“I cannae imagine your noble patron will want a picture of me among his Scottish scenes.”

“I don’t know.” She arched an eyebrow. “You have the untamed quality he asked for.”

Wicked humor sparkled in the silvery eyes. “I’m glad you think so, lassie.”

The fleeting expression she’d sought to depict was nowhere to be seen. Right now, he looked predatory and far too interested in her. With sudden violence, she scribbled over the few lines marking the page.

The Mackinnon laughed again. “Och, that puts me in my place.”

“I have no skill in portraits,” she said, closing the book even as her eye fell on her first sketch of her host.

The Mackinnon stood. “Anyway, you need to excuse me. Signorina, would you like me to show you around the castle this afternoon? It may inspire your artistic impulses, despite the weather.”

She was sure it would. It was her other, more carnal impulses she was worried about. On the other hand, how often did she have the chance to tour a genuine Highland castle?

“Thank you,” she said with a docility that provoked another mocking arch of a russet eyebrow.

The Mackinnon turned to Papa. “If you’d like it, signore, I thought perhaps your daughter and I could dine with ye in here tonight to keep you company. I imagine time will hang heavy while your leg heals.”

“Grazie, that’s so kind,” her father said. “I’d like that beyond measure.”

Marina cast the Mackinnon a curious glance. She’d imagined that he’d try to get her to himself again. What was his game?

The silvery eyes were enigmatic. Diavolo, she was completely out of her depth. Which was absurd when she’d been fending off amorous overtures from ardent gentlemen since she set up as an artist. She knew the danger signals, and she knew how to defuse masculine interest. Or at least she thought she did.

“Then I’ll leave you to rest.” He bowed to Marina. “Signorina.”

Once the Mackinnon had gone, a charged silence fell. Marina pretended an interest in a sketch of a crofter’s cottage she’d done on the way north.

“Daughter, look at me,” her father said in soft Italian.

Unwillingly, Marina obeyed. “Si, Papa?”

“He has his eye on you, that one. Be careful.”

She gave a derisive snort and answered in the same language. “If you’re worried about the Mackinnon, why on earth are you doing your best to push us together?”

“I’m not,” her father said. If he’d met her eyes when he spoke, she might almost believe him.

“Anyway, even if he is interested in me, men have been interested in me before. I’ve always been able to handle them.”

“Yes, but this time I fear you’re interested in him in return.” Her father frowned. “And we’re under his roof.”

“He’s a fascinating man, but too much the master,” she said with utterly spurious self-confidence.

Her father didn’t smile or make his usual teasing remarks about her going her own way. “But you always like a challenge.”

“I know the price of a scandal, Papa.” Her hand clenched on the pencil. “Don’t worry about me.”

“But I do worry. Listening to the two of you talk is like being caught between lightning strikes. I don’t want you to get burnt, cara.”

“He said if I want to go on to Skye, he’ll give me a guide. But it means leaving you behind. You can’t travel as you are.” Reluctantly this morning, she’d admitted that the Mackinnon hadn’t exaggerated her father’s immobility over the next few weeks.

“That fool of a coachman.”

“Yes, well, there’s no point crying over spilt milk.” When she spoke the proverb in English, her father chuckled.

“You and your mother, such strange things you say in your barbarous tongue. Only a fool would waste tears on a drop of lost milk.” His expression turned somber. “I always miss her, but right now, I miss her more than ever. I have a feeling you might need her guidance in time to come.”

Tags: Anna Campbell The Lairds Most Likely Historical
Source: readsnovelonline.net