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

“Perhaps I should go back to the village.” What a letdown after the day of uncomfortable travel. Nothing had gone as planned, not least the weather, and his immediate and powerful reaction to seeing this lassie for the first time.

“That would be best.” She’d closed the door before he reached his horse. Poor Saraband stood on the graveled forecourt, sopping, head down, as miserable as a cat in a washtub.

Cursing, he swung into the saddle and set his tired mount to a canter. But when he came to the end of the lime-tree drive, he saw that he’d lingered too long at the house. The river gushed over a bridge that, mere minutes ago, had been clear. Cinders hadn’t exaggerated about the speed of the rising water. For one reckless moment, he contemplated setting Saraband to swim the flood, but the sight of a half-grown oak tree barreling down the torrent swiftly dissuaded him.

It seemed he and Cinderella were fated to have another chat.

“Sorry, my bonny. It’s back we go. And no dawdling.”

Saraband’s ears flickered, and she answered his urging with a willing burst of speed. Like most lassies, she was happy to cooperate with the Earl of Lyle. Despite the rain whipping into his face and the freezing wind, he smiled. He could already see there was one exception to that particular rule.

As he and Saraband splashed their way back to the manor, he saw that Cinderella stood in the open doorway, watching his approach.

“I was too late,” he called through the gale, as he dismounted and strode toward her.

“I know.” That acute golden gaze inspected him with visible disfavor. He had a horrible inkling that she meant to refuse him entry, despite knowing that he was stuck on the wrong side of the river. An elegant great hall with oak-paneled walls and black and white floor tiles extended behind her. “I checked from upstairs.”

This time, she was better prepared for outdoors. She wore clogs and she’d wrapped a rough shawl around her head. For a moment, she bore a haunting resemblance to the clan women on his Highland estate.

“I didn’t want to risk crossing.”

There was a suspenseful pause. Surely she wouldn’t lock him out. Then she stepped aside and gestured toward the house’s interior. “Come in.”

Lyle didn’t immediately obey. Although the roaring fire in the ancient hearth beckoned like brandy to a drunkard. “Will you ask someone to see to my horse, please?”

She glanced across to Saraband. “There’s nobody else here but me.”

Lyle frowned in puzzlement, although the reasons behind her lack of hospitality became clearer by the minute.

“There must be staff.” The house was large and well kept, too much for even the most diligent Cinderella to manage on her own.

Her lips turned down. He couldn’t help noticing how full and pink they were. Alluringly kissable. From her slender feet in those incongruous clogs up to the ruffled blond crown of her head, Cinderella was a delectable package.

“Of course there are staff. Just not here.”

“They don’t live in?”

She sighed. “We’ve been rehearsing the Easter play. The household had the afternoon off, to keep the details of the production secret. Because they all have family in the village, with the river rising, they’ll stay there now in case of an emergency. Bassington Grange is high enough to be out of danger. Bassington Lea isn’t.”

“What about the cast, then? Are they still here?” Although Lyle regretted the prospect of company. Other people meant he needed to mind his manners. Some madcap part of him enjoyed this unconventional encounter.

She shook her head. “They left about twenty minutes ago.”

He must have just missed running into them. Cinders stepped past him to share the doorstep. To his surprise, she only reached his shoulder. Her bearing had made her seem taller. In the restricted area, she stood close enough for him to catch a drift of her scent. His nostrils flared at the fresh, flowery perfume, detectable even through the rain. Despite the cold, heat prickled his skin.

A noise from inside distracted him from the lassie. Stubby legs skittered on the tiles and a small white dog raced toward them, barking all the way.

“Bill, no,” she said in dismay, as the dog leaped around the trim ankles showing beneath th

e shortened skirt. “How on earth did you get out, you dreadful beast? I had you safely shut up.”

“He’s just trying to protect you.”

“I can look after myself,” she said, as the dog rushed up and down the shallow steps between the door and the forecourt. “Sit, you brainless hound.”

The dog heeded the voice of authority and sat. Unfortunately in a large puddle below the lowest step. Filthy water splashed up and turned white fur muddy gray.

“A great watchdog you make, my friend.”