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

by Anna Campbell

  As she watched his slow, radiant smile light his features, all her nerves vanished. She couldn’t doubt that he liked her gift.

  “I love you, lassie, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart. It’s a masterpiece.” He swooped in and kissed her, without sparing a thought to their watching audience. “I was a lucky man the day I rescued ye from a cold dip in the burn.”

  Marina couldn’t resist kissing Fergus back, although she was blushing by the time she drew free. “You once told me that if you save someone’s life, you keep a vested interest in that person forever.” Her voice was thick with emotion.

  Her beloved husband’s smile told her he hardly credited his good fortune. “I’d have it no other way, my bonny lassie.”

  The End

  Have you enjoyed this Highlander romance from Anna Campbell? While you’re waiting for the next installments in the Likely Lairds series, why not try her charming Stranded with the Scottish Earl?

  Blame it on the rain…

  After her engagement to a local landowner ends in scandal and recrimination, Miss Charlotte Warren vows never to marry. Her father might write to say he’s found her the perfect husband – she’s sticking to her spinsterish guns. But when in the middle of a spring flood, her father’s choice turns up on the doorstep under an unconvincing alias, she has no choice but to take him in.

  That doesn’t mean she’s going to marry Lord Lyle. No way.

  Except he’s very handsome… And he kisses like a dream…

  And when a girl finds herself trapped alone in a great big house with a roguish Scottish earl, who knows what will happen? Even to the most resolute and independent lady.

  Ewan Macrae, Earl of Lyle, doesn’t believe in love at first sight—until he sees Charlotte Warren’s portrait. One glimpse of the real Charlotte, and he knows this is the lassie he means to carry off to the Highlands as his bride.

  But his beloved is no easy conquest. She’s stubborn and headstrong, and dead set against becoming a wife.

  Will lashings of Scottish charm, some highly convenient privacy, a scattering of sizzling kisses, and an eventful day battling the elements to save the spring lambs combine to change Miss Warren’s mind about marriage?

  They most definitely will, if this proud Scotsman has any say in the matter!

  * * *

  Stranded With The Scottish Earl

  * * *

  Bassington Lea, Hampshire, March 1823

  A week before Easter, Ewan Macrae, Earl of Lyle, rode through a raging storm to reach Bassington Grange—only to discover Cinderella guarding the door.

  “Good afternoon,” the lassie in the ragged brown skirt said coolly, holding the door open just far enough to speak to him. To keep the rain out? Or to fend off unexpected earls?

  At twenty-eight, Lyle wasn’t a green lad to stammer in a lady’s presence. Still, he needed a few seconds to catch his breath and dredge some response from the mush that used to be his brain.

  Cinderella was very pretty.

  He swallowed, shifted on his feet like a yokel, and located a word or two. Hardly original. “Good afternoon.”

  Cinderella had creamy skin and rich honey-colored hair, tumbling loose around her slender shoulders. Symmetrical streaks of dirt adorned high, slanted cheekbones. Half a dozen freckles set off a sweet, straight nose.

  She really was a peach. Not even the half-closed door could hide that.

  “You need to turn around and go back,” she said after an awkward pause. From the depths of the house behind her, a dog yapped to warn off the intruder.

  “But I’ve only just arrived,” he said, trying a smile. Despite his hat and thick greatcoat, a trickle of water traced a chilly path down his neck. “I’d love to come in out of the rain for a wee while. It’s hurling it down in buckets.”

  To confirm his statement, a gust of wind spattered raindrops across where he stood beneath the unreliable shelter of the portico. Damn it all, this weather was cold enough for Scotland.

  He was used to his smile melting the frost off unwelcoming lassies. Cinderella was made of sterner stuff. Under gracefully arched eyebrows darker than her hair, the amber eyes remained wary. “No, you really need to go back.”

  He struggled to appear harmless. Difficult given his devious plans for the next few days. The distant barking built to a crescendo. “I have business with Sir John.”

  “The master isn’t in residence,” she said firmly, her grip tightening on the door’s edge.

  He was well aware that Sir John wasn’t here. Last night, he’d left the portly baronet happily ensconced in his luxurious townhouse in Mayfair.

  Lyle reached out with one gloved hand to catch the door before it closed. Although surely she couldn’t mean to shut him out on such a dreich day. He wouldn’t consign his worst enemy to this downpour. “I’ll wait.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Sir John’s in London.”

  And warm and dry, Lyle would lay good money. Sir John Warren had immediately struck him as a man who ensured his own comfort.

  “Look, perhaps we can have this discussion inside.” Lyle wrapped his arms around himself and gