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

He wasn’t used to women ignoring him. He didn’t much like it, especially when Marina was the focus of all his attention. Perhaps she might be right to accuse him of conceit.

Fergus had to give her points for being a gallant companion on a vigorous Highland outing. They’d been up and down some steep slopes today. Now and again, she’d had to get off her pony and lead it. She’d coped with bogs and thistles and freezing burns. When they’d stopped for breakfast, she’d sat on the ground, and she’d leaned against a rock to eat when they’d had lunch.

He knew this first day was just a chance for her to look for scenes she could paint to fulfill her commission to the Duke of Portofino. She spoke of her noble patron, as she spoke of the aristocratic families in England, with a casualness that indicated her ease in society’s highest levels. Yet she made no claim to being anything more than a woman who worked for her living. He loved that her talent provided its own badge of honor, even if her confidence in that talent made her far too contrary.

By now, he was almost accustomed to Marina taking the opposite view to his about everything he’d grown up to accept. He hadn’t missed her shock at how young he’d been when he became laird, nor her appalled reaction when he struggled to name a woman who set her will against his.

Good God, damn few men did. Diarmid and Hamish were both laddies of decided opinions, but most of the time, they took the same sensible, masculine perspective on things that Fergus did, so there was little conflict.

Life must have been saving all its opposition for the moment this unusual woman stumbled across his path.

He turned his attention from his exasperating lassie to the magnificent view across the Hebrides. This was one of his favorite spots on the estate. From the high ledge, the ground fell away steeply to the sea. A pattern of islands spread across the blue, and the sun shone bright on Skye’s strange, bare Cuillins across the water. If Marina looked north, she’d see the hills of Harris. If she looked south, she’d see Rum and the other Small Isles, with a glimpse of Mull further south again.

She must like it, too. She’d lingered to complete several sketches. He should be bored, but the day was so fine and warm, and the chance to observe his fascinating guest without her prickling up was such a gift, that he didn’t mind the lack of activity.

And much as he hated to admit it, she’d given him a lot to think about. Not least what he’d like to do to her before she went back to Italy and her retinue of dukes and counts.

Fergus lounged back in the thick grass and watched a pair of golden eagles perform lazy circles in the sky above him. As his eyes closed, for some odd reason, he remembered that eagles mated for life.

* * *

When Fergus opened his eyes, the sun had moved toward the west. He was warm, and drowsiness weighted his limbs. Sitting on the grass facing him was a lovely woman with a touch of sunburn across her slanted cheekbones and on the bridge of her straight nose. She’d brought a hat, but he noticed that most of the time, she forgot to wear it. Her sketchbook lay open on her lap, and she was watching him with curious eyes.

A tender smile curved his lips, and he brushed his hand across the hint of color. “The sun has caught ye, lassie,” he murmured.

As if it was the most natural thing in the world, he slid his fingers behind her neck and drew her down until her lips met his.

Her mouth was soft, and he tasted her gasp of surprise. Sweet warmth flooded him as her lips fluttered against his.

The muscles beneath his hand tensed, and he waited for her to pull away. Then in a movement so subtle, i

f he hadn’t been touching her, he would never have recognized it, she shifted to a more comfortable angle and leaned closer. Her mouth turned even softer, as she joined in the kiss.

Satisfaction filled him. His hold on her nape firmed, and he swept his tongue along the seam of her lips in a request to enter the honeyed interior.

For a long moment, her lips remained closed. The delay before she yielded gave him a chance to drink in a wealth of splendid details. The heat of the afternoon sun on this sheltered dip in the hillside. The loose strands of silky hair tickling his fingers. The scents of dusty heather in the air, and floral soap rising from her skin. The lush cushion of her lips.

With a muffled sound of pleasure, that sumptuous mouth opened, and her tongue flickered out to meet his. The contact was almost shy, but it made his heart expand with longing for more. Growling deep in his chest, he caught her waist with his free hand. He rolled over until she lay beneath him.

Now he’d captured her ready for ravishing, the kiss caught fire and he tasted her fully. She was luscious as toffee. More sweetness flared into passion when her tongue danced with his, and her arms slid around his back to hold him closer.

She gave herself up with a wholehearted voluptuousness that beggared his experience. He’d kissed plenty of lassies, even bedded a few. Never had he lost himself in a sensual mist, the way he did kissing Marina.

It was inevitable that he should start to want more. Wondered if perhaps he didn’t need to negotiate too hard to find his way into her bed after all. Would this glorious kiss in the open air lead without hindrance to possessing her long, lissome body?

He sucked the tip of her tongue between his lips and placed his hand on the delicious rise of her breast. Under the fine lawn of shirt and shift, he traced the wanton peak of her nipple. He scraped her gently with his fingernail, and anticipation rose as she jerked in response. He did it again, then caught the beaded tip between thumb and index finger and rolled and squeezed.

She moaned into his mouth and arched up. He settled between her thighs, cursing the hampering skirts between him and where he wanted to be.

When he raised his head to look down into her face, her eyes were heavy with passion. Her mouth was red and swollen from his kisses, and parted to give him a glimpse of small white teeth. Her skin glowed with awakening desire. She was the most gorgeous sight he’d ever beheld.

He gave her another quick kiss, although he could already see the dreamy pleasure draining away, replaced by a troubled expression.

“Basta,” she said unsteadily. “Basta.”

He frowned. “Are you calling me a…”

As he’d hoped, the frown dissolved in humor. “No. Enough. Basta means ‘enough.’”