“I hope so.” The breath caught in her throat when he leaned in again, but he merely stretched past to release the latch so her door opened behind her. He frowned when he glanced into the dark room. “Didnae Peggy wait up?”
“I told her not to. I’m used to looking after myself.”
Her eyes clung to the derisive quirk of that expressive mouth. “More of your blasted independence?”
“Probably,” she said, telling herself it was silly and dangerous to be disappointed at the lack of a kiss. If he kissed her, her situation at Achnasheen would become impossible.
The Mackinnon stepped into her room. “Let me light a candle.”
It shouldn’t feel like he intruded on her intimate space. After all, before she came downstairs, she’d only been in the bedroom for an hour, and he owned the whole deuced castle. But there was something powerfully evocative about watching a long, lean Scot prowl around a room where in a few minutes she’d undress and lie down to sleep.
Marina stayed in the doorway as he lit the candle on her dressing table from his. When he stood in front of the mirror, there were two Mackinnons. She was so tired, she started to lose her hold on what was real and what wasn’t.
He came toward her, bearing both candles. For one lunatic second, she thought of asking him to stay, to answer the physical attraction blazing beneath their interactions with a resounding yes.
“You’re dead on your feet,” he said softly, passing her the light. “You should have stopped me from talking so long.”
“I liked it,” she said.
A faint smile touched his lips, and she felt an almost painful hunger to see him smile properly again. She blinked and swayed on her feet. Tiredness, or the yen to step into his arms?
“I told ye we’re starved for company here at Achnasheen. You’ll be lucky if I ever let you go.”
“Lucky…” she said, not sure if it was a question or not.
He lifted his candle, and she flinched from those searching eyes. Heaven help her if he guessed what she was thinking right now.
“Goodnight, Signorina Marina.”
“Goodnight, Mackinnon,” she whispered in return and stood to watch him stride away down the corridor on those long, powerful legs.
Fergus Mackinnon mightn’t be her sort of man. But, diavolo, what a man he was.
* * *
Chapter Five
* * *
Marina didn’t see the Mackinnon again until late the next morning. She’d slept like the dead and late—which she never did, as she liked to catch the early light for her work. After Peggy brought her breakfast in her room, she’d changed into the yellow dress she’d worn last night. Her blue traveling ensemble was drying in the kitchen after its soaking yesterday.
If she was to stay here, she’d have to do something about clothes, although goodness knew what. It wasn’t as if there was a street of shops outside where she could order a new wardrobe.
How annoying that the Mackinnon had been right about the weather. If Achnasheen meant field of rain, it lived up to its name this morning. If she’d decided to travel on without her father, she wouldn’t get far today.
She went in to sit with Papa, who was more comfortable than she’d expected and as a consequence, bored and starved of company. Luckily the castle turned out to have a large library. She was reading to him from a recent Blackwood’s Magazine when the Mackinnon appeared in the doorway.
In the clear, gray light of day, Marina had hoped good sense would conquer her inconvenient yen for this Scotsman. But when she looked up from the page to find him watching her, her heart resumed its acrobatics and heat rushed through her blood.
It didn’t help that this morning he could have modeled for an illustration in a Highland romance. Last night, he’d worn conventional clothes, like the men she met in Italy and London and Edinburgh. He’d been devastating enough then. Now when he appeared in a loose white linen shirt and a kilt in a pattern of red and black, he was breathtaking.
To avoid those knowing gray eyes, she glanced down, only to find herself staring at powerful bare legs. She blushed as she caught her father’s curious stare and returned her attention to the magazine. Except the words blurred into nonsense. All she could see was a tall, red-haired man in a costume that should strike her as hopelessly theatrical. Instead, the sight of the Mackinnon in his native dress stirred something wild and free inside her.
“Good morning, Signor Lucchetti, Signorina Lucchetti.” The Mackinnon came in and with every step he took closer to her, her heart slammed in time against her ribs.
“Good morning, sir,” her father said.
