’s daughter." He paused. "And it’s deuced becoming, if ye dinnae mind me telling ye so."

She blushed. "I dinnae mind at all."

"So was yesterday’s dress. So is this morning’s blouse and skirt."

Stop, Dougal. Stop now. You’ve pledged your faith to Fair Ellen. You’ve no right to be waxing lyrical about another lassie’s attractions.

But his mouth had developed a will of its own, unconnected to the dictates of his brain. So, horrified, he heard himself continue. "You’re a terrifically pretty girl. Ye could wander around Askaval in sackcloth and ashes, and I’d still admire you."

As he babbled, her eyes rounded in astonishment. Highly likely she thought he was as mad as he feared he might be.

"You…admire me?" she asked in an incredulous voice.

"Aye, of course. More than I can say." Damn it. He was blushing again. "Did I no’ tell ye so yesterday?"

She took a step back. "Well…thank ye," she said, continuing to sound as if she didn’t believe him.

An awkward silence descended. The first he’d ever experienced with Kirsty. One of the many things he admired about her – he hadn’t lied about that, although he winced at his clumsiness in expressing it – was that she was so easy to talk to.

She subjected him to an unwavering gaze that made him want to shift like that feckless schoolboy. Even worse, he couldn’t help himself from staring back.

It was strange how she seemed to grow prettier by the minute. When he’d first met her, he’d thought her striking rather than conventionally beautiful. Now when she stood before him in the soft light of a December morning in the Hebrides, he had the fancy she was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen.