The Highland Laird

by Amy Jarecki

  Smiling, she grasped the medallion around her neck. “Always. It was a gift from my mother, God rest her soul.”

  “I remember how precious it was to you. I also remember the time you were up a tree howling as if Satan himself was holding a torch to your toes because you’d lost it.”

  She hid her face in her palms. “Do not remind me.”

  “Why ever not?” Cair grasped her elbow and urged her hands away. “I always enjoy a laugh when your brother is wrong. Or acting like a sore-headed bull.”

  “You do have a way with words, m’laird.” Her curls bounced. “Ye ken I didn’t want him to pull me out of the tree. The medal was one of the few things I had to remind me of Ma. I wanted him to find it.”

  “Yet he didn’t listen.”

  Biting her bottom lip, Emma shook her head. “He never listens. But…”

  “But?” Ciar asked, waving his palm above the brazier’s fire, letting it warm his fingers.

  “You do,” she whispered, moving a wee bit closer and making Ciar’s heart skip a beat. Perhaps more than one. “You found it sometime after Robert had thrown me over his shoulder and hauled me into the house like a bushel of grain.”

  He swallowed, making the rhythm of his heart return to normal. “Quite a sight that—he was red-faced and determined whilst you kicked and shouted all the way.”

  “I was so embarrassed.”

  “You shouldn’t have been. You were angry and fought valiantly.”

  “I do not ken about that, but I’ll never forget what happened next.” A delightful giggle made her shoulders waggle. “That’s when I decided you were my knight in shining armor.”

  Ciar grinned at the memory of her ardent affection—the glee of a seven-year-old lass. “When I returned it?”

  “Aye.” Emma coyly twirled her errant lock around her finger. Lovely. Womanly. Most certainly no longer seven years of age. “You came up to the nursery.”

  “Ah, yes.” How could he forget? That’s when she first twisted his heart around her finger just as she was now doing to her hair. “You were curled up in a tiny chair clinging to a floppy doll and crying as if the world had ended.”

  “Mm hmm. And then you opened my palm and said—”

  “I would have searched all night to make you smile again.”

  “See? That’s why you’re so dear to me, Dunollie. You’ve always been ever so thoughtful.”

  And you’ve always been ever so precious. Ever so vulnerable yet immeasurably courageous.

  He blinked. “Perhaps we ought to be heading back to—”

  “M’laird?” Emma asked.

  “Aye?”

  “We’ve been friends for a very long time.”

  “We have, indeed,” he said, drawing out the words. The twist of his gut warned him to tread carefully.

  “And yet, I’ve never seen you.”

  His throat closed. Poor lass, how difficult it must be. “No,” he whispered.

  She raised her hands. “May I?”

  “Pardon?”

  “Och…” She pinched the tips of her fingers together. “I see through touch.”

  “Uh…right. Yes, of course.” Ciar glanced aside. Still on the bench, the lady’s maid leaned forward as if she were about to intercede. “That is if your chaperone does not object.”

  “Betty will not mind.” Emma turned her head, though not quite in the maid’s direction. “Will you, Betty?”

  The woman sat back and folded her arms while Emma stepped improperly near. Two hands’ width separated them at most. The whisper of her breath caressed him, the scent of fresh lavender filled his senses as if she’d bathed in the blooms only moments ago. The lass placed her hands square in the middle of Ciar’s chest and slowly slid them upward. Though his heart thundered loudly enough to be heard above the music in the hall, her face remained unaffected by the intimate contact. Her expression was serene, and the moonlight made her skin luminous like that of an angel. Slowly, her fingers explored his cravat and, when they moved to the exposed skin beneath his chin, he shuddered with a twinge of awareness sparking through his body.

  Emma’s lips parted, making her look too tempting. Indeed, she had developed into a stunning woman.

  He pulled away a bit. “I…ah…doubt you’ll like what you find, lass.”

  Her hands stilled. “Why?”

  “Because I’m a bit…” Some said he was a beast, others an oaf. His features had always been severe. But then he was a man. A Highlander as rugged as the mountains surrounding his home. “Gruff.”

