This Scot of Mine

by Sophie Jordan

  “Aye,” he acknowledged with a nod of his head, his eyes resuming their normal size. “It is I.”

  Marcus and Alyse both looked back and forth between them in bewilderment. “You two have . . . met?”

  Clara nodded, her face overly warm. “Yes. On the way here we stopped to freshen the horses. This man was . . .”

  How did one explain it?

  Involved in a brawl? Destroying the inn over the matter of stolen livestock? Crushing me with his bigger body and brushing the hair from my face far too intimately?

  “I was there as well,” the Scot offered in that deep, shivers-inducing brogue.

  Nothing more than that. Nothing about the brawl or how inappropriate their encounter. Nothing about how their bodies had been plastered together.

  It was just as well.

  The memory made her face burn fire.

  He, however, looked quite unaffected. Indeed there was no hint of that past exchange between them at all. No mention of that history between them in his speech or manner, but there was an awareness gleaming from his eyes. He well remembered their sparring banter. One corner of his mouth curled. And he knew she remembered, too.

  “We were not formally introduced,” she said.

  “Ah. Of course.” Her brother seemed satisfied enough with that explanation. “Laird MacLarin is our closest neighbor, Clara. He has become a true friend to me and Alyse.”

  A laird. Blast it all. So he was no ordinary Scot stirring up trouble at the local inn then. No local riffraff, it seemed, but a man of position and property. His arrogance made a bit more sense now, but it was still inexcusable. She was quite done with boorish men.

  Immediately she felt self-conscious, the balance between them suddenly shifted. By all accounts, in her current status, her own family could have cast her out and Society would not frown on them for it. No longer deemed fit company for those of quality, she was not his equal and that fact rubbed at her ego. All the little raw and vulnerable places inside her stung from that knowledge.

  Like it or not, with her reputation in tatters, he was her better.

  He was a man of position and accustomed to deference and able to get away with doing whatever he wanted. Just like Rolland. An image of a whip flashing through the air made her cringe. Rolland’s hand had held that whip, had wielded it with such gleeful brutality. She shoved down the memory and roamed her gaze over the Scotsman again, pausing on the signet ring he wore. She had not noticed it on their first encounter. Perhaps he had not worn it. Even from where she stood she could see the large ring depicted some manner of crest. The Clan MacLarin?

  “Lady Clara.” The Scot moved to bow over her hand. She tried not to tremble as he gripped her gloved fingers. She also tried not to notice the way he smelled of wind and leather. She stopped herself mid-inhale. No. She would not breathe him in. She would not let herself be dazzled by a man.

  Still holding her breath, she stared down at the bent head of the man she had thought to never see again.

  The gold-shot brown hair needed cutting. It fell past his collar and her palms tingled as she wondered whether the strands felt as soft as they looked.

  Bad thought. Bad, bad thought.

  She tugged her hand back and rubbed her fingertips against her side as though she could rid herself of his touch, but the sensation still lingered. There was no wiping it off. No ridding of it.

  He watched her, his eyes narrowing where her hand wiped at her dress.

  His lips thinned. He said nothing, but she knew he’d taken offense. Good. Let him think he repulsed her. Maybe that would deflate some of his unmitigated cheek. She’d marked that about him from the moment she spotted him. Aside of his ridiculous good looks, he was far too sure of himself. That had been spectacularly obvious when he commanded her to run along like some pesky hound.

  “Shall we dine?” Alyse asked.

  They all took their seats, settling in amid an awkward hush of silence.

  Clara took pains to avoid looking at him during the first course. A herculean task since she could feel him staring at her. He was probably as shocked as she to find them thrust together again.

  Her brother soon filled the silence with conversation. He had years of practice as a nobleman moving in all of the highest circles. He was charismatic and could make conversation in the most stilted of circumstances.

  “This is a treat.” Her brother gave her one of those worry-laced smiles, as though he were trying to persuade her of the fact. “We don’t have much in the way of Society here, so having you and MacLarin both joining us is a delight.”

