“You never go to Edinburgh or Inverness?”
“A few times a year. When I have to. This is wild, isolated country, but a man grows to love it.”
“I also must introduce myself. I am Ugolino Lucchetti of Firenze. My daughter is the esteemed painter Marina Lucchetti. It’s her work that brings us to your land so bellissimo.”
Marina cast Papa an incredulous look. Given that all he’d done since they arrived in Scotland was complain, this laid it on a little thick. Her father was a creature of the sun, and even in late summer, Scotland was too cold for him.
“I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, signore. I’m Fergus Mackinnon. I found out all about your famous daughter when we dined last night.”
“Hardly famous,” she said, setting aside the Blackwood’s Magazine and picking up the pencil and small sketchbook that never lay far from her hand.
The Mackinnon turned to her with a polite interest that made her want to scoff. She’d seen the possessive glitter in his eyes when he’d caught sight of her. “Signorina Lucchetti, I hope you’re well this morning.”
“Yes, thank you.” She avoided his stare and began to trace a few lines on the paper.
This was a lovely room, a pleasing mixture of old and new. So far, every part of the castle she’d seen was like that. It was a change from the grand formality she was accustomed to in noble Italian houses, but there was something vastly appealing about the lack of pretension.
“I have good news for both of you.”
This made her raise her head from a drawing that suddenly included a long-boned Scotsman at the center of the scene. She tipped her sketchbook away from him to hide what she was doing. “You’ve worked out how Papa and I can travel on to Skye?”
He shook his head with mock disappointment. “Here I thought you’d reconciled yourself to staying in my humble abode.”
The abode wasn’t humble, and neither was its master. She flashed him a repressive glance. “I don’t want to burden you past our welcome. What do the French say? Fish and visitors start to stink after three days?”
“Marina, I’m sure a little gratitude is called for,” her father said.
But the Mackinnon gave one of his brief laughs and wasn’t at all put out. As she’d expected. She wondered why she felt like she knew him so well, when they’d only just met.
“Och, your daughter and I have reached an understanding, signore. Has she told ye that I’ve offered you both a place here for as long as you need, while you return to health? And if the scenery on my estate meets with her approval, paintings of my home will one day adorn the Duke of Portofino’s palazzo.”
Marina stifled a wry laugh. From the Mackinnon’s tone, it was clear that he thought the Duke should consider himself lucky to enjoy views of Achnasheen.
“She said you’d suggested a brief stay before she goes on to Skye with a hired guide. In the meantime, I’ll remain behind.”
“Signore, I protest. I’d never entrust your daughter’s safety to a stranger.”
Marina bristled. Despite her vow to treat the Mackinnon as just one more obnoxious man to be ignored or outmaneuvered, she couldn?
?t let that pass unchallenged. “It’s not for you to make such decisions for me, Mackinnon,” she retorted, as half-unconsciously, her pencil outlined the impressive arms and shoulders.
His rich auburn hair was damp and clung to the strong lines of his skull. He must have been out in the weather already. He was a man who belonged in the open air, free and strong. Even in the castle’s generous rooms, he seemed too vital to have all that energy confined within four walls.
“She doesn’t like to be guided, does she?”
Her father gave a shout of laughter. “She’s a headstrong ragazza, but a good one. From the first, you could persuade Marina, but you could not command. I see you’ve already noticed that, my lord.”
The Mackinnon shook his head, ignoring the murderous glare Marina aimed at his handsome hide. “Not a lord, signore. I’m laird here, but have no other title. You may call me Mackinnon—or Fergus, if you feel we’ll be friends.”
“That’s very kind of you. You must call me Ugolino. We don’t stand on such ceremony at home as they do in England.”
“That’s the Sassenachs for you,” the Mackinnon said.
“Remember, too, that we’re not from the highest levels of society, Papa,” Marina said, as her pencil began to tackle the fascinating lines of her host’s face. Since she first saw him, the artist in her had hankered to draw him. “We work for our living.”
“At least you do, carissima.”
She wondered if the Mackinnon noticed that she, unlike her father, hadn’t offered him the use of her Christian name. It seemed absurd to deny him, and formality provided no brake to blossoming attraction, but still she resisted the intimacy that first names would encourage.