  “Then I’ll reckon you are far more interesting that most.” She stepped even nearer, a bit of puzzlement crossing her features. “You’re shivering. Are ye cold as well?” she asked, her fingers inching upward. “Your skin does not feel cold.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Ah…I-I am simply not accustomed to such familiarity.”

  She snapped her hands away. “Forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive.” He grasped her wrists and drew her fingertips to his cheeks. “Carry on.”

  Steeling his mind, Ciar made himself impervious to her gentle but overly familiar touch as she carefully explored the landscape of his face, spending an inordinate amount of time examining his crooked nose, broken more than once.

  Surely she will recoil in shock soon.

  He let out a long breath when she moved on to his eyes. Though his relief was short-lived when she examined the skin beneath. It was as if the pads of her fingers could detect the dark circles from spending two restless nights on the trail as he and his men had ridden to Achnacarry. With delicate brushes, she examined his thick eyebrows. Did she like what felt, or did she find him a troll with brutal features? After all, most would agree troll was an apt descriptor.

  When Emma slid her fingers into his hair, she gasped. “Oh, my, your locks are thicker than mine.”

  Before she went further and brought him to his knees with her beguiling touch, he again grasped her wrists. “I’m a wee bit of a hairy oaf, I suppose.”

  “Not at all.” She wrenched a hand away and fingered a lock at the edge of his cheek. “’Tis fabulous.”

  “Emma,” Betty warned, “you’d best take a step back now. You mustn’t be too familiar.”

  The corners of her mouth tightened. “Very well.”

  As the lass lowered her hands, Ciar caught her palm. “So now that you’ve seen me, are you disappointed?”

  “Not in the slightest. Your face is quite…quite interesting. Masculine.”

  Ciar hadn’t been gifted with an attractive mien. He looked more like the black Irish side of his kin, with hair the color of obsidian and a beard that needed to be shaved twice daily to keep it in check.

  The lass started to draw her hand away, but he held it firm. “You, lassie, are far bonnier than I.”

  “’Tis kind of you to say, but—”

  “No arguments.” He bowed and politely brushed his lips across her knuckles. “I am Dunollie, and my word must be taken as gospel.”

  * * *

  Wrapped in her robe, Emma tapped her cane across the floor of the chamber she’d been appointed to share with Betty. She had to do something to keep her mind off Ciar MacDougall. Goodness, the back of her hand still tingled where he’d kissed it. Not that she’d never been kissed on the back of the hand before, but there was something about His Lairdship that stirred her blood every time he was in the same room—or courtyard.

  She’d learned something new about him under the night sky—something that had made her mouth grow dry and her knees wobble. The laird was a deeply passionate man even if he did not care to own to it. She’d felt the powerful beat of his heart beneath her fingertips, the tightness of the skin around his mouth. Most of all, she’d sensed the strength of his passion in the way his breath caught when he feared she would not like what she “saw.”

  But she liked it too much. Her dilemma? She must never admit to a soul how much what she’d uncovered had intrigued her, enticed her,
made her want to know more.

  “Betty, do you find Dunollie attractive?” she asked, trying to sound indifferent. Everyone commented on Emma’s expressions. Even Janet said she was as readable as a placard. But mayhap if she pretended to be preoccupied with learning the lay of the chamber, Betty wouldn’t notice exactly how curious Emma was about the man.

  “Hmm.” The maid’s voice came from across the room where she was stowing her gown in the portmanteau. “I’ll say His Lairdship is robust and perhaps a bit rough-hewn.”

  “Rugged but attractive?” she asked, nearly squeaking as she pondered such a delicious prospect.

  “Well, I wouldn’t want to meet him alone in a dark wynd, mind you. Though by the girth of his shoulders, I imagine your brother was wise to make Dunollie a fast ally.”

  A smile stretched the corners of Emma’s mouth as her cane tapped a piece of wooden furniture and, by the rattle of ewer and bowl, she knew exactly where she was standing. Though her discovery was not what made her grin. Ciar’s hands had been coarse and powerful, and so much larger than hers. However, she’d never admit such a thing to Betty.