Marina remained tongue-tied, which was a new experience. Porca miseria, she acted like a foolish girl in the grip of her first puppy love.
“How are you feeling this morning, sir?”
“Much better, grazie.” Her father smiled. “Thank you for taking us in. After yesterday’s rescue, we already owe you such a debt of gratitude. I fear we can never repay you.”
The Mackinnon lifted a chair from under the window and brought it forward. When he sat beside Marina, the gap between them was more than proper. It was considerably wider than the space had been last night on the chaise longue. She had no reason to feel that he staked a claim on her.
“There’s no need. Here in the Highlands, we’re used to helping each other, as there’s nobody else to rely on. And I’ll appreciate the company. New faces are rare in this part of the world.”
“You never go to Edinburgh or Inverness?”
“A few times a year. When I have to. This is wild, isolated country, but a man grows to love it.”
“I also must introduce myself. I am Ugolino Lucchetti of Firenze. My daughter is the esteemed painter Marina Lucchetti. It’s her work that brings us to your land so bellissimo.”
Marina cast Papa an incredulous look. Given that all he’d done since they arrived in Scotland was complain, this laid it on a little thick. Her father was a creature of the sun, and even in late summer, Scotland was too cold for him.
“I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, signore. I’m Fergus Mackinnon. I found out all about your famous daughter when we dined last night.”
“Hardly famous,” she said, setting aside the Blackwood’s Magazine and picking up the pencil and small sketchbook that never lay far from her hand.
The Mackinnon turned to her with a polite interest that made her want to scoff. She’d seen the possessive glitter in his eyes when he’d caught sight of her. “Signorina Lucchetti, I hope you’re well this morning.”
“Yes, thank you.” She avoided his stare and began to trace a few lines on the paper.
This was a lovely room, a pleasing mixture of old and new. So far, every part of the castle she’d seen was like that. It was a change from the grand formality she was accustomed to in noble Italian houses, but there was something vastly appealing about the lack of pretension.
“I have good news for both of you.”
This made her raise her head from a drawing that suddenly included a long-boned Scotsman at the center of the scene. She tipped her sketchbook away from him to hide what she was doing. “You’ve worked out how Papa and I can travel on to Skye?”
He shook his head with mock disappointment. “Here I thought you’d reconciled yourself to staying in my humble abode.”
The abode wasn’t humble, and neither was its master. She flashed him a repressive glance. “I don’t want to burden you past our welcome. What do the French say? Fish and visitors start to stink after three days?”
“Marina, I’m sure a little gratitude is called for,” her father said.
But the Mackinnon gave one of his brief laughs and wasn’t at all put out. As she’d expected. She wondered why she felt like she knew him so well, when they’d only just met.
“Och, your daughter and I have reached an understanding, signore. Has she told ye that I’ve offered you both a place here for as long as you need, while you return to health? And if the scenery on my estate
meets with her approval, paintings of my home will one day adorn the Duke of Portofino’s palazzo.”
Marina stifled a wry laugh. From the Mackinnon’s tone, it was clear that he thought the Duke should consider himself lucky to enjoy views of Achnasheen.
“She said you’d suggested a brief stay before she goes on to Skye with a hired guide. In the meantime, I’ll remain behind.”
“Signore, I protest. I’d never entrust your daughter’s safety to a stranger.”
Marina bristled. Despite her vow to treat the Mackinnon as just one more obnoxious man to be ignored or outmaneuvered, she couldn’t let that pass unchallenged. “It’s not for you to make such decisions for me, Mackinnon,” she retorted, as half-unconsciously, her pencil outlined the impressive arms and shoulders.
His rich auburn hair was damp and clung to the strong lines of his skull. He must have been out in the weather already. He was a man who belonged in the open air, free and strong. Even in the castle’s generous rooms, he seemed too vital to have all that energy confined within four walls.
“She doesn’t like to be guided, does she?”
