The Laird's Willful Lass

by Anna Campbell

  A furious swipe through the air dismissed her answer. “To Hades with practicality. I dinna want ye to go.”

  She scrambled up to face him, ignoring the hand he stretched out to help her. If he touched her, she feared she’d weaken. His touch held such power. It had always held power. She should have seen the dangers long ago.

  What was she saying? Of course she’d seen them. She’d just been too greedy to have this glorious man in her arms to heed the warning signs.

  “Marriage between us would be a disaster. We’re too different.”

  “Are ye sure about that?”

  She shrank away from those searching gray eyes. “You know we are.”

  “I believe we’re remarkably similar, which makes it a miracle that we’ve found one another.” He sighed and ran his hand through his hair with a gesture of frustration. “Be damned if I mean to let ye leave me without a fight, Marina.”

  “Fergus…” she said, stepping back. Her knees felt like blancmange.

  She didn’t underestimate what he was saying. This was a declaration of war.

  Marina fell back on stale arguments, even as she admitted what she said wasn’t true now, had probably never been true, not really. “Stop trying to push me around. You’re such a bully.”

  She expected—hoped—that he’d take offense and either stomp off and leave her alone, or act badly enough to confirm that her decision to refuse him was the right one.

  He did neither. Instead, he subjected her to another of those penetrating stares that made her feel like he sliced her heart open and read every word she battled against speaking. “Why are ye so frightened of admitting that you want to marry me?”

  “Don’t be absurd.” Stiffening, she cast him a contemptuous glance. “I’m not frightened of anything.”

  “Aye, you are.” He stepped close enough to take her hand and despite her attempts to pull free, he kept it. “You’re terrified. I want to ken why.”

  Santo cielo, she’d been right to fear his touch. And his perception. The urge to fling herself against him and say yes rose to smash against the boulder jamming in her throat. The boulder, blast his knowledge of her, composed entirely of panic.

  “I’ve said no,” she choked out. “Can’t we leave it at that?”

  “You know we can’t.” Compassion and affection softened his features. “Come and sit beside me. Let’s talk about this.”

  “You mean you’ll try and persuade me to agree.” Her tone was tart.

  His shrug was unapologetic. “That, too.”

  She sighed and at last curled her fingers around his. “You’re wasting your time, Mackinnon.”

  But she let him lead her out of the hollow where she’d found such transcendent bliss and where now her heart threatened to split in two. He brought her back to where her sketchbook waited, forgotten. That was warning enough that what she dreaded would come to pass, surely.

  Marina released his hand and scooped the sketchbook up and pressed it to her chest, as she had when Fergus carried her home after saving her life. Although it held no more secrets from him, except perhaps the final, unspoken one. And she had a queasy feeling that last secret was already in his possession, despite her efforts to keep it from him.

  “Armor again?” His tone was dry.

  Sheepishly, she loosened her death-like grip. “Do I need armor?”

  “Not against me, mo chridhe. Never against me.” She slumped onto the tussock where he’d found her drawing an hour ago. She felt like she’d lived through a lifetime since, until she became an old and bitter woman with nothing left to look forward to.

  Oh, grow up, Marina. This isn’t a grand Shakespearean tragedy. It’s a mere difference of opinion that won’t matter a fig in ten years.

  If only she could believe that.

  With wary eyes, she watched Fergus lean against a tall rock a few feet away. The fact that he wasn’t touching her warned her that he believed he could win this argument by appealing to her intellect rather than her physical weakness for him.

  She hated that he was so reasonable. She hated that he was so generous. She wanted an excuse to flounce off and he, blast him, was clever enough to deny her the opportunity.

  He folded his arms across his imposing chest and took a moment to study her. That piercing inspection made her shift with discomfort.

  “Do you want to know why I asked ye to marry me, Marina?” he asked in a gentle voice.

  She frowned. She’d expected him to continue attacking her position, not invite her to understand his. “Because we can’t keep our hands off one another,” she said in a sour tone.

  “Aye, that’s one reason. Is it a bad one?”

  “You can’t base a future on fleeting passion,” she said, far too primly for someone who had been heaving all over him a few minutes ago.

  He arched one of those expressive eyebrows. “Are ye so sure it’s fleeting, lassie?”

  Surprised, she met his eyes. “Aren’t you?”

  He shrugged again. “I suspect over time, my desire might change, but I cannae see it fading.”

  She gulped and closed her eyes, as she fought against the lure of a lifetime sleeping beside this man.

  “I’d never have said you were a romantic.” Porca miseria, she meant to sound snide, but she just sounded needy.

  “I’m telling you what I believe. If it’s romantic to think that something as strong as the passion between us is likely to last, then I’m a romantic.”

  “You’re a romantic to think we wouldn’t murder one another,” she forced through stiff lips, as the sweetness of what he said coalesced into a giant hammer that battered against her closed heart. Because she, too, was in thrall to this bond between them, and leaving him was going to slice at her like a razor.

  He didn’t smile. “Of late, we havenae fought much at all.”

  “That doesn’t mean we won’t.”

  “A fight isn’t necessarily a bad thing.”

  “It is, if you’re always the winner,” she retorted acidly. “You’re stubborn and used to getting your own way.”

  Another tilt of a russet eyebrow. “And you’re not?”

  “Well, that alone promises disaster.”

  “You don’t think you’re strong enough to hold your own in an argument? That doesn’t sound like you.” No, it didn’t, curse him. “By God, Marina, you underestimate yourself, if that’s the case. Or is it that you don’t think I’m capable of seeing reason?”

  She was being unfair. They both knew it. He was arrogant and sure of himself, but she knew him well enough by now to admit that there was a reasonable man hidden inside the all-powerful laird. His motives were generally good, even if at times, he was a little too blunt in expressing them.

  Marina twined shaking hands together in her lap. “You don’t like to compromise.”

  “Nor do you. That doesn’t mean I cannae compromise when I have to.” He paused. “I’m compromising right now, in fact.”

  “How?” The word was a challenge.

  A grim smile twisted his lips. “You’re speaking to a man whose ancestors grabbed what they wanted and asked pardon later. Do you think I’ve never considered stealing you away like Fair Mhaire and locking you in my tower until you consent to stay with me?”

  Despite everything, forbidden excitement tore through her at the idea of Fergus forcing her hand. “Then why don’t you?”

  He narrowed his eyes, and she had a shameful inkling that he guessed her wish to have the decision wrenched away from her. “Because I respect ye too much. And because I ken that unless you come to me wholehearted, this won’t work, magnificent as the battle between us will be if I defeat you in bed.”

  Oh, Madonna santa, that would be a magnificent battle indeed. One he’d lose in the end because, while some reckless part of her thrilled to the thought of him snatching her away like a maiden of old, her independent soul would eventually revolt at the coercion.

  “You seem to have come to know me well.” That
terrified her, too.

  “Aye, lassie. That’s why I’m not touching you right now.”

  “If…if you touch me, I’m lost,” she admitted, the few feet between them bolstering her courage enough for honesty. At least about this.

  When his long body tautened, she braced for him to take her in his arms. He was right. If he kissed her, she couldn’t hold out. And she’d never forgive him.

  She was almost sorry when he subsided back into that watchful readiness.

  “I know. But that willnae win me what I want.” He paused. “Marina, we can overcome whatever divides us. Tell me why you’re so set on running away. Tell me what’s really frightening ye about marrying me. I won’t believe you’re afraid of a few clashes of opinion.”

  “You think you know.” Her voice was unsteady.

  “I can make a guess.” When she didn’t speak, he went on. “Your talent has singled ye out, mostly from other women. You’re Marina Lucchetti, the great artist, raised high above the rest of her sex because you paint like an angel.”