  Emma rapped again. “’Tis eight paces from the end of the bed to the washstand.”

  “Very good, and how many from the bed to the door?”

  Without using the cane, Emma walked back to the bed, then resumed her tapping until she hit the wall. “Ugh.”

  “You’re nearly there. Just two steps to the right and you’ll find the latch.”

  “I loathe change.”

  “You must change eventually.”

  “And why is that?”

  “To begin with, Robert will arrange your marriage.”

  Emma chuckled and thumped her way to the settee—six paces from the door and seven from the bed. “I think Robert is perfectly happy to have me reside in Glenmoriston for the rest of my days.”

  “I don’t know. He wants you to be happy.”

  Sitting, Emma found her knitting where she’d left it. “And why can I not be content to remain in the home where I’ve resided all my life?”

  “One day a fine gentleman will come round, and you’ll steal his heart with that bonny smile of yours, not to mention your delightful conversation. I’ll wager you’ll fall so much in love, the idea of moving to a new home will not be frightening in the least. You might even find yourself living in a castle.”

  “I believe you have read too many fairy tales.” Snorting, Emma picked up the needles. It was no use talking to her lady’s maid about marriage or where she might live when and if she married. First of all, she did not want to leave Glenmoriston, and secondly, Robert hadn’t ever spoken to her about finding a husband.

  If someone who might want me actually exists.

  She ran her fingertips along the wool, counting the loops, then started a new row of the scarf she was knitting. She and Janet made scarves, hats, and mittens for the unfortunate. “What color are his eyes?”

  “Whose eyes?” asked Betty as her footsteps creaked over the floorboards.

  “His Lairdship’s, of course.”

  “Which one?”

  The maid was baiting Emma for certain. “Och, the same one of whom we’ve been speaking. Ye ken.”

  “They’re blue.”

  Emma had a strong sense of color by association. Warm sunlight was bright yellow, just as fire was red. Autumn leaves were auburn, and the sky on a fine day with a gentle breeze was blue silk. “What sort of blue?”

  “Stormy, I’d say. Like the sea in the midst of a tempest.” Betty placed a hand upon Emma’s shoulder. “’Tis time to brush out your locks, then off to bed with us. I ken you’ve had an exciting day, but it is very late.”

  The last thing Emma wanted to do was sleep. Ciar MacDougall had eyes like a tempest and a face that struck fear in the hearts of men. How utterly romantic!

  Not that she should dwell upon the idea. She must never do such a thing.

  Betty attacked Emma’s tresses with the boar’s-hair brush, hitting a knot and making her wince. “Ow.”

  “Sorry. The curls are wound tighter than I thought. I’ll start at the ends.”

  Sighing, Emma folded her hands. She must remind herself that she’d encountered Dunollie many times before. He had always been affable and polite. But things had never gone beyond pleasantries. He’d oft danced with her, and tonight he’d strolled in the courtyard with her, but it did not escape her notice that the invitation had been extended to Robert as well. Aye, Ciar was an able dancing partner, but a man such as he was far too important to entertain affection for the likes of her. After all, he was one of the most powerful men in the Highlands. And she?

  I’m a fond childhood friend is all.

  By the way her brother dragged his feet, she doubted Robert would ever find a suitor for her. Besides, if she remained a spinster for the rest of her days, her wish would be granted and she’d never be forced to move way from Moriston Hall.

  I would be content with such a life. After all, I’m happy there. She bit her fingernail. And safe.

  Sighing, she smoothed the back of her hand across her cheek—the hand Ciar had kissed. Emma could still dream. And in her dreams the great and powerful laird would always remain her knight in shining armor.

  Chapter Three

  Ciar patted his horse’s shoulder and handed the reins to a stable boy. “Give him an extra ration of oats. This fella’s earned it.”

  “Had a good run, did ye, m’laird?” asked the lad.

  “I did, and ’twas a fine morning for it.”

