The Highlander's Lost Lady (The Lairds Most Likely 3)

“Aye. The baby’s due in the next few weeks.”

Fiona made a sound of protest. “We can’t inconvenience you, sir.”

Steely gray eyes had already subjected her to a swift, but thorough inspection. “There’s plenty of room, Miss…”

Diarmid’s arms tightened around her waist. “This is Mrs. Grant.”

She assumed Mr. Mackinnon must know about the history of violence and hatred between her family and the Mactavishes, but he didn’t mention it. Nor did he comment on her married name. “May I help ye down, Mrs. Grant?”

She was strangely loath to leave Diarmid’s arms, and she wondered if he felt the same. He seemed re

luctant to release her. “Thank you. You must be wondering why…”

Mr. Mackinnon took her by the waist and lifted her to the cobblestones where she staggered. After a day in the saddle, she was stiff and awkward. He kept hold of her arm and saved her from a tumble.

“Steady there, lassie. There’s nae need for explanations on the doorstep. Come away inside and have a hot bath and something to eat. We can save getting acquainted until you’ve settled in. Any friend of Diarmid’s is a friend of mine.”

She wasn’t sure if she was Diarmid’s friend. She didn’t know how she’d describe what drew her and the Laird of Invertavey together. Nothing as benevolent and uncomplicated as friendship, that was for sure. But after the last few days, she was exhausted and heartsick. A chance to catch her breath before she shared her story with yet another person was a blessing.

Behind her, she was aware of Diarmid dismounting. She was always aware of where he was and what he did. He loomed up behind her and as if at a silent signal, Mr. Mackinnon released her arm. She was firmer on her feet now, but even so, she appreciated the warm strength of Diarmid’s hand at her back.

“We’re grateful, Fergus.”

“Och, it’s nothing. It’s no’ as if we dinna have the space, laddie. And Marina might like another lady in the place at such a time.”

Fiona took a deep relieved breath. So far, thank heaven, their host didn’t seem ready to treat her like a scarlet woman. The silvery eyes that settled on her were bright with curiosity, not condemnation.

“Jock, will ye take Sigurn?” Diarmid asked. “She’s had a rough few days and come through like a champion. A bit of your famous touch with horses willnae go astray.”

“Och, she is a bonny champion. All of Banshee’s get have hearts as big as the Highlands. But I can see she’s due to be treated like the queen she is. Leave her to me, Mactavish.”

“Come away in,” Mr. Mackinnon said, gesturing toward the stairs. “We’re due to have dinner in an hour or so. We’ll put it back half an hour, so ye can slough off the travel dust. Diarmid, you’ll join us?”

“With pleasure.”

“Mrs. Grant? If you’d rather have a tray in your room, we can arrange that. I can see this dunderhead has put ye through the wars.”

A night to herself? It sounded like paradise, but she couldn’t rest easy until she’d explained herself to this man who seemed so ready to accept her at face value.

“No, I’ll join you for dinner. Thank you.”

Mr. Mackinnon offered his arm. “Then welcome to Achnasheen.”

Fiona curled a trembling hand around his elbow. What on earth was she getting into? If Diarmid hadn’t been just behind her, she might have taken to her heels and run.

Chapter 15

Within half an hour of his arrival, Diarmid was downstairs. Weariness thickened his head and made his muscles ache, tugged at him with every step. Weariness and his uncertainty about the best way to help Fiona. But a good wash and some clean clothes, courtesy of Fergus, left him feeling more like his unflappable self.

He’d visited Achnasheen since he was a boy, so he needed no guide to find the library where Fergus usually enjoyed a wee dram before dinner. Before Fiona joined them, he wanted a quiet word with his friend.

“Fergus, may I come in?” he asked from the doorway.

“Buonasera, Diarmid.” Fergus’s striking half-Italian wife looked up from her seat near the window. “This is a treat to have you here.”

Diarmid had last seen Marina in Edinburgh in April, at the triumphant opening of her exhibition of Scottish landscapes. She was a famous artist whose work was in demand across Europe. Fergus had told him then that he and his wife expected their first baby in August. Over the last few months, she’d grown large with child.

Now she sat in a leather armchair with her feet up on a stool. As usual, a sketchbook lay open on the table next to her elbow.