The Laird's Willful Lass (The Likely Lairds Book 1)

by Anna Campbell

  What must it have been like to take over as master of Achnasheen at such an absurdly young age? At nine, she’d been playing with dolls, although her lifelong obsession with painting was already stirring. The Mackinnon had not only been master of the estate, but a pillar of strength for his mother and sisters, who sounded like a spineless trio.

  Marina was so lost in her brown study, she didn’t realize the Mackinnon had reined in on a wide ledge to let her catch up to him. “I’m worried. You’re not usually so quiet.”

  “You haven’t seen me at work yet,” she retorted.

  “Do you truly feel I’ve tricked you into staying, and you can’t get away? I’d hate that to be the case.”

  She’d almost forgotten their earlier conversation. Still, it was a troubling issue. “If I insisted I wanted to leave on my own today, you’d arrange it?”

  “I wouldnae let you go on your own. Remember, I saved your life. You belong to me now.”

  Something about those words set up a traitorous quiver in her stomach. “Be serious, Mackinnon.”

  “I am.” He frowned. “But aye, if you must go, I’ll see you to somewhere safe, and you can plan the rest of your tour from there. I’ll stay around long enough to make sure ye hire a coachman who knows where he’s going. I’ll also give you introductions to people who can help along your way.”

  She hid a smile. This was outside his remit—despite his absurd claim to be responsible for her, they remained strangers. She’d already noticed that a strong streak of protectiveness ran alongside his penchant for dishing out orders.

  “So I’m free to go?”

  “Do you want to leave your father?”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Aye,” he said with audible reluctance. “You’re a foolish and headstrong lassie to want to travel on by yourself, given everything ye need is here already. It’s unfortunate we turned the dungeons into wine cellars a hundred years ago, so I cannae chain you to the wall until you see sense.”

  “You could lock me in my room.”

  He shot her a disgruntled glance. “Don’t give me ideas.”

  “Very well,” she said.

  Dark red brows lowered toward that regal nose. “What does that mean?” he said with a bite of annoyance. “That it’s time to go back to the castle and order up the traveling chaise?”

  She smiled slowly, loving that for once she had the upper hand. “No, Mackinnon, it means I’m pleased to accept your hospitality, now I know it’s not in the nature of a prison sentence. I look forward to giving my father some company as he recovers.”

  It was childish, but delicious to relish the Mackinnon’s growl of frustration. “You’re bonny, Marina Lucchetti, but you’re a wee besom, too.”

  He didn’t need to translate the word. She got the gist. At least he called her pretty as well as troublesome. “I don’t like people trying to compel me.”

  “So I gather,” he said, the line of his mouth unhappy. “Now if Her Majesty will deign to agree, there’s a hillock over the next rise that’s a braw spot to stop for breakfast.”

  “I bow to your local knowledge,” she said sweetly.

  “At least ye bow to something,” he muttered. He coaxed his pony forward, and Marina’s followed without her bidding.

  After a pause, she asked the question that had been worrying her more than her right to leave—although she appreciated having her freedom confirmed. “Don’t you get bored with all these women who agree with everything you say?”

  He looked back. “Not really.”

  Marina supposed that talk was the last thing this virile man wanted from a woman. The thought was strangely stirring, although she was sure it had to be too early in the morning to fall victim to sensual yearnings. “Well, you should,” she said, annoyed with him, annoyed with herself.

  He gave a short laugh. “I’ll say one thing—I havenae been bored with ye yet, lassie.”

  “Could you be any more patronizing?” she snapped. “And, no, you don’t have to answer that.”

  Feeling cross, she urged her pony to trot past Fergus’s horse. Suddenly, it seemed too humiliating to trail after the Mackinnon, like a dinghy bobbing in a yacht’s wake.

  * * *

  Chapter Eight

  * * *

  Fergus glanced over to where Marina perched on a tussock, painting the view. Her traveling set of watercolors lay open on the grass beside her, and Macushla and Brecon stretched at her feet, snoozing in the afternoon sun. The laird wasn’t this lassie’s only admirer at Achnasheen.

  She’d unbuttoned that fearsomely masculine jacket to reveal a plain white shirt beneath. Her hair was a silky black tangle on the back of her neck, half undone from this morning’s tidy chignon. When she was concentrating, she tugged at it, he’d noticed.

  He’d soon realized that she hadn’t exaggerated her devotion to capturing the landscape on paper. During their frequent stops for her to do quick sketches, he watched her disappear into a world of her own. Over the short time he’d known her, he’d become used to the crackle of attraction, sparking away beneath their every interaction. When she vanished into her art, he might as well be a tree or a rock.

  In fact, he felt like he added up to less than a tree or rock. At least they contributed something to her finished painting.

  He wasn’t used to women ignoring him. He didn’t much like it, especially when Marina was the focus of all his attention. Perhaps she might be right to accuse him of conceit.

  Fergus had to give her points for being a gallant companion on a vigorous Highland outing. They’d been up and down some steep slopes today. Now and again, she’d had to get off her pony and lead it. She’d coped with bogs and thistles and freezing burns. When they’d stopped for breakfast, she’d sat on the ground, and she’d leaned against a rock to eat when they’d had lunch.

  He knew this first day was just a chance for her to look for scenes she could paint to fulfill her commission to the Duke of Portofino. She spoke of her noble patron, as she spoke of the aristocratic families in England, with a casualness that indicated her ease in society’s highest levels. Yet she made no claim to being anything more than a woman who worked for her living. He loved that her talent provided its own badge of honor, even if her confidence in that talent made her far too contrary.

  By now, he was almost accustomed to Marina taking the opposite view to his about everything he’d grown up to accept. He hadn’t missed her shock at how young he’d been when he became laird, nor her appalled reaction when he struggled to name a woman who set her will against his.

  Good God, damn few men did. Diarmid and Hamish were both laddies of decided opinions, but most of the time, they took the same sensible, masculine perspective on things that Fergus did, so there was little conflict.

  Life must have been saving all its opposition for the moment this unusual woman stumbled across his path.

  He turned his attention from his exasperating lassie to the magnificent view across the Hebrides. This was one of his favorite spots on the estate. From the high ledge, the ground fell away steeply to the sea. A pattern of islands spread across the blue, and the sun shone bright on Skye’s strange, bare Cuillins across the water. If Marina looked north, she’d see the hills of Harris. If she looked south, she’d see Rum and the other Small Isles, with a glimpse of Mull further south again.

  She must like it, too. She’d lingered to complete several sketches. He should be bored, but the day was so fine and warm, and the chance to observe his fascinating guest without her prickling up was such a gift, that he didn’t mind the lack of activity.

  And much as he hated to admit it, she’d given him a lot to think about. Not least what he’d like to do to her before she went back to Italy and her retinue of dukes and counts.

  Fergus lounged back in the thick grass and watched a pair of golden eagles perform lazy circles in the sky above him. As his eyes closed, for some odd reason, he remembered that eagles mated for life.

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nbsp; * * *

  When Fergus opened his eyes, the sun had moved toward the west. He was warm, and drowsiness weighted his limbs. Sitting on the grass facing him was a lovely woman with a touch of sunburn across her slanted cheekbones and on the bridge of her straight nose. She’d brought a hat, but he noticed that most of the time, she forgot to wear it. Her sketchbook lay open on her lap, and she was watching him with curious eyes.

  A tender smile curved his lips, and he brushed his hand across the hint of color. “The sun has caught ye, lassie,” he murmured.

  As if it was the most natural thing in the world, he slid his fingers behind her neck and drew her down until her lips met his.

  Her mouth was soft, and he tasted her gasp of surprise. Sweet warmth flooded him as her lips fluttered against his.

  The muscles beneath his hand tensed, and he waited for her to pull away. Then in a movement so subtle, if he hadn’t been touching her, he would never have recognized it, she shifted to a more comfortable angle and leaned closer. Her mouth turned even softer, as she joined in the kiss.

  Satisfaction filled him. His hold on her nape firmed, and he swept his tongue along the seam of her lips in a request to enter the honeyed interior.

  For a long moment, her lips remained closed. The delay before she yielded gave him a chance to drink in a wealth of splendid details. The heat of the afternoon sun on this sheltered dip in the hillside. The loose strands of silky hair tickling his fingers. The scents of dusty heather in the air, and floral soap rising from her skin. The lush cushion of her lips.

  With a muffled sound of pleasure, that sumptuous mouth opened, and her tongue flickered out to meet his. The contact was almost shy, but it made his heart expand with longing for more. Growling deep in his chest, he caught her waist with his free hand. He rolled over until she lay beneath him.

  Now he’d captured her ready for ravishing, the kiss caught fire and he tasted her fully. She was luscious as toffee. More sweetness flared into passion when her tongue danced with his, and her arms slid around his back to hold him closer.

  She gave herself up with a wholehearted voluptuousness that beggared his experience. He’d kissed plenty of lassies, even bedded a few. Never had he lost himself in a sensual mist, the way he did kissing Marina.

  It was inevitable that he should start to want more. Wondered if perhaps he didn’t need to negotiate too hard to find his way into her bed after all. Would this glorious kiss in the open air lead without hindrance to possessing her long, lissome body?

  He sucked the tip of her tongue between his lips and placed his hand on the delicious rise of her breast. Under the fine lawn of shirt and shift, he traced the wanton peak of her nipple. He scraped her gently with his fingernail, and anticipation rose as she jerked in response. He did it again, then caught the beaded tip between thumb and index finger and rolled and squeezed.

  She moaned into his mouth and arched up. He settled between her thighs, cursing the hampering skirts between him and where he wanted to be.

  When he raised his head to look down into her face, her eyes were heavy with passion. Her mouth was red and swollen from his kisses, and parted to give him a glimpse of small white teeth. Her skin glowed with awakening desire. She was the most gorgeous sight he’d ever beheld.

  He gave her another quick kiss, although he could already see the dreamy pleasure draining away, replaced by a troubled expression.

  “Basta,” she said unsteadily. “Basta.”

  He frowned. “Are you calling me a…”

  As he’d hoped, the frown dissolved in humor. “No. Enough. Basta means ‘enough.’”

  In his opinion, he’d achieved anything but enough. He should have guessed he was too optimistic when he imagined this would be simple.

  He shifted to the side to rest on one elbow and stare down at her. Her thick black hair was ruffled, and her tight nipples pressed against her shirt. The memory of touching her there pounded through him like thunder.

  By God, he was ready for her. Hard as a bloody caber at the Portree Highland Games.

  “That was foolhardy.” Her gaze swept down his body. She’d see how excited he was, too. Under his kilt, he might have a chance of concealing his arousal. Trousers weren’t so forgiving.

  “Perhaps.” He dug up a smile and smoothed the strands of midnight hair clinging to her wide forehead. “But I’ve wanted to do that since I first saw you.”

  The pleasure that brightened her face at his admission made him kiss her again. This time her push on his shoulders was more emphatic. “This won’t do, Mackinnon.”

  “Fergus,” he said softly.

  She pursed her lips in frustration. It made him want to kiss her again. “Safer to call you Mackinnon.”

  “Who cares about safety?”

  “I do.”

  He traced a line down her cheek. Her skin was soft and smooth. He couldn’t wait to see the rest of it. Surely soon he would.

  “Are you saying ye didn’t think about kissing me, too?” He’d thought about more than kissing, but didn’t want to push his luck.

  She lifted a hand to bat his caressing fingers away. “You jolly well know I have. That doesn’t mean we should give into temptation.”

  Lord above, she was pretty. Even when she was cross, she was pretty. Particularly then, because the heat sparking in those lustrous dark eyes made him think of a different heat that he and she could conjure together. “Why not? Do ye have a lover who owns your loyalty? You haven’t said so.”

  “Why on earth would I say anything?”

