The Highlander's Christmas Quest (The Lairds Most Likely 5)

"Aye," she said, then all capacity for speech deserted her as he climbed up to stand in front of her.

She tilted her head. Then tilted it some more. By all the saints, he was a giant.

Kirsty was on the short side. Her father called her his wee squirrel. But compared to this young Hercules, she felt positively minuscule. Papa was a big man, over six feet, but this fiery-haired laddie would top the laird by another few inches.

Now they were on the same level, the man’s shoulders appeared even more impressive. And those blue eyes were more extraordinary close up, bright with intelligence and vitality and warmth.

He looked like a hero from an old story. Jason or Theseus or Hector. He even spoke like a hero, in a voice as deep as distant thunder and as rich as new cream. No wonder a mere storm hadn’t vanquished him.

"That’s braw to ken, mistress." A crooked smile curved that miracle of a mouth, setting attractive creases around his eyes. "And just where on God’s green earth is Askaval?"

She smiled back. Impossible to do anything else, really. By now, her giddy heart had stopped somersaulting. Instead it was performing an energetic jig, bouncing around like her father at the Christmas ceilidh after he’d had a dram or six. "We’re south-west of Islay."

"I’m a good hundred miles off course, then." The muscle jerking in that lean cheek emphasized a cheekbone as hard and sharp as a clear note on a flute. "The wind has blown me south and west when I wanted to go north. I suppose I’m lucky that gale didnae carry me all the way to America."

Another rueful smile made that impossibly beautiful male face even more beautiful. Kirsty’s stomach tightened with a pleasure in his presence so powerful, it hurt.

A mere puff of wind had decided her fate. The thought made her painfully alert to the fragility of her current happiness. If last night’s gale had blown a few degrees further north or east, this masterpiece of creation could have ended up on some other fortunate maiden’s shore. "Where were ye headed?"

A faraway look softened that brilliant blue gaze. While he might be standing only a few feet away, she had the strangest and most unwelcome feeling that his mind had moved to distant shores. He wasn’t focused on Kirsty Macbain at all.

He was quick to come back to their conversation, but it had been a telling moment. He blinked and glanced down at her. "I’m heading for the Innishes."

She frowned. "The Innishes?"

"Aye, north-west of Lewis. Innish Mor and Innish Beag." He paused as if waiting for a response, but Kirsty had never heard of either place. "I beg your pardon, mistress. Let me introduce myself. I’m Dougal Drummond of Bruard."

He bowed with more of that breathtaking elegance. For such a big, brawny man, he moved with astonishing lightness, like a dancer.

Automatically Kirsty dropped into a curtsy and only then recalled what she was wearing. Her stomach clenched with dismay and embarrassment, and she bit back a groan. Plague take her, she must look the veriest hoyden.

She was dressed for a day of hard work, in a loose white shirt and short black woolen jacket. Breeches and boots completed the unmaidenly ensemble. On Askaval, she was her father’s right hand, and it was easier riding around the island in practical male clothing. This morning, she’d tied her thick dark hair back in an untidy plait that the breeze had already played havoc with. The islanders were used to her and her ways, but to a stranger’s eyes, she must appear outlandishly unfeminine, perhaps even unnatural.

Not that so far, Mr. Drummond had betrayed a trace of disapproval. Clearly this paragon of male beauty was a paragon of manners, too.

Never before had Kirsty wanted to be pretty for a man. But standing here, she wished that she was wearing silks and pearls and that she knew how to flirt. She wished so hard, the wishing was agony. While she might be a dab hand with a troublesome ewe or a tangled fishing net, she hadn’t the slightest idea of how to attract a male’s attention. And for the first time ever, she desperately wanted a man to look at her with desire.

One red brow tilted in her direction. "And who may I say I have the pleasure of addressing, mistress?"

He might be a paragon of manners. Clearly she wasn’t. She should have told him her name straightaway. But the first sight of him had left her floundering and chased anything like common sense all the way to Edinburgh.

"I’m Kirsty Macbain." She felt her rare color rise once more as she responded, flustered, to the question. "My father Augustus Macbain is laird of this island."

Mr. Drummond bowed again. "I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Macbain."

If only that was true and not just polite folderol. She bit back a sigh. "Let me take ye up to the house." It was almost a relief to start thinking about practicalities. "After the night you’ve had, I’m sure you’d like a wash and a good meal and a bed."

"Aye, thank ye." That charming smile reappeared. "I’ll accept with pleasure, and perhaps your father can supply me with the materials to fix my boat. I’d like to be away as soon as I can, especially as the weather looks set fair now the storm has passed."

Away as soon as he could? Those words sent Kirsty’s frail pavilion of dreams crumbling to dust.

Because if Mr. Drummond had been as struck with her as she was struck with him, he wouldn’t be talking about a quick departure. He’d be talking about staying long enough to make his mark with her. She wasn’t versed in flirtation, but even she knew that if a lad fancied a lassie, he’d be in no hurry to take to the seas to escape her.

Kirsty, ye wee fool, why the devil would such a man notice you? Except to see that you’re rag-mannered and turned out like a navvy, and your hair looks like eagles have been nesting in it.

She told the spiteful voice to shut up. I dinnae care. He hasnae noticed me that way today, but that doesnae mean he never will. Papa says I look like Mamma, and everyone tells me she was beautiful. Perhaps if I put on a dress and wash my face and ask Lucy to do my hair and…

But by then Dougal Drummond would be gone.