The Highlander's Christmas Countess (The Lairds Most Likely 8)

“You don’t weigh much.”

“My big, strong husband.”

He laughed and set her on her feet in the center of the festive room. “Let me see what I’ve caught for myself. We’ve had such a crowd of people around us all day, I haven’t had the chance to take a good look at you.”

She blushed as his eyes ate her up and told herself that it couldn’t be desire that she read in his face. It was just more consideration for her feelings. He’d been forced into this wedding, and now he did his best to put her at ease.

He really was the prince Mrs. McCluskey had called him. Kit was a lucky girl to be his wife.

She was an unlucky girl, because she wanted so much more from him than he’d ever give her.

“You make a lovely bride, my lady.”

She reached up to touch her short hair. “Not a conventional one.”

His grunt was dismissive. “Convention is overrated. Now sit down near the fire before you fall down. The green tinge is back.”

Kit spread her hands in apology. “I’m sorry.”

He smiled at her with such kindness that her poor susceptible heart squeezed painfully tight. Living with her stepbrother, she’d learned the value of kindness, because there had been so little of it. She’d noticed Quentin’s kindness from the first. With animals. With the children. With her.

“A few bridal nerves are de rigueur, I believe.”

“A few?”

But all the same, she didn’t feel quite as jittery when she sank into a leather chair in front of the blazing hearth. If only because it seemed that her bridegroom wasn’t about to rush her into bed and have his way with her this very minute.

“Here. This might help.” He came to stand in front of her with two crystal glasses in his hands. He held one out. “Bruce Mackenzie’s finest.”

She knew about Bruce Mackenzie, the best whisky distiller in the Highlands, who lived on the Achnasheen estate over on the coast. Her fellow stablehands had spoken of his product with awe.

“You know I don’t like spirits.”

“I had a feeling you were developing a taste for them in the hut. Try some now. It might fire up your courage.”

She didn’t take the glass. “Do I need to fire up my courage?”

“A bit of extra courage never goes astray.”

“That’s true.” She reached out to take the glass, sure Quentin wouldn’t miss how unsteady her hand was.

“Slàinte mhath.” He drank the whisky in one gulp.

“Slàinte mhath,” she echoed and cautiously sipped the golden liquid. It had such a strong taste, she couldn’t help grimacing, although at least this time, she knew what to expect.

“You’ll get used to it,” Quentin said on a laugh.

“It still tastes like medicine.” She felt a lovely heat now she’d swallowed it, and the aftertaste wasn’t unpleasant at all, rich and peaty and smoky.

As she took another sip, Quentin turned away to set his glass on the mantel. The taste became more palatable.

She watched him cross to the desk under the curtained windows. He returned with a piece of paper that he held out in her direction.

“This is for you.”

Puzzled, she set her glass on the table near her chair and reached to take it. “What is this?”

“It relinquishes any claim I might make on your fortune.” For once, his voice held no hint of teasing. “I told you I’d do this. We can go to Edinburgh in the New Year and have a lawyer draw up something official. But I’ve signed this and I had the minister witness it, so I suspect it will hold up in a court.”