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

The blazing second disintegrated into ashes. She turned and lifted the latch. “Goodnight, Fergus.”

He didn’t answer. Sour disappointment crammed every unspoken word in his throat. Without a backward glance, she disappeared into her room.

With aching tenderness, Fergus leaned in and pressed one hand against the closed door, spreading his fingers as if he reached through the wood. Then with a heavy sigh, he trudged away.

Chapter Thirteen

Marina sat on a green hillside overlooking a pattern of sunlit islands in a silver sea. She’d never seen a finer view, but her pencil lay motionless in her fingers and her heart failed to lift as it always did in the presence of beauty.

Since Fergus had kissed her, every day had been like this. She frittered away her time, while aware that this could be the last spell of good weather before she went home to Florence. It was both urgent and imperative that she finish her sketches, then return to make detailed studies of the dozen scenes she chose for the duke’s pictures.

The Duke of Portofino was paying her a fat fee, and more important, he was a noted art collector, an influential voice in Italian cultural circles. When he’d offered her this commission, she thought that at last she broke through to a career at the highest level. She’d been overjoyed and flattered to say yes.

Now her pencil felt as dead and unwieldy as a brick, and the magnificence around her wouldn’t transfer to the page. She wished she’d said no to artistically minded noblemen and stayed in Florence where she made a good living, selling her work to local aristocratic families and rich travelers.

Except in her heart, she didn’t wish that at all. Because if she’d never come to Scotland, she’d never have encountered Fergus Mackinnon. He was unlike any man she’d ever met, and he became the measure by which she’d judge all men in the future.

The wisest thing would be to leave, even if that meant bearing with Fergus’s company as far as one of the houses on Skye where the duke had arranged an introduction. But as with her art, so with her ability to make decisions. She couldn’t summon the will to go.

Right now, she was alone. Her host wasn’t in sight, although given how he occupied her thoughts, he might as well be. Fergus never hovered by her side, but took the chance with all this hill walking to consult with his crofters and shepherds. As someone who also had a purpose—before she came to Achnasheen anyway—Marina admired his diligence. Macushla and Brecon had come out with them, but had soon disappeared across the hills to pursue mysterious canine affairs.

With a sigh, she considered the few uninspired lines she’d set on the page. Perhaps the problem with this sketch was the angle of the view. She rose, dusted off her skirts and climbed the hillside.

When she’d been sitting, she’d heard running water. Now she saw a stream tumbling toward a cliff, then over. Perhaps a dramatic waterfall might awaken her dormant urge to draw. She forded the water and edged around for a better l

ook. This had definite possibilities. She ventured closer to the edge.

Marina was so busy studying the landscape for artistic potential, that she forgot to look where she was going. The heel of her half boot, wet after wading the burn, skidded across a bare patch of rock. With a scream, she plunged over the escarpment.

* * *

Fergus was checking recent repairs to a small stone bridge when he heard Marina’s shrill cry. Immediate fear froze him on the spot. These hillsides were steep and dangerous, and even folk who knew them came to grief.

He shook himself out of immobility. His heart racing faster than the water rushing down the mountainside, he dashed back to where he’d left Marina. When the dip in the ground proved empty, terror like he’d never known turned his guts to water.

“Marina!” he shouted. “Marina, for God’s sake, lassie, answer!”

The breeze whipped his words away, and for the first time in his life, he felt small and powerless in this rugged landscape he’d always loved. The burns were swollen, and the towering Mare’s Tail waterfall had turned into a torrent. If Marina had slipped into that, they’d be bringing her broken body up from the stony riverbed at the base of the cliff.

Why in Hades had he left her alone? It was agony to be near her, but he’d promised to keep her safe. If he lost her…

“Marina! Devil take ye, answer me!”

In a black fog of fear, he stumbled up the brae. He was the Mackinnon. These glens and hills were his domain. He wouldn’t permit them to steal his woman away.

“Marina!”

Was that a reply? Between the rushing water and the strengthening breeze, he couldn’t be sure. He ran to the brink of the waterfall, his belly clenching at the thought of seeing a crumpled figure hundreds of feet below.

Nothing.

“Marina, darling, talk to me.”

“Fergus, help me. I’m stuck.”

Gratitude made him stagger. She was alive. Hope more intoxicating than Bruce Mackenzie’s best whisky pulsed through him. But when he scanned the bare hillsides in a frantic search, he couldn’t see her.

Puzzled, he struggled to work out where her voice came from. “Where are you?”