Her father gave a shout of laughter. “She’s a headstrong ragazza, but a good one. From the first, you could persuade Marina, but you could not command. I see you’ve already noticed that, my lord.”
The Mackinnon shook his head, ignoring the murderous glare Marina aimed at his handsome hide. “Not a lord, signore. I’m laird here, but have no other title. You may call me Mackinnon—or Fergus, if you feel we’ll be friends.”
“That’s very kind of you. You must call me Ugolino. We don’t stand on such ceremony at home as they do in England.”
“That’s the Sassenachs for you,” the Mackinnon said.
“Remember, too, that we’re not from the highest levels of society, Papa,” Marina said, as her pencil began to tackle the fascinating lines of her host’s face. Since she first saw him, the artist in her had hankered to draw him. “We work for our living.”
“At least you do, carissima.”
She wondered if the Mackinnon noticed that she, unlike her father, hadn’t offered him the use of her Christian name. It seemed absurd to deny him, and formality provided no brake to blossoming attraction, but still she resisted the intimacy that first names would encourage.
“You handle most of my business affairs.” Largely because the rich and powerful men who bought her art preferred to deal with a man when it came to money.
“I do what you tell me, Marina,” her father said without resentment. He’d never argued with her role as the captain of their particular ship.
She smiled, partly because she could imagine how the Mackinnon would react to a daughter making decisions and not the parent. But when she checked him for disapproval, he just looked interested. In the conversation and in her, blast him.
“I still appreciate it,” she said. “While you’re charming my customers, I have more time to paint.”
“You said you had news for us, Fergus.” Papa’s Italian accent turned the Scottish name into “fair goose” and made Marina smile again, as her busy pencil shaded in a hollow beneath a high Celtic cheekbone.
“Aye, I think you’ll both be pleased.” The Mackinnon leaned back in his chair. “We’ve managed to rescue your luggage. It’s not even waterlogged. The fine Florentine leather of your trunks looks to have kept everything inside clean and dry.”
Amazement froze Marina’s pencil. “I thought my dresses must be floating around in the Atlantic by now.”
The familiar faint smile lengthened the Mackinnon’s lips. “The coach is still stuck on Eilean Mhaire. We managed to swim out this morning to retrieve its contents.”
Wet hair. Now she understood. She frowned as she recalled the torrent of gray water rushing down the mountainside and under the bridge. “You swam out,” she said sharply.
He shrugged. “Well, someone had to.”
“It’s only luggage.” When she recalled how she’d regretted the loss of her belongings, she felt almost guilty. She should have been thankful that she’d managed to save her sketchbook and that she and Papa carried their money and letters of credit on them. “It’s not worth risking your life over.”
The Mackinnon’s brilliant silvery eyes pierced her to her soul. “I appreciate your concern, lassie, but once I made it out and fastened a rope to a tree on the island, it was straightforward. Becoming as my sister’s wee dress is on ye, I have a feeling you’ll tire of it before your father’s leg heals.”
He seemed to take it for granted that she was staying for the duration, whereas she was far from reconciled to the idea.
“I think you’re very gallant to retrieve our belongings.” Papa sent his daughter a critical glance. “Marina, you should thank our host.”
She hated to think of the Mackinnon taking such risks over something as frivolous as a pretty dress for her to wear. However, as her father said, she should say thank you. “It was thoughtful of you.”
Another twitch of the lips, but the Mackinnon’s tone remained urbane. “I want ye to be comfortable here. I’ve got the castle’s lassies checking that everything’s dry. They’ll bring your luggage up, once they’re sure no water got in. We couldn’t do anything to salvage the carriage. It’s fit for nothing but firewood.”
“You’ve done more than enough,” she said, sounding less grudging.
The deed was done, he’d survived, and having her own clothes would be welcome. Although she’d miss the luxurious coach. Over the years, it had become something of an old friend.
“His lordship, the Conte Rossini, won’t be pleased,” her father said.
The Mackinnon didn’t look pleased either. “Why is that?”
