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

Her eyes clung to the derisive quirk of that expressive mouth. “More of your blasted independence?”

“Probably,” she said, telling herself it was silly and dangerous to be disappointed at the lack of a kiss. If he kissed her, her situation at Achnasheen would become impossible.

The Mackinnon stepped into her room. “Let me light a candle.”

It shouldn’t feel like he intruded on her intimate space. After all, before she came downstairs, she’d only been in the bedroom for an hour, and he owned the whole deuced castle. But there was something powerfully evocative about watching a long, lean Scot prowl around a room where in a few minutes she’d undress and lie down to sleep.

Marina stayed in the doorway as he lit the candle on her dressing table from his. When he stood in front of the mirror, there were two Mackinnons. She was so tired, she started to lose her hold on what was real and what wasn’t.

He came toward her, bearing both candles. For one lunatic second, she thought of asking him to stay, to answer the physical attraction blazing beneath their interactions with a resounding yes.

“You’re dead on your feet,” he said softly, passing her the light. “You should have stopped me from talking so long.”

“I liked it,” she said.

A faint smile touched his lips, and she felt an almost painful hunger to see him smile properly again. She blinked and swayed on her feet. Tiredness, or the yen to step into his arms?

“I told ye we’re starved for company here at Achnasheen. You’ll be lucky if I ever let you go.”

“Lucky…” she said, not sure if it was a question or not.

He lifted his candle, and she flinched from those searching eyes. Heaven help her if he guessed what she was thinking right now.

“Goodnight, Signorina Marina.”

“Goodnight, Mackinnon,” she whispered in return and stood to watch him stride away down the corridor on those long, powerful legs.

Fergus Mackinnon mightn’t be her sort of man. But, diavolo, what a man he was.

Chapter Five

Marina didn’t see the Mackinnon again until late the next morning. She’d slept like the dead and late—which she never did, as she liked to catch the early light for her work. After Peggy brought her breakfast in her room, she’d changed into the yellow dress she’d worn last night. Her blue traveling ensemble was drying in the kitchen after its soaking yesterday.

If she was to stay here, she’d have to do something about clothes, although goodness knew what. It wasn’t as if there was a street of shops outside where she could order a new wardrobe.

How annoying that the Mackinnon had been right about the weather. If Achnasheen meant field of rain, it lived up to its name this morning. If she’d decided to travel on without her father, she wouldn’t get far today.

She went in to sit with Papa, who was more comfortable than she’d expected and as a consequence, bored and starved of company. Luckily the castle turned out to have a large library. She was reading to him from a recent Blackwood’s Magazine when the Mackinnon appeared in the doorway.

In the clear, gray light of day, Marina had hoped good sense would conquer her inconvenient yen for this Scotsman. But when she looked up from the page to find him watching her, her heart resumed its acrobatics and heat rushed through her blood.

It didn’t help that this morning he could have modeled for an illustration in a Highland romance. Last night, he’d worn conventional clothes, like the men she met in Italy and London and Edinburgh. He’d been devastating enough then. Now when he appeared in a loose white linen shirt and a kilt in a pattern of red and black, he was breathtaking.

To avoid those knowing gray eyes, she glanced down, only to find herself staring at powerful bare legs. She blushed as she caught her father’s curious stare and returned her attention to the magazine. Except the words blurred into nonsense. All she could see was a tall, red-haired man in a costume that should strike her as hopelessly theatrical. Instead, the sight of the Mackinnon in his native dress stirred something wild and free inside her.

“Good morning, Signor Lucchetti, Signorina Lucchetti.” The Mackinnon came in and with every step he took closer to her, her heart slammed in time against her ribs.

“Good morning, sir,” her father said.

Marina remained tongue-tied, which was a new experience. Porca miseria, she acted like a foolish girl in the grip of her first puppy love.

“How are you feeling this morning, sir?”

“Much better, grazie.” Her father smiled. “Thank you for taking us in. After yesterday’s rescue, we already owe you such a debt of gratitude. I fear we can never repay you.”

The Mackinnon lifted a chair from under the window and brought it forward. When he sat beside Marina, the gap between them was more than proper. It was considerably wider than the space had been last night on the chaise longue. She had no reason to feel that he staked a claim on her.

“There’s no need. Here in the Highlands, we’re used to helping each other, as there’s nobody else to rely on. And I’ll appreciate the company. New faces are rare in this part of the world.”