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

“Aye, like being willing to recognize her lord and master and do what she’s told. If there’s one thing I cannae abide, it’s a pert lassie who doesnae ken her rightful place in the world.”

“I hope you’re so lucky.” This time Diarmid’s laugh held an edge. Hamish could imagine why. Both their mothers, the famously beautiful Macgrath sisters, gave as good as they got when it came to family decisions. “No, I was talking about qualities like honesty and loyalty, and maybe a bit of spirit to keep things interesting.”

“Och, aye, if ye must have those things. Remember, a lassie wants a man to protect her and smooth her path in life, while a man wants a woman who sees a hero when she looks at him. And by God, whatever you say, any wife of mine is going to be bonny.”

“It’s not always easy to be wed to a beautiful woman,” Diarmid said somberly, and something in his voice made him sound older than his eleven years.

Hamish frowned. He ignored family politics, as long as they left him free to pursue his astronomical interests. But over the last few weeks, even he had picked up the bristling tension between Diarmid’s parents.

“I’ll keep her in line.”

“You’re very confident.” It was spoken more as a question than a compliment.

Mackinnon shrugged. “I took charge here five years ago, after my father died. My mother was prostrate with grief, and my two sisters were only six and seven. They all appreciated a strong hand on the tiller.”

Part of Hamish’s mind marveled at—and unwillingly admired—Mackinnon if he had been master of his estate since he was a mere nine years old. Perhaps there was some justification behind that insufferable self-assurance.

“And you exerted this influence at nine?” Diarmid asked with a hint of disbelief.

“Aye, I did. I was old enough to know that a woman’s like a horse. A man needs to keep a firm grip on the reins and show her who’s in control, and she’s all the happier for it.”

“I want a good Scots lass who makes sure nobody ever calls my children Sassenachs,” Hamish said, before he thought to stop himself.

“And do ye think a good Scots lass will have ye, my wee laird in the making?” Mackinnon asked, looking in his direction, and Hamish went back to hating him. How could such a nasty brute have such a nice dog, when some very nice boys couldn’t have a dog at all?

“Why not? Glen Lyon is a fine estate, and I’ll treat her well.”

“When you’re not watching the skies,” Diarmid said.

Hamish sat up, disturbing Bailey. He was getting ready to punch his cousin for his lack of loyalty, when he looked out the cave mouth. “Does it seem lighter to you?”

The others turned toward the opening. “By God, I think the mist is clearing,” Diarmid said.

All three boys scrambled to their feet, and Mackinnon began kicking dirt over the fire. “At last. I’ll have ye both back at the hunting lodge before breakfast.”

“We can find our own way,” Hamish said ungraciously, wanting this stranger gone and Diarmid to himself again. The dog rose with a groan, had a good shake, and stretched.

“Maybe. But having saved your necks, I dinna want ye tumbling down the next brae, once I leave ye to your own devices.”

Diarmid ignored Hamish fuming beside him and extended a hand in Mackinnon’s direction. “Master Mackinnon, I’d like to thank you for saving our lives. I dread to think what would have happened if you hadn’t come along. We’d have frozen to death, if we hadn’t fallen down a cliff first. This adventure will always unite us.”

Devil take Diarmid, Hamish hoped not.

A hint of a smile hovered on Mackinnon’s face. “Given I’ve just saved your thin southern skins, ye should call me Fergus.”

“I think so, too. I’m Diarmid.”

As the young Scotsman shook his hand, Diarmid cast his younger cousin a disapproving glance. “Hamish?”

“Oh, aye,” he said in a sullen tone and stuck out one grubby paw. “Thank you for saving us.”

To his surprise, Mackinnon shook his hand and laughed—not nastily either. “Not as eloquent as your cousin, but, aye, I’ll take it.”

Hamish felt a pang as Bailey wagged his tail and trotted back to his master. “I like your dog.”

“Aye, Bailey’s a braw creature, if not the bonniest. He’s just fathered a litter of puppies, if you’d like one.”

“Would I?” Hamish responded with a rush of enthusiasm, then native caution revived. “Why on earth would you give me a dog?”