  Taking a deep breath, Ciar headed for the keep. There was nothing like enjoying a brisk run across a lea with his steed, and the flat land leading to the River Arkaig had given him a wonderful opportunity to push his horse to a full-on gallop. Not often could he afford the time to ride for the pure joy of it. At home he was forever busy with the running of his own estate, which included Dunollie Castle. He boasted two thousand head of cattle and fifteen hundred head of sheep. Shearing alone had kept him and his men busy for the past month. Fences were always in need of repairs, and wool had to be kept dry and taken to market. It was a good life but one filled with never-ending duty.

  As Ciar strode past a hedgerow bordering the Achnacarry gardens, conversation of the feminine variety resounded over the foliage.

  “I cannot believe my brother has taken his new bride to a rustic old hunting cottage in the mountains,” came a familiar voice, that of Janet Cameron, now Lady Grant since her marriage. Ciar had known the woman since before he could remember, the lilt of her voice making him stop.

  “I fail to see why you’re all aflutter. They’re in love and together.”

  He recognized Emma Grant’s voice straightaway as well. Peering around the hedge, he found the two ladies sitting on an iron bench in the shade of a circular garden arbor.

  “It is not exactly romantic, if you ask me,” Janet said. Of course she would know what her brother was up to.

  Smiling, Emma clapped her hands over her heart and feigned a swoon. “I think it is romantic.”

  “Oh, please. There are no modern comforts. One must cook on a griddle that hangs above a fire pit and sleep on a lumpy pallet.”

  “But they are alone—removed from the overbearing festivities.”

  “They have a responsibility to their wedding guests. Mind you, I did not write all those invitations on their behalf for naught. Besides, I’ll say there are a hundred places in the Highlands where I’d rather spend my honeymoon than a dusty old cottage.”

  Emma laughed. It was an infectious laugh, unfettered and utterly genuine. It made Ciar want to chuckle along with her.

  “Whatever do you find so amusing?” Janet asked.

  “As I recall, you and Robert spent some time in a rustic bothy of all places.”

  “That’s because we were trapped in the midst of a snowstorm and there was no other place to go.”

  “Och, aye?” Emma pressed her fingers to her lips, her shoulders shaking with that delig
htful giggle. “But not long afterward, you were married.”

  “Obviously your memory is addled. It was quite a while after—”

  “Good morn, ladies.” Ciar stepped out from behind the hedge and beneath the arbor’s shade. “Enjoying Lochiel’s fine garden, I see.”

  “Dunollie!”

  As soon as Lady Janet spoke his name, Emma smiled as if he were Christmas morn. “Ciar, wherever did you come from?”

  “I took a ride to the river.”

  “Was it wonderful?” Emma asked. “One of my favorite places in all the world is Moriston Falls. Have you been?”

  “The falls are on our lands in Glenmoriston,” Janet clarified.

  “I cannot say I have.”

  Emma sat taller, her gaze focused well above him. A stranger would have thought the wisteria hanging from the arbor had caught her attention and not Ciar’s comment. “After all the times you’ve visited, Robert hasn’t taken you?”

  He strode nearer. “The next time I visit Glenmoriston, you’ll have to show me, Miss Emma, since your brother hasn’t done so.”

  Janet cupped a spray of flowers in her palm. “Whilst we are here, you must admit the Achnacarry gardens are something to behold. Dunollie, have you seen the plot of summer blooms?”

  “Aside from a cursory glance, I cannot say I have.”

  Emma reached out, managing to brush Ciar’s forearm. “Och, you must see the roses. There are countless fragrant varieties.”

  “Careful not to appear too familiar, my pet,” said Janet. “I’m sure the laird has far more important business.”

  The poor lassie’s face fell. “Apologies.”

  “Not at all.” Ciar tapped his thigh with his riding crop. “Where are these roses? Would you ladies care to show me?”

  Emma clasped her hands, looking as if she intended to give the tour herself. “Of course.”

  Lady Janet patted her belly. “If you don’t mind, Emma will take you. I will, however, remain right here in plain view.”

  Ciar gave Her Ladyship a sideways glance—the situation would be less awkward if Janet were to accompany them. Was she with child? She didn’t look to be, but what did he know about these things?