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

“There’s a grove of rowans across the bridge. I’ll go and cut a stick to make a splint, then I’ll fetch help.” Fergus closed his knife and slipped it into his pocket again. He passed the lady his hip flask. “Ye might need to give him some of this while I’m gone.”

Those snapping black eyes settled on him with an unreadable expression. He was surprised when she said, “Thank you. You’ve been very kind.”

Something about that assessing gaze made him feel as awkward as a boy at his first ball. Ridiculous, really, when he was master of all he surveyed. Because he didn’t know what to say, he nodded, then stood and left in search of a suitable piece of wood.

Upon his return, he discovered the woman had ripped her petticoat into strips to hold the splint. He gave her credit for initiative, although some devil inside him regretted that he’d missed a glimpse of her ankles.

Achnasheen was well away from the fashionable world, and the advent of an attractive woman was a nice surprise. While she was a wee bit too willful for his taste, this lady was intriguing and easy to look at. He mightn’t want to deal with her long term, but short term he was man enough to enjoy the view.

Even in this deplorable situation.

“Give me the splint,” she said. “I can look after that while you get help. It’s too cold to keep Papa out here long. It’s better you go straightaway.”

Fergus struggled to ignore her managing tone. “Are ye no’ coming back to the castle with me?”

“Someone has to remain with Papa.”

Her father’s eyes were closed, and his lips were starting to turn blue. Fergus hoped to hell that the man was all right.

“There’s no need for you to stay. Let the coachman freeze out here.”

She shot a dismissive glance at the fellow who stood a few feet away, huddling miserably in his sodden shirtsleeves and holding the two coach horses. “I wouldn’t trust him with my worst enemy.”

Then why the devil did you hire him? Fergus bit back the question. Something in him hankered to put this outspoken female in her place, but not when the weather was closing in and they had an injured man to get to safety.

“I’ll no’ be leaving a lady out in the rain.”

Her lips tightened. In the circumstances, it was perverse to notice that they were the color of crushed cherries and just as luscious. “I’m not made of icing sugar. A little water won’t kill me.”

Fergus had already decided she was more spice than sugar. “Very well, then, if you insist.”

“Thank you.”

Fergus turned to the coachman. “Take the horses along this road to the gatehouse. I’ll be ahead of you, and I’ll give them instructions about what to do when you arrive.”

“Aye, my lord,” the man mumbled.

Fergus waited for the woman to complain about him appropriating her authority again, but she was busy wrapping her father more securely in her cape and helping him to sit up. The man gave a groggy moan, and his eyes no longer seemed to be focusing as his head lolled against her shoulder.

“I’ll be as quick as I can,” Fergus said. “Dinna be frightened.”

The minute he spoke, he wanted to wince. Frightened? This lassie didn’t look like she’d tremble at the crack of doom.

“I willnae be long.” He caught Banshee’s bridle. The mare whinnied and sidled away, but settled at a quiet word. Further along the road, the coachman led the horses toward Achnasheen.

“That’s good,” the woman said. “Here, Papa. You’ll need this before I’m done.”

The injured man curled his shaking hand around hers as she held the flask to his lips. He jerked away. “Basta! This is vile stuff.”

Despite their plight, Fergus hid a smile. “It’s Bruce Mackenzie’s finest

.”

“Not brandy?”

“No. Uisge-beatha. We call it the water of life.” Not quite legal in the eyes of a Sassenach exciseman, but the best drop of whisky produced across ten glens.

“Dio, I’d rather be dead.”