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

“That will do him good. But I’d still like to look in on him.” She lifted her hand in appeal. “At least finish the story. Did the Drummonds besiege your castle and demand their kinswoman back?”

Humor lifted the corners of his lips. So far tonight, he’d smiled fully just once, when he’d told her she had to stay at Achnasheen. For the sake of her heart rate, she was grateful for that. These half-smiles were appealing enough. “They did, but too late, I fear.”

Marina’s eyes opened wide in horror, and her hands curled into the arms of her chair. “The Mackinnons murdered her?”

He shook his head in mock disapproval. “You’re a bloodthirsty wench.”

“Given some of the stories you’ve told me this evening, it’s a possibility,” she retorted.

One tale had the Drummonds trapping a band of Mackinnon raiders in a cave and setting a fire at the entrance, resulting in mass suffocation. That would probably give her nightmares tonight.

“Aye, I suppose so.”

“So what happened to Fair Mhaire?”

That smile still flirted with his lips. “By the time her kinsmen organized themselves to mount a raid, she’d fallen in love with the Mackinnon. We’re such braw laddies, ye ken.”

“Is that so?” Marina said, unable to deny the statement, although she knew he teased her.

“The bonny wee lass stood on the battlements and told her family to take themselves away home, as she was quite happy where she was and intended to stay. She’s my great-great grandmother.”

“What a nice story.” Relief flooded Marina, although these people were strangers and meant nothing to her. “I think that might be my favorite.”

He came around to pull her chair out as she rose. “Aye, a wee romance for you to dream about.” He crooked his arm in her direction. “Let me escort you to your room.”

She wanted to accept the gesture as simple good manners, but when she curled her fingers around his elbow, a wash of sensual heat enveloped her head to toe. Astonishment stopped her from moving straightaway. Her attention usually focused on her work, on pigments and outlines and perspective. Until now, no mere male could compete with her devotion to her art.

Yet all night, awareness of the Mackinnon had kept her on edge. Now his touch ignited that stirring attraction to wildfire. His command to go to bed took on suggestive overtones.

“Thank you for a delightful evening,” she said, meaning it. She’d imagined he’d have her hackles raised all night, while the discussion had been—mostly—harmonious. And her fears of a dreadful dinner to match the other dreadful dinners she’d had in the Highlands hadn’t come to pass. The fish soup had been delicious, and the mutton had been cooked to perfection.

“Better than ye expected?” he asked in a wry tone.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes, especially once you controlled your impulse to tell me what to do.”

“I made sure I approached you with due care.”

With an unpleasant shock, she realized that over the course of the evening, she’d yielded to everything he asked of her. She’d had dinner with him. She’d agreed to stay at the castle. She was even, blast him, going to bed on his orders. “Very clever, Mackinnon.”

“Do ye mind?” He drew her into his side.

More of that cursed heat radiated through her as their hips brushed. She’d never in her twenty-eight years been so conscious of her body.

“I might once I’ve had a chance to think about it.” When she shifted, she felt stiff after sitting for so long, but her legs soon started to work properly. They strolled toward the great hall and its staircase up to her room. She wondered where the Mackinnon slept, then told herself to behave.

“Och, you’re not the sort to bear a grudge.”

She was tall enough that she had no trouble matching her steps to his. “Tomorrow I’ll be too busy climbing around the hills on your estate to worry about anything else.”

“Not tomorrow, lassie.”

She told herself “lassie” wasn’t a term of endearment, despite it sounding like one. Now. It hadn’t when he’d called her lassie down by the bridge. “Mackinnon, I have work to do and—”

“Dinna get your feathers all puffed up. I’m not laying down the law. There’s more rain on the way. No weather for hill walking. So stay in. Talk to your father. Talk to me. Rest. Maybe do a few sketches inside the castle. Or if ye like, we can do our tour of the house.”

“You’ve got it all sorted out,” she said with a touch of resentment, although after her wait in the cold with her father this afternoon, she had no wish to be out in the weather again.

“Aye, I’m the Mackinnon.” They started to climb that impossibly impressive staircase. “Sorting out is what I do.”