The Laird's Willful Lass (The Lairds Most Likely 1)

d she fail to respect him?

Beyond her gratitude, she admired his competence and his power. His was a penetrating intelligence, even if she ignored his beauty, which for an artist was impossible. Much as she’d like to condemn him as nothing more than a bigoted bully, he was more complex than that.

She sucked in a breath and told herself to settle down. “Yes, I did, and I appreciated it,” she said quietly.

He arched one russet eyebrow, and she might almost say he looked piqued at her quick capitulation. “Giving up the argument?”

“Staging a strategic retreat.”

“Good Lord, ye must forgive me.” His mouth turned down in self-reproach. “I havenae asked after your welfare.”

He wasn’t touching her—of course he wasn’t, they were strangers—but the genuine concern in that deep voice wrapped around her the way her ruined crimson velvet cape used to.

That was the problem with masterful men. The other side of all that pushiness was the urge to protect. She loved her Papa dearly but was under no illusions about who was the stronger personality in the partnership. Nobody had offered up their strength as her shield since her mamma died.

Sitting on the wet hillside with her father, she’d felt shaky and vulnerable and alone. That must explain her sudden urge to nestle against the Mackinnon’s powerful chest and rest in the knowledge of perfect safety.

If only for a moment.

“I’m fine,” she said stiffly.

“I cannae believe that.” He shook his head. “You must have suffered a few knocks, when the carriage crashed. Here I am, getting you to sit up and make polite conversation.”

“Hardly polite,” she muttered.

His lips twitched, although his eyes remained concerned. “At least I can put your mad ideas down to concussion.”

“Mackinnon…”

He raised his hands in a gesture of conciliation. “Tell me, would you rather eat upstairs?”

She shook her head and summoned a smile. “A bath helped. I’ve got a few bruises, but the worst of it was waiting in the cold. Anyway, if I go upstairs, you’ll dismiss me as a frail woman, and think you’ve won the point.”

“Och, you’ve worked out my evil scheme.”

Despite everything, his humor disarmed her, and she laughed. “Just one thing—were we on the way to Skye when we crashed?”

“Aye, in a way, if all ye want is a view. You can see Skye across the channel. You were miles off track if you want the ferry.”

“That idiot driver.” She took another sip of wine, hoping it might soothe her turmoil. “When we hired him in Glasgow, he swore he knew this part of the world like the back of his hand. Once we were on the road, though, he never listened to orders, and he always drove too fast. That’s what happened today, when he lost control of the carriage.”

“I should have tossed him in the burn.”

“Instead, I’m sure you’ve taken him in, as you’ve taken in Papa and his outspoken daughter.”

The Mackinnon was too wise to rise to that. “I believe we might have found him a bowl of soup and a bed. I can send word to have him pitched out into the rain if you like.”

He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t seem to be a man who smiled much, she’d noticed. But he did like to tease.

“Maybe tomorrow.” She sighed. “At least he doesn’t drink.”

“Given what happened today, he might as well. How is your father? I should have asked that, too, when ye came in.”

“Under expert care.”

“Old Maggie? Aye, she’s better than any doctor I ken.”

Marina set down her glass and met her host’s enigmatic gray gaze. “After a night’s rest, Papa should be well enough to travel on. We won’t inconvenience you for long.”