“The carriage was a gift from Marina’s first patron, one of the greatest nobles in Firenze.”
“That is an extravagant present.” The Mackinnon’s tone was flat.
By “extravagant,” the Mackinnon meant “unsuitable,” Marina could tell. Temper prickled as she recognized the signs of a man who learned of a possible rival. Her host had no right to proprietary feelings. She decided to torment him a little to put him in his place. “His lordship has always been most…generous.”
The Mackinnon’s eyes narrowed on her. “Has he indeed?”
“Si, certo. The signore is a great lover...” Enjoying herself more than she ought, she raised her hand to touch her lips, as if she recalled passionate kisses. “…of the arts.”
“Aye, a man of exquisite taste,” the Mackinnon said with a hint of grimness.
Before Marina could spin more of a tale, Papa spoiled her fun. “ Sua signoria, il conti has been so kind, like a grandfather. He noticed my daughter’s talent from the first day he visited the school where she studied. He takes a great interest in Firenze’s unrivaled artistic heritage and wants to make sure it continues into the future. Many artists in our beautiful city owe him their gratitude. When he commissioned Marina’s first landscapes, he gave her the carriage so she could visit the places he wanted her to paint. He said that since he’s too old to travel, her paintings brought the world to him.”
“A gift from an ageing admirer.” Wry amusement deepened the attractive creases around the Mackinnon’s eyes. Maledizione, he was onto her game now. Pity. She’d rather relished her power to make him grumpy. “What a charming picture you paint, signore.”
It was her turn to narrow her eyes on the Mackinnon. “The conti has a very handsome son.”
“I hope he’s married with a dozen bairns.”
“Five.” Although Marina was familiar enough with high society to know that a wife and children presented no barrier to dalliance.
She grew to enjoy the Mackinnon’s brief grunts of laughter. Deciding she’d made enough of her aristocratic Florentine connections, she turned to a more neutral topic. “How long do you think this rain will last? I need to get out onto the hills.”
“My daughter likes to work,” her father said with a note of pride. “Always painting, paintin
g, painting.”
The Mackinnon lifted his gaze to the soggy scene outside the window. “It should clear overnight. You’ll be able to go out tomorrow , signorina.”
“And have you found me a guide?”
“Indeed. I’ve put our best laddie on the job.”
“Excellent,” she said and went back to her drawing, as the Mackinnon and her father began to speak of the journey north and where the idiot coachman had gone wrong.
“I’ve arranged for Coker to sail down to Oban with some sheep I’m sending to market,” the Mackinnon said after about ten minutes. “He can make his own way back to Glasgow from there.”
Yet again, the Mackinnon imposed his will where he had no right. Marina glanced up from her finished sketch. It wasn’t bad, but it failed to capture the man’s crackling energy. She’d have to try again. “I might need him to drive me to Skye.”
She said it more for form’s sake, than because she meant it. After yesterday’s debacle, she felt nothing but contempt for the useless fellow.
The Mackinnon tilted his proud head in her direction. “Signorina, I hope you’ll trust me to see you safely to wherever you need to go.”
“Of course she does,” her father rushed to say. He was capable of acting in his own interests rather than hers, when he thought it necessary. Right now, he wouldn’t want to risk losing the comfortable berth he’d found for his convalescence.
“Do ye really want to keep him on?” the Mackinnon asked.
She sighed. The strange thing was she did trust the Mackinnon as far as practical arrangements went. Nothing she’d seen indicated he was anything other than a man of his word. He was acting for her benefit, even if he didn’t ask her permission first. “I suppose not.”
“Anyway, what is he to drive, sciocchina?” Papa asked. “Unless our host lends us a carriage. If you fear we already ask too much of Fergus, well, that’s yet another obligation.”
Her father was right. But Marina couldn’t help but feel that every time she gave in to the Mackinnon, even about an issue as minor as her coachman’s fate, he eroded a little more of her independence.
The Laird's Willful Lass (The Likely Lairds Book 1) Page 7