  Displeasure pricked at his arrogance. “Because you know I’m interested.” He paused and stared at her, surprised at how important her answer was. He’d wanted her before, but since kissing her, he was in a fever to have her. “Is there a lover, Marina?”

  Her eyes flickered down. She had such lush eyelashes. “No,” she mumbled.

  “Not for me either. And ye have no husband.”

  “No.”

  “And I have no wife. If we want one another, why should we resist?”

  Her eyes opened and settled on him with a cynical light that placed another puncture in his satisfaction. Why didn’t he remember that talking to this perverse creature was sure to tie him into knots? He should have kept kissing her until she gave in.

  “I’m available. You’re available. The nights are getting cold. We may as well start going at one another like rabbits?”

  Hell, now he was annoyed, and he’d been in such a good mood after his nap and kissing her. He sat up and scowled. “You’re twisting my words.”

  She sat up, too, and he regretted the foot of space stretching between them. She’d been so lovely and loose-limbed in his arms. Now as she pulled her knees up to her chest and curled her arms around them, she was closed up like a barricaded door. “Tell me what you want.”

  You.

  His exasperation couldn’t change that. In fact, every word she spoke stirred the urge to kiss that insolent mouth over and over until she gave up the fight.

  “I want you to be my mistress,” he said baldly.

  As he should have expected, the declaration sparked no excitement in that midnight gaze. She wasn’t the sort of lassie to swoon at hearing a man express his preference. “Because I’m an independent woman with no husband to control me, and therefore I share my favors with all and sundry?”

  “Damn it, Marina, why do ye want to fight with me?” He ran an impatient hand through his hair. “You asked me a question, and I answered you. There’s no need to attack me. I’m not your enemy.”

  Actually he had a suspicion she was crabby because she suffered the same sexual frustration he did. It didn’t contribute to an equable temper.

  “I apologize, Mackinnon.” She sighed, and he saw the tension ease from those tight shoulders. “I’ve had to discourage overenthusiastic suitors before.”

  Real anger, as different from his huff with her as a candle from a forest fire, stabbed his belly. “I’d like to beat the presumptuous b
astards to a pulp.”

  She gave a shaky laugh. “Oh, dear, I’m glad you weren’t there, then. A lot of them ended up becoming my patrons.”

  “I hope they kept their hands to themselves once you said no.”

  “Mostly,” she said, and raised her hand to stop him snarling. “I’ve learned how to deflect unwelcome advances.”

  What about welcome ones? It was absurd to resent her sophistication, when that very sophistication meant there was a chance she might become his mistress. He couldn’t make this offer to a well-bred virgin. The only way he’d get an ingénue, like those girls at Almack’s, into his bed was via marriage.

  “Is that what you’re doing now?”

  “Porca miseria, stop fishing for compliments.” She sighed again, with exasperation this time. “You know quite well I liked kissing you.”

  “But you’re not happy I want ye in my bed?”

  “I wouldn’t even say that.” She lifted her hand again, before he could reach for her and take up where he’d left off.

  He spread his hands in a helpless gesture, which was something he didn’t make a habit of doing. For once in his life, he felt completely at sea. “Dinna imagine I jump on every woman who falls into my clutches either. I’m discreet with my liaisons—and selective.”

  She arched an ironic brow. So far, his wooing wasn’t overwhelming her, devil take her. “I should be flattered?”

  “No. Aye. No.” He growled. “I dinna bring women to Achnasheen.”

  “It’s beneath the chieftain to play the rake?”

  “Aye, something like that.”

  “But you must have had affairs.”

  He shifted uncomfortably. The women he pursued never put him through an inquisition. About anything, let alone his conquests. They’d been a complacent lot. Until now.

  “I’m a red-blooded man. I willnae pretend I come to you a novice, Marina.” He paused. “I’ve a friendly widow in Inverness who’s been kind enough to favor me. She’s getting married again, so our affair has ended, although we parted as friends. Over the years, there have been a couple of lassies in Edinburgh. I’m not a rakehell.”