“I’m sorry about your cousin,” she said as if she wandered the branching pathways of his thoughts with him. “I wish I could offer some hope that he’ll be all right.”
“Och, he’ll be fine,” he said with sudden certainty. “If I ken my cousin well enough—and I do—he’ll find a way to escape his circumstances and live a fine life. My hope is that ye’ll be able tae do the same.”
“I’m sure I’ll figure something out.”
Och, she was a courageous lass. Brave and strong. Educated, if he understood her references correctly. Beautiful. Alluring.
Desirable.
He withdrew his hand, clearing his throat at the thought. He bedded many a lass in his life without hardly having her name, but it seemed wrong to want this one so badly knowing there was a thousand things yet to be learned of her. But where to begin?
“How?” He choked the word out and cleared his throat again. “How did ye do it?”
“Now?” she asked, with a wisp of a smile that lit her misty gray eyes and exposed even, white teeth. “Now you ask? I would have thought that would be your first question. Or that you’d demand some sort of proof.”
“I saw the proof for myself, though I dinnae ken what it was at the time. I saw two men disappear before my verra eyes. Saw ye appear. A lesser man might hae killed ye on the spot believing ye the devil.”
“You did call me a witch,” she reminded him.
“Aye,” he admitted, meeting her steady gaze, seeing the amusement there. How could she manage it in such a situation? How was she not losing her mind to fear and panic? She might be a bonny thing, indeed, but in all his days he’d never encountered anyone so courageous. Never so instantly admired another more. “Ye astonish me, lass.”
* * *
Al froze when Keir leaned toward her and lifted his hand to cup her cheek. His roughened fingertips traced a path along her cheekbone. The pad of his thumb grazed her lower lip, leaving a peculiar tingle behind.
His eyes followed and settled there. Overcome by the urge, Al ran her tongue over her lip, following his path.
He exhaled slowly. Were his fingers trembling?
Or was that just her?
“How extraordinary ye are, lass.”
Look who was talking. She’d never experienced anyone like him outside the realm of fiction. Untamed and yes, a little barbaric on the one hand. Gentlemanly and seemingly cultured on the other. An enigma. A mystery she would desperately love to unwrap, beginning with that ruffled cravat.
She’d always had an overabundance of imagination. Yet the most spectacular experience of her life, real or imagined, might be finding a man like this.
He didn’t look at her and see the mousy nerd, lost in books and studying. Hiding out from a world that scared her. By his own words, he saw character. Bravery. Beauty.
She couldn’t remember the last time a guy had looked at her and seen any of those things. Perhaps none ever had. Certainly none of them had ever gazed at her with the blatant desire simmering in his eyes.
It tempted her beyond reason.
But for one lukewarm experience in college, she’d never been tempted to jump into bed with anyone, preferring the passion found between pages to that she’d found between sheets.
A man like Keir, a man far more magnificent than she’d ever let even her imagination dream, might be able to rewrite the entire book of her experience.
If she let him.
If she let herself.
So tempting.
The double doors to the dining room opened then with a grainy grind of wood and hinge. Al jerked away from him as the old man who’d been manning the library doors earlier stepped in. Drawing in a deep breath as if he meant to speak, he let it out with a low whistle. His shoulders drooped and he scratched his head.
“Archie?” Keir prompted irritably, withdrawing his hand. “Did ye need something?”
“Aye, sir,” the old man said. A dramatic pause followed before Archie wrinkled his nose and frowned. “Nay, sir.”
A second later the doors closed again, more gently than they were opened. Al shared look with Keir before breaking down into a light chuckle. He did not appear amused. “Well, that was…”
The doors banged open once more. And again there stood Archie proudly scratching at his behind through his kilt.
“Aye, Archie?”
“Aye, laddie. Lady—”
“Oh, there you are, Keir!”
A plump, but lovely woman in her late thirties sailed through the door around poor Archie, cutting him off. She looked like she’d leapt off the screen of Vanity Fair. She was gowned—the only word Al could think of to credit the flamboyance of her dress—in a pink satin dress with a heavily embroidered stomacher that matched the underskirt showing beneath the parted skirt. The edges were trimmed in neat pleats of satin ribbon. An overabundance of lace flowed from the elbow-length bell sleeves, covering her forearms. She was bedecked with several long strings of pearls and wore an ostrich feather poking out of an elaborately upswept hairdo towering above her head. The skirt stood out from her hips, nearly a foot on each side.
1746, Keir had said. It did explain the clothes.
She seemed overdone to Al’s eyes but also fit seamlessly in that gilded dining room with its handsome, richly-garbed master sitting at the head of the table.
She felt positively dowdy now in her borrowed plain blue dress when she’d felt ridiculously dressed up before.
He rose to his feet as the woman glided up the length of the long table. “Ceana, when did ye get here?”
“Days ago!” she drawled with a flourish of her hand. “I’d been wondering where you’d gotten to when you didn’t join us in the dining room for supper.”
Al frowned. Wasn’t this the dining room?
Her frown deepened when the woman halted, pinning Al with an odd look as if she’d just noticed her. “Oh, you must be the one Maeve was telling me about. Tell me, did you really kill our brother?”
“Ceana.” Keir’s tone carried a hint of warning.
“What? I’m only asking because she doesn’t look at all strong enough to have overcome him.”
“And she dinnae. She had naught tae do wi’ his disappearance.” He lied wonderfully, Al thought. Cool as a cucumber. “She just…” He shot her an arch look. “She just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Ceana didn’t appear to be entirely convinced. “Then where is Hugh?”
Nor did she seem overly distressed by her brother’s disappearance. His own sister. Keir displayed far more concern.
He only shrugged. “Taken prisoner? Many were, including perhaps my father.”
The woman’s expression softened and she reached out to lay a hand on his arm. “I’d almost forgotten. Have you had any news?”
“None as yet.” The response was clipped, inviting no further comment. “And Braemore?”
She flicked her wrist dismissively. “He’s scurried off to his hunting lodge on the Orkney’s. No one will ever put in the effort to follow him there. Honestly, he may never return. I may just have to stay awhile.”
He grimaced and turned to Al. “Ceana, may I introduce Allorah Maines? Al, this is Lady Ceana Sinclair, Countess of Braemore. Hugh’s older sister.”
A countess? She was a bit awed by the announcement.
“Oh, not much older,” she chided, dropping into the chair across from Al and studying her thoroughly. “Maines? English? No wonder Maeve wants to chew her up.”
“Nay,” Keir was quick to answer, explaining to Al, “Maeve’s only son was killed last year on the advance into Derby.”
She stared back blankly. Advance?
“Into England,” he added.
“Oh. I’m so sorry.” She offered her sympathies to them both. “To answer your question, I’m American.”
For that, she received the same blank stares in return. “I come from America. The United States. Across the ocean?” she added helpfully.
“The colonies?” Keir said at last. “Ye’re a colonist?”
“Um, I guess you could say that.”
“Is that where…?” He broke off, frustrated.
“How did you happen to get all the way over here?” Ceana asked curiously. “Just in time to be in the wrong place at the wrong time?”
Al cast about for an acceptable answer but Keir came to her rescue. “Now, Ceana, allow the lass tae retire tae her rooms. She’s already endured a difficult interrogation this night.”
Ceana’s lips quirked. “Oh, aye, I could see just how terribly you were torturing her before. Very well, I’ll let her be for now, but be warned, I’m insatiably curious.” Her eyes slipped across the table. “Oh, how lovely! Are you not going to eat such a fine entrée? ‘Tis much more appetizing than the partridge that was served up on our table. Do you mind?”
As Ceana shifted over to his chair and took up his knife and fork, Al looked to him for direction.
He merely shrugged. The moment between them, whatever it had been about to become, was gone.
Perhaps for the best. Perhaps not.
“I will return to my room. If you don’t mind.”
