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

"Aye," he said with feeling. He hid a shudder as he remembered struggling to keep the Kestrel afloat and on course against the raging waves and howling wind. The sharp crack as his mast shattered still echoed in his ears. "And lucky that the damage to my boat isn’t serious."

"Your business on Innish Beag must be desperate indeed to force ye out onto winter seas a few days before Christmas. The Western Isles are dangerous sailing when the December squalls hit."

In truth, he’d had time to regret his impetuous decision to set out from Bruard as soon as he’d decided that saving Fair Ellen was his destiny. When the hull of his boat was letting in enough water to drown an elephant and he lost all idea of where he headed, he’d wondered if perhaps Fair Ellen’s rescue might have waited until he had confirmed good weather.

His mother and father had both called him a rash young fool for going without preparation and for not taking someone with him. They’d called him worse for setting out in the small sailing boat instead of a more substantial vessel.

But he’d been confident of his ability to brave the seas. He’d spent his life on the water, sailing out of Achnasheen with his Mackinnon cousins. He was young and strong and brimming with righteous conviction. His quest was worthy, so God would see him safely to Innish Beag.

All of which had sounded fine with his feet planted on firm dry land. It had sounded very much more like reckless hubris when he was an inch away from sinking to the bottom of the sea.

But he’d made it to harbor, battered but alive. Even if he was a hundred miles from where he’d started and he needed to do substantial repairs before he resumed his voyage.

When he and Miss Macbain turned in through a pair of open wrought-iron gates and followed an elm-lined drive leading up to an elegant brick mansion, it was clear that the laird of this isolated isle lived in some style.

All on this estate seemed comme il faut.

All, that was, except the laird’s daughter in her male costume. At both Bruard and Achnasheen, the lassies tended to be independent. But Dougal couldn’t think of a one of them daring enough to prance around dressed as a boy.

Not that the revealing costume made Miss Macbain appear in any way masculine. If anything, Dougal was more conscious of the woman’s body beneath the male attire than he’d ever been with a girl in kirtle and blouse.

He couldn’t prevent his gaze from tracing the slender lines of her back and shoulders, outlined under the short jacket. The trim waist he could span with both hands. The shapely legs and the booted feet that trod the cobbled road with an arrogant ownership he’d never seen a woman display. With each step, the thick black plait bobbed between her shoulder blades with an impudent rhythm that made his heart skip a beat.

Everything about this girl shouted a challenge. His first impression of Miss Kirsty Macbain was of barely contained energy. Even after their short acquaintance, he marveled at how the air crackled around her. When her unusual gray eyes first focused on him, he’d blinked with astonished appreciation. And that was after a night that left him so weary that lifting his hand felt like shifting an anvil.

She was a striking lassie, even if a fellow disregarded her eccentric wardrobe. Small and compact and curvy. Her face was all intriguing angles. Straight, uncompromising black brows. A determined jaw, and a neat, rather haughty nose sprinkled with a disconcerting spray of freckles.

In his heart, he already knew what Fair Ellen looked like. The tales gave him hints enough. Pale and willowy and winsome, and eager to adore the man who saved her from her travails.

Dougal couldn’t imagine a female less like the Fair Ellen he’d constructed in his mind than this lively hoyden. This lively hoyden who was leading him around the side of the house to a stable block as well maintained as everything else on this island seemed to be.

"We don’t stand on ceremony here on Askaval," she said, taking her pony into a loosebox. The stables were half empty, but a couple of horses popped their heads over the stall gates to check what was happening.

"Do ye mind coming in through the kitchens? We rarely use the front door. I could knock and have one of the maids let us in, but it’s baking day and they’ll be busy."

Bruard was bigger and more formal than this place. But Dougal was used to a more free and easy welcome when he visited his cousin Callum’s castle at Achnasheen.

"I’m just grateful you’re taking me in." He stepped past her and started to unsaddle the horse. "There’s nae need to make a fuss."

"I think there will be a fuss. We dinnae get many visitors. The island is too far off the regular shipping lanes."

"It will be a five-minute wonder. I willnae be here long enough to disrupt your routine. I’ll be away soon enough, then ye can all return to your peace." He tilted his head toward the saddle in his arms. "Where does this go?"

Miss Macbain looked up from where she filled a manger with oats. "The tack room is down there." She paused to take off the bridle and pass it to him. "Thank ye for your help."

When Dougal returned, she was rubbing the horse down. He struggled to avoid watching the way her body bent and stretched in those revealing clothes as she completed the mundane task.

"Do ye no’ have a groom to do this for you?" he asked, battling to mask a hint of irritation. It wasn’t the lassie’s fault that he found her distracting.

Miss Macbain cast him a surprised glance. "They have better things to do than chase after my whims. I told ye – we don’t stand on ceremony here. It’s a small island with a small population. Most of us shift for ourselves when we can."

"Small but prosperous." Dougal leaned against the wall, watching her, although he didn’t want to. He’d never met a lassie who drew the eye the way she did, although she wasn’t exactly pretty, especially in the pale, pink-cheeked, Cupid’s-bow-lips style currently in fashion.

"Aye, my father is a good landlord, and we’re blessed with rich pastures. In spring, most of our ewes drop two lambs, sometimes even three. On the nearby isles, Askaval’s lamb has a special reputation."

"At Bruard, it’s wool. And cattle. In fact our cattle are too good. Once upon a time, the neighboring clan had a particular liking for Bruard beef, and found our herds too easy to steal."

She regarded him with interest. "A feud? How romantic."