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

Each time they stopped, Diarmid was all business, more like the benevolent autocrat of Invertavey than her passionate lover. And she’d been so tired, not to mention taut as a violin string. Her mind was all on getting her child out of the Grants’ clutches.

Now she turned to him. “Diarmid, kiss me.”

In the dim interior of the carriage, she caught the startled flash of his eyes. She couldn’t blame him for his surprise. Over the last frantic days, an inevitable physical distance had grown up between them.

Leaning in, he pressed his lips to hers. It was over almost before it had begun. Then he reached across to open the door. “Let’s see what we can discover.”

He stepped out and extended his hand to help her down. Disappointment at the curtailed kiss stirred in her belly, even as she reminded herself today was all about Christina. She’d hoped for one of those deep, passionate kisses that had punctuated their lovemaking after their wedding. A kiss like that would distract her from her fears. Instead, all he’d done was remind her that once Christina was safe, she still needed to negotiate the terms of their marriage.

As she emerged from the coach, her eyes searched the façade of the house. Was Christina at a window, wondering who arrived? Did her daughter sense that her mother had come to take her away?

Not that Fiona imagined it would be so simple. She knew Allan Grant better than that.

At least she looked ready to take on her clansman as an equal. The collar of pearls circled her neck, and her beautiful dark blue gown was the height of fashion, thanks to Sandra. One of the maids at the inn in Inverness had arranged her hair in an elaborate style. When she’d looked in the mirror, she’d hardly recognized Ian Grant’s downtrodden widow, or the ragged waif who had washed up on Diarmid’s beach.

“The moment they see ye, they’ll ken things have changed,” Diarmid said with an encouraging smile. He was thinking along the same lines she was. That happened with surprising frequency, she’d noticed. “Ye look bonny. More to the point, ye look like a rich man’s wife.”

Fiona made herself smile back, although Diarmid’s rueful gaze told her she wasn’t nearly as skilled as he was at masking her trepidation. She took in how elegant he looked in his borrowed clothes. “The rich man looks rather impressive himself.”

“Thank ye.” He drew her toward the crumbling stone stairs that led up to a closed oak door. “Good luck.”

She straightened and plastered a haughty expression on her face. Diarmid might know she was on edge, but to her enemies, she meant to present an appearance of confidence and power.

They climbed the steps while behind them, Fergus’s coachman

kept the horses quiet. Diarmid lifted the large iron knocker. The hollow crash echoed the terrified bang of her heart. She tightened her hold on Diarmid’s hand and braced for what was to happen.

At first, nothing did happen. The door seemed to take an inordinately long time to creak ajar.

“Aye?” The person hiding in the shadows was a woman, but that was all Fiona could tell about her.

“Is the master at home?” Diarmid asked in an imperious tone Fiona had never heard him use before.

“Aye.” The door remained open a mere crack.

“Kindly inform Mr. Grant that Diarmid Mactavish and Lady Invertavey wish to see him.”

“He’s awfu’ busy.”

“Nonetheless, pass on the message.”

“Aye.”

When the woman moved neither to open nor shut the door, Diarmid reached out and pushed it wider. “Is this Highland hospitality, to leave guests standing on the front step?”

Fiona found yet another reason to be grateful to her husband. His cool, commanding manner had them over the threshold and standing in a dusty hall without a stick of furniture to relieve the bleak emptiness. The elderly woman who let them in regarded them with a sullen wariness that made Fiona’s stomach knot in familiar dismay. The servants at Bancavan had worn that exact expression. Although unlike this shabby house, Bancavan was run with sparse but military efficiency.

“Ye show nae courtesy to your kinswoman,” Diarmid said.

“Kinswoman?” The woman’s eyes rounded as they settled on Fiona. “Ye said Mactavish.”

With everything else going on, Fiona had forgotten the feud. No wonder they received such a meager welcome.

“Aye,” Diarmid said sternly. “But my wife is a Grant. Or she was until we married. Ye have her daughter Christina here. We’d like to see the lassie.”

The woman’s expression closed against them. “You’d better talk to the laird.”

“Is Christina in the house?” Fiona asked, unable to help herself. “Is she well?”