“Nae a’tall—”
But Ceana cut in, glancing up from the salmon. “Nonsense. You should join us in the drawing room, Miss Maines. We’ll want to learn all about you. Do you play at all?”
Play what?
“Thank you, but it’s been a long day. I think I’ll just go to bed, if you don’t mind.”
“But—”
He lifted a hand, silencing his cousin. “Of course, I’ll hae Archie show ye the way.”
“Do you think he’ll remember better than I?” she asked, gaining a flash of a smile for her jest. “I’ll make my own way just fine, I’m sure.”
“Verra well.”
Keir produced another of those charming bows as Al turned away, but called her name as she reached the door. “We will continue this on the morrow.”
She caught her breath at the idea of picking up just where they’d left off but he dashed away the heady thought by adding, “I will be wanting answers. Tae all my questions.”
Nodding jerkily, she left the room, hearing Ceana ask sweetly before she was out of earshot, “Really? What kinds of questions, Keir? Her bed or yours?”
Al scrambled away, not waiting to hear his reply.
Chapter 11
The next morning dawned sunny and bright. Drawn to the sun after so many days without it, Al threw on one of the dresses left for her. By trial and error she found her way out to the library terrace and down the stone steps to the garden beyond. In and out of the intricate pathways she weaved, soaking up the sun and absorbing the formal beauty of neat hedgerows. The lushness of the flowers. How the variety of plants had been carefully chosen to work with the layout. The care and upkeep that had to be involved in maintaining it.
Her thoughts followed a similarly complex path. Just as they had all night. The future. The past. Her future in the past. It tied her in knots.
As did thoughts of Keir. His undeniable appeal. The startling attraction she felt for him. In contrast to her initial impression of him, he’d been remarkably sweet and caring last night. His flattery touched her somewhere deep inside.
But the implication of Ceana’s taunting question preoccupied her late into the night. The insinuation that he wouldn’t hesitate to sleep with her. The assumption that she would consent.
While those thoughts weren’t pleasurable, they were better than dwelling on less pleasant aspects of her situation. If she let her imagination take root, who knew what it might come up with? As she’d told him, she’d work something out. She had to.
In the meantime, she’d rather focus her energies on working him out. Ceana’s evocative remark combined with Keir’s own commentary regarding his frequent relations with women while on his Grand Tour, suggested he’d been—as her books might say—something of a rake in the past.
Perhaps he still was. Having frequent affairs with a variety of women. As much as a part of her liked the idea of joining the ranks of his lovers, another part recoiled from the thought of becoming just another notch on his bedpost.
She liked a tender happily-ever-after and assuming that wasn’t going to happen with him—and she was certain it would not—she determined that it might be best to let her fantasies remain just that and let the opportunity pass.
At least that’s what her mind decided.
Her body adamantly disagreed.
Not only was he the single bright possibility in this place, he might be her only chance in life at having a man who curled her toes with a single look.
“I’ve a shiny sterling for the thoughts going through that lovely head of yers.”
Al peered up to find Keir striding toward her from across the long lawn beyond the garden. He was wet, perhaps just coming from a swim in the lake in the distance. Gone was the polished gentleman of the previous night, and in his place once more was the masculine Highlander capable of inspiring heart-pounding awe topped with a touch of trepidation.
He was wearing only a low-slung kilt of brown, gray and black plaid with narrow stripes of red and white, flapping around his muscular thighs with each step, and a pair of leather boots laced tightly up his calves. The sight was enough to make her wonder if all the speculation about what a Scotsman did, and more importantly, did not wear under his kilt were true.
But she couldn’t give the subject the deliberation it deserved just then. He’d slung his shirt over his shoulder leaving his broad, damp chest distractingly bare. Broad and thick with muscle, sprinkled with just the right amount of dark hair, the sight only reaffirmed the inclination of her desires.
He studied her curiously. Refusing to blush, she gave the most nonchalant shrug she could manage. Hoped he didn’t notice her sudden trembling.
“Nothing interesting.”
“Nay?”
“No.”