  She flinched away from an accusation she resented, perhaps because it held enough truth to sting. “You make me sound so conceited.”

  Fergus shook his head. “It’s not conceit to recognize your worth. But you fear if you stay here with me, you’ll dwindle into a mere wife. You’ll lose your art.”

  She sucked in a breath that combined shock and relief. When he’d asked her to marry him, the urge to flee had been instinctive. She’d hardly understood it herself. Now the sick dread coiling in her stomach eased, and the painful tension drained from her shoulders.

  “I suppose you condemn that as unwomanly.”

  For the first time, a trace of temper lit his gray eyes to flaring silver. “Stop putting words in my mouth, lassie.”

  Odd this should annoy him when until now, he’d been remarkably even-tempered about her refusal. He went on before she could object to his tone. “You’ve succeeded in the world you inhabit by laying claim to a freedom like a man’s. You’re afraid you’ll betray your talent if you stay.”

  She licked dry lips. “Then you must understand why I say no to your proposal.”

  “I understand.” He went on before she could claim victory. “That doesnae mean I agree.”

  Startled Marina met his eyes and recoiled from the adamant purpose shining there. “You must see it’s impossible.”

  “You once said an affair between us was impossible.”

  She shot him a look of dislike. “I’m beginning to think I was right.”

  “You dinna mean that.”

  God help her, she didn’t. These last weeks had given her a joy beyond anything she’d ever imagined. But they were a bubble, ready to burst to nothing when she returned to reality. Reality was her life as a painter. Reality was going home to Florence.

  She made a helpless gesture. Now her panic subsided, pure misery remained. It wasn’t an improvement. “My patrons are in Italy. My life is in Italy.”

  He looked unimpressed. “You can paint here. You can make a life here.”

  “With painting as a hobby.”

  “With patrons seeking you out. Never doubt that I’m in awe of your exceptional talent. It would be a sin for you to stop painting. Anyway, Scotland has rich men enough to rival Florence. If you’re seeking people to buy your work, I can introduce you to my friends.”

  “As a favor to you,” she said savagely. “I have no reputation here.”

  “Don’t belittle yourself.” A muscle worked in his lean cheek. “I never have.”

  No, he hadn’t. She’d challenged his ideas about what a woman should be, but he’d always treated her as a worthy adversary, even in the early days when they’d disagreed more often than not.

  Marina decided to attack this lunatic idea from another angle. She wasn’t getting anywhere from her current position. “Per pietà, you wouldn’t want to be married to me. I’m not at all a proper Scots wife for the great Laird of Achnasheen. When I’m caught up in my painting, I disappear into another world. If my work isn’t going well, I’m evil tempered and morose. You’ll start to resent that I’m not paying you proper attention.”

  “For God’s sake, woman, how shallow do you think I am?” Fergus straightened away from his boulder so he stood tall facing her, his expression uncompromising. “Do you believe me so spineless that I’ll turn tail at the first sign of trouble? If you do, you don’t know me at all. Do you imagine these dire warnings about how difficult you can be are any great revelation? Credit me with some perception. When something’s worth the effort, I’ll go to the ends of the earth to achieve it.”

  Oh, per l’amor di dio, when he said such things…

  “I’ll be a dreadful mother.” She fought once more to banish that poignant vision of the sons and daughters they’d never have. “You’ll have to rear the children.”

  A growl of disgust escaped him. “Marina, there’s a bloody castle full of people to keep an eye on the bairns. If you’re worried that I want ye to be a nursemaid for the rest of your life, you’re a fool. Anyway in my experience, all that bairns really need as long as they’re fed and housed, is love. Are you saying you wouldnae love the children we have?”

  She bristled under his impatient tone. “Of course I’d love them.”

  Satisfaction filled his expression. “In that case, you’ll make a good mother.”

  Marina lurched to her feet. She started to feel at a distinct disadvantage sitting on her tussock while he towered over her. “You’re trying to make everything sound easy.”