  “Indeed,” Alyse agreed. “Not that we don’t enjoy it here with just ourselves.” Her hand drifted to rest on the rounded mound of her belly. “Of course, our numbers are growing. It shall never be only the two of us again.”

  Marcus winked at her, lifting his glass in a toast. “And now our beloved sister is here with us. Soon we will have quite the merry tableau.”

  Marcus and Alyse shared a rather secret smile that hinted at the intimacy and love between them.

  Clara recognized the sentiment. However rare it might be witnessed about Town, she had seen it between Mama and her stepfather daily. Foolishly, she had thought she would have that with Rolland. Even though Mama and Marcus had found that, she now knew it was something not so easily acquired. Something rare. She, for one, would never have it. She blinked suddenly burning eyes at the reminder that such a thing was lost to her forever.

  She smiled wobbly as her brother and sister-in-law shared another loving look.

  She tried to suppress a stab of envy. Jealousy was an ugly emotion. She knew that, but she had not considered what it might feel like to be in the constant presence of two people so thoroughly enamored with each other—what it might feel like to watch their family grow over the years whilst she stood at the fringes. She herself staying the same. Never changing. Nothing exciting ever happening to her.

  Well, except she would get older. She would age and slide closer and closer to the end of her life with so little to show for it.

  She reached for her drink and took a long gulp at the dismal thought, wishing it was something stronger than sherry.

  She was freshly jilted with her reputation in shreds.

  Of course she would have such grim reflections.

  She was happy for her brother. Truly. How could she not be? When he left London all those years ago, he had been rather angry. Selfish. Then he met Alyse and now he was a better person for it.

  And yet . . . here Clara sat, her burdens all the more acute in the face of such glowing happiness.

  The sensation of being watched forced her head back up. She found the Scottish laird studying her with those piercing eyes of his. She flushed. This dinner was endless. She tried not to squirm. His blue eyes were far too probing. He couldn’t possibly know her thoughts, but she felt he could see directly into her soul. It was an unnerving sensation. Rolland had never looked at her with such intensity or ever with such astuteness, as though he were seeing beneath all her layers.

  “Sorry your grandmother could not join us, MacLarin. We always enjoy her company,” Marcus commented as they now worked their way through the evening’s second course.

  “Her aching bones make it so it is no longer easy for her tae ride or sit in a carriage for such a duration.” Even as he spoke he was still staring at her. He lifted his glass to his lips and drank, one of those blue eyes daring to wink at her over the rim.

  Oh! The nerve. Face burning, her gaze shot back to the pheasant and sausages on her plate. She began cutting vigorously.

  “Tell me, MacLarin,” Marcus began, wiping at his mouth with a linen—but not before looking her way. It seemed he had noticed MacLarin’s staring. He leaned back in his chair, idly holding his glass. “How is that prize bull of yours?”

  Ah. The bull again. Apparently the beast was renowned if even her brother was inquiring. She watched on with interest as she swallowed a bit of roasted parsnip.


  MacLarin’s nostrils flared ever so slightly. “He’s . . . misplaced. Temporarily.”

  Marcus leaned back in his chair with a huff of laughter. “Don’t tell me. One of your fellow Scotsmen has relieved you of him.”

  MacLarin scowled and she couldn’t help noticing that the expression on him did nothing to mar his beauty. Unfortunate, that. “Simply borrowed.”

  “Borrowed?” Marcus shook his head, still laughing. “In England we call that theft.”

  “Well, you’re in Scotland now,” MacLarin reminded rather gruffly.

  “Indeed.”

  “My bull will soon be home where he belongs.”

  At his belligerent tone, she couldn’t hold back a short laugh. Regrettably, his eyes shot back to her at the sound.

  She arched an eyebrow at him, obliged to speak. “Come now, sir. You do realize you’re getting your feathers ruffled over a cow?”

  “I told you.” His eyes glinted. “A bull is no’ a cow.”

  She shrugged as if it were no account . . . knowing the gesture would only exasperate him. For some reason irking him made her feel better. It was diverting at least.