He grinned at her flat denial. The flash of his white teeth in contrast to his tanned skin, the deviltry dancing in those gorgeous eyes, sent her heart rate soaring.
He knew his appeal, damn him.
Definitely a rake.
“I was just aboot tae come looking for ye.” He put his hands on his hips and tilted his head back as if enjoying the warmth of the sun. He shook his head, his mop of wet hair sending out a spray of water droplets that landed like diamonds on his bronzed shoulders and chest. They glistened in the sunlight.
As if she needed to be dazzled any further.
She swallowed, her mouth dry. “Really? Why?”
He studied her intently. “Tae continue our conversation from last night, of course.”
Which one, she wondered? The flirtatious one or the serious one?
“And tae make sure ye dinnae flee intae the night.”
“Of course,” she responded tartly. “As if I have so many better places to be.”
It was difficult to know where to rest her eyes. Meeting his gaze only aroused and aggravated her as his look was so annoyingly knowing. Scanning the rest of him… well, that was equally arousing and aggravating as well. For all his flattery, he didn’t seem nearly as affected by her presence as she was by his. Parts of her body she’d never been fully aware of before were quivering.
“Will you please put your shirt on?”
“Am I making ye uncomfortable?” he asked mischievously. “Does the sight of me offend yer feminine sensibility?”
“Not at all,” she responded, and hoping to divert him added, “Where I come from, shirtless men are no big deal. At the beach, both men and women hardly wear anything at all.”
“Hardly anything?”
Al gave him a brief description of a string bikini, not that she’d ever dared to have her generous curves confined so tenuously.
Gratifyingly, his eyes warmed and his brogue was husky when he spoke. “I’d like tae see that, lassie. Indeed, I would.”
“Well, in about three hundred years, you�
�ll get your chance.” The pert comment escaped her lips before Al had a chance to think through the ramifications, but it was too late. That serious expression was back in his eyes.
The moment—again—was gone.
Without another word, he dragged his shirt over his head. Given only a second to enjoy the ripple of his six-pack abs before they were covered, she drank him in but lifted her eyes back up before his head emerged.
He turned, tilting his bent elbow toward her. It took her a while to grasp he was offering her his arm, but she tucked her hand in as he began a slow stroll back into the garden.
It was the first time she’d had to touch him, she realized. Keir had kissed her hand, touched her hand and cheek… even wrapped his fingers around her neck, but she hadn’t actually touched him yet. His arm was solid and warm beneath her fingers. Even through his sleeve, he felt so manly.
Curling her fingers tighter, she wondered if the rest of him would feel just as nice. Ah, the wonderings of the sexually repressed millennial! Al shook away the thoughts of him and focused her attentions elsewhere.
As she’d already given the garden her admiration that morning, the castle ahead was an easy target. The morning sun kissed the exterior, giving it a fairy tale like appeal. “The castle is truly beautiful. Huge, but beautiful.”
“Ye think Dingwall is large?” He chuckled. “Ye should see Rosebraugh.”
“Rosebraugh?”
“Hugh’s estate. ‘Tis nae far away. A day’s ride. Nae more.”
A day’s ride was not far? “Is it more elegant than Dingwall or only larger?”
“Och, ‘tis like a French chateau, Rosebraugh,” he said. “All white stone and turrets. Truly fitting for the dukes of Ross.”
Stopping, she looked up at him in surprise. “Dukes? That man was a duke?”
“Aye.”
“Holy shit,” she mumbled under her breath. She’d met a duke and didn’t even know it? For some reason that made her feel even worse for the man’s situation.
“Holy shit?” he repeated, aghast.
She ignored him even though he gaped down at her. Somewhere deep inside she knew castles and dukes didn’t just happen by every day. Despite the old joke about how the sheer number of Barbara Cartwright’s dukes alone could populate the whole of England, they were rare and so were castles. Not just anybody owned a castle. Not one like Dingwall. If Keir were related to a duke, a cousin, he must be nobility at least, as well.
Love in the Time of a Highland Laird (A Laird for All Time Book 3) Page 6