  “No, I’m trying to make everything seem possible, if we have the will to make it so.”

  She swallowed to shift the lump damming her throat. “What about Papa? He and I have traveled together since I started work as an artist.”

  “He can live with us. He can go back to Florence, and visit us when he feels like it. We can visit him.” Fergus spread his hands as if her objections were mere nonsense. She felt like clouting him. She felt like throwing her arms around him and begging him to let her stay. “Don’t ye want to marry me, Marina?”

  “It wasn’t what we planned.” Diavolo, what a pathetic answer.

  “Plans can change.” His stark attention peeled away her skin to reveal the cowardly, needy creature lurking within. “Do you want me?”

  In dumb misery, she surveyed him, taking in the intense, austere face, the powerful body, the sheer everything of him. “Yes, I do,” she mumbled, knowing there was no point lying.

  “As a lover, but not as a husband.” The bitterness in his voice made her wince.

  “I’ve never thought of taking a husband.”

  “Perhaps it’s time ye did.”

  She made a violent gesture with one hand, as though she tried to disperse all his arguments. “I don’t understand why on earth you want to marry me.”

  His gaze didn’t shift from her. “Yes, you do. I told you.”

  “That you want me. It’s not enough.”

  “Aye, well, ye could be right at that.” He drew himself up to his full impressive height and spoke with a resonant certainty that vibrated in her bones. “Is it enough if I love you? Because by heaven, I do, Marina. I love ye, and I want you to be my wife.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Fergus watched Marina jerk back as if he’d struck her instead of telling her that he loved her. The terror returned to her eyes.

  She was so heartbreakingly afraid of relying on anyone but herself. He understood why she felt that way. He even understood how it had helped her become the proud, independent woman she was today.

  But her resolve to forge her own path stood in the way of ultimate happiness. For him—and for her. Somehow he must convince her that they were stronger together than they could ever be apart, but right now that seemed impossible.

  It hurt like hell that she was so determined not to have him. He’d expected an argument, given he was dealing with Marina, but he’d also imagined she’d relent, given time, because she wante
d to stay with him as much as he wanted her to stay. For God’s sake, after they made love in the hollow, she’d been crying about leaving him.

  But so far, all his persuasion had proven most unpersuasive. Nor had his confession of love produced any softening. That hurt, too.

  “You…you can’t love me,” she stammered, raising one shaking hand to her throat and retreating a couple of paces across the grass.

  “I can.” He paused, knowing he was about to take a risk so much greater than confessing his feelings. “And I believe you love me.”

  She went so white that her eyes turned into huge black pools in her ashen face. “I never said so.”

  Interesting she didn’t deny it. Interesting and revealing. “Actions speak louder than words.”

  “You’re reading too much into desire.”

  He shook his head. “No, I dinna think so. Or are ye going to tell me I’m wrong?”

  He watched her consider lying. Then it was as if she were a marionette and someone cut her strings. In some obscure way, she collapsed in on herself. “You devil, Mackinnon.”

  Fergus didn’t smile, although he wanted to. “So you do love me?”

  “How could I do otherwise?” She made a defeated gesture. “I was in love with you when I agreed to become your mistress. I must have been, or else I’d never have said yes.”

  Her admission fell on his troubled soul like rain on parched ground, and he drew his first full breath in what felt like an hour. “Is it such a huge step from mistress to wife?”

  Those fathomless eyes studied him, then she shook her head. “No, you won’t win against me, just because I’m stupid enough to love you.”

  Impatience had him growling and running his hand through his hair. “Can’t you see that if you say yes, we both win?”

  She subjected him to more of that ruthless stare, then her shoulders slumped and she turned away to gaze across the empty hills. “I can’t accept a man’s dominion, Mackinnon.”

  “Even though you love me?” God almighty, despite everything, had he lost her? Was all their passion to end in a parting? How could he bear it?