  Marcus shook his head with a smile, motioning for more wine as he leaned back in his seat. “I always enjoy these visits, MacLarin, where you educate me on Scottish customs.”

  “Someone has tae,” MacLarin replied with easy arrogance. “How else will you raise your brood up tae be proper Highlanders?”

  Clara snorted.

  Very presumptuous of him. He was speaking to the Duke of Autenberry. Her brother might reside here, but he was as English as they came, as would be his offspring. Undoubtedly one day he would rightfully claim his seat in the House of Lords.

  The laird’s eyes narrowed at the sound and he canted his head slightly, leveling her with his undivided attention. “Do you plan tae stay long, Lady Clara?” The way he said Lady Clara was faintly mocking. At least to her ears. She was certain no one else in the room detected the undertone, but she did.

  “Clara is going to live with us,” Alyse eagerly supplied. “And we are so very excited to have her here.”

  Because that’s what happens when you’ve been banished from your life.

  She took another long sip of sherry and tried not to reveal that her move here was anything less than pleasing.

  “Ah.” His eyes remained fixed on her and yet they were unreadable. “Then she will be wanting tae learn our customs as well.”

  “My skills of observation are keen. I’m sure I will learn everything I need to know in short order,” she proclaimed over the soft clink of cutlery on plates.

  He smirked, his gaze skimming her with a bemused air that set her teeth on edge. “Things are no’ always learned quickly, Clara.”

  She flinched at the intimate use of her name. For some reason, it embarrassed her, implying a familiarity that should not exist between them. She could not bring herself to look at either Marcus or Alyse to note their reaction. They likely thought nothing of it, accustomed to their friend’s ill-mannered ways.

  She was certain he was referring somehow to her behavior at the inn where he had so sneeringly called her a Sassenach. Mayhap a civilized and delicate Sassenach such as you should no’ have ventured so far into the Highlands.

  They were served a fragrant medley of seafood that her brother exclaimed over in delight. “Clara, we have only the freshest fish here.”

  While Alyse and Marcus turned the discussion to the merits of mussels versus scallops, she leaned sideways so that she could hiss under her breath at MacLarin.

  “How dare you address me so informally?”

  “Why does it bother you so much?” Clearly, he understood her meaning.

  “It’s impolite.”

  “Forgive me, I was no’ schooled in proper etiquette. ’Tis all one can expect from a Highland savage.”

  She stifled her wince to have her words flung back at her so aptly. “Indeed,” she snapped and stabbed her fork at a chunk of fish on her plate.

  Her gaze stalled on his hands as he used his knife and fork. They were large. The wrists thick and broad, lightly peppered with hair. So many gentlemen in Town possessed hands not much larger than hers. When she clasped hands with them to dance, their hands had felt as delicate as a bird’s. Sometimes she felt as though she should lead.

  MacLarin’s entire hand could cover a great deal of space. She had a sudden flash of his hand on her body, on her bare skin. The rougher pads of his palms against her tender flesh.

  A strange tremor ran through her and her belly contracted, the muscles tightening and fluttering in a way that made her reach for her glass of sherry with shaking fingers. She could definitely use a more fortifying libation.

  She sucked in a sharp breath. Blast her wayward imagination. It was galling to know this man had roused such a reaction in her. She had no business entertaining such thoughts. Not of Laird MacLarin. He was too big, too coarse, too wild. Not that it would be acceptable if he was the opposite of those things. She had no business entertaining such thoughts of her with any man. She forced her gaze straight ahead, determined not to look at him or his attractive hands for any length of time again.

  “Once the weather warms up a bit we can take a boat ride out in the firth,” Alyse’s voice startled her.

  Clara’s breath fell a little faster as she turned to stare at her sister-in-law, feeling unreasonably caught, her pulse like a hammer at her throat. There’s no way Alyse could know her thoughts. “Lovely,” she murmured.

  Alyse smiled, appearing blithely unaware of the tension coursing through Clara as she cracked a crab, laughing and ducking as it sprayed out juice. “The dolphins race right alongside the boat. It’s exhilarating.”

  MacLarin, however, didn’t glance in her sister-in-law’s direction. The crab could have jumped from the plate and latched on to Alyse’s nose. He was not the least interested. Indeed not. His gaze remained locked on Clara. For some reason his gaze seemed very bright and very focused on her right then. She shifted in her seat.

  “That sounds delightful, Alyse,” she responded for lack of anything else to say. Oh, when would this night end? She longed to return to her room where she could bury her head in a pillow. She thought she wouldn’t have to see anyone once she arrived here. Mama had said she would be in seclusion. This hardly felt like seclusion right now.

  Clearly she was not the only one at the table who noticed the Scot’s penchant for staring. Marcus looked from MacLarin to her and back again, his expression turning thoughtful as he traced the rim of his glass.

  “MacLarin?” Marcus prompted, watching with interest as their guest did not turn at his name. “MacLarin?”

  “Hmm?” The laird finally turned.

  “I was asking if you’ve had any more problems lately with your neighbor to the east? Bannessy? The last time we spoke, you mentioned he made off with your cook?”

  “Aye. Bannessy is no’ tae be trusted.” MacLarin shrugged as if this was to be predicted. “Strife is expected betwixt our clans. I would fret if we were no’ in some manner of dispute.”

  The servers arrived to take away the last of the dishes. The meal was finished and not soon enough as far as she was concerned.

  Marcus rounded the table to his wife.

  Clara gained her feet and MacLarin fell into step at her side, offering her his arm. She scowled down on it, supposing she had little choice but to accept. With a grunt, she placed her fingers on his sleeve, barely touching.

  “Surprised tae see me again, lass?” he queried softly.

  Lass. She bristled. She didn’t care for that address either. It was even worse than when he called her Clara. He probably spoke to every female so informally. She was not any female though. She was Lady Clara. She winced at the arrogant thought—especially considering she was not entitled to such high regard anymore.

  “Indeed,” she agreed. “I am quite surprised to see you, lad.” She smirked.

  The corner of his mouth kicked u
pward. “I’ve no’ been called a lad in years.”

  From the size of him, she was not surprised. “Well, I can assure you I have never been called ‘lass’ by anyone ever.”

  “Oh, I am certain of that, Lady Clara.” No doubt about it. He was mocking her. His blue eyes glinted. “I’m honored tae hold the distinction of being your first.”

  Her head whipped to stare at him with a sharp breath, convinced there was innuendo in the remark. Innuendo of the most vulgar variety. His curling lips only served as testament to that. Oh, he was a wicked man!

  He continued, “We dinna stand on ceremony here. You may have tae release some of your haughty ways if you wish tae acclimate.”

  “Haughty?” She stopped and stared at him in affront. She could not count the number of times Mama had reprimanded her to be more circumspect, more haughty like Enid. It was almost laughable. Mama would be proud of her in her dealings with this Scot. The nerve of this man to criticize her. “You do not know me at all, Laird MacLarin.”

  He turned to face her, her brother and Alyse forgotten somewhere ahead of them. They stood close. Not as close as when they had been on the floor at the inn when he had been crushing her with his bigger body, but close enough for her to smell his scent. Wind and leather swirled in her nose.

  “Right you are.” He nodded.

  She nodded back. “We are strangers.”

  And they always would be strangers. Contrary to what she told Alyse, she would never be friends with this man. He roused her temper in a way that barred friendship. It was simply not possible.

  They started toward the drawing room. Alyse was already settled on a sofa inside, knitting on her lap. She smiled at Clara and patted the seat next to her.

  “MacLarin?” Marcus stood in the threshold. He inclined his head in the direction of his study. “Care for a whisky?”

  MacLarin’s gaze flickered to her before looking back at her brother and nodding.

  With a grateful sigh, she slid her hand from his arm and stepped inside the drawing room, eager to be free of him. She would be spared those penetrating eyes.

  He’d likely spend the rest of the evening with her brother and do whatever it was men did when they sequestered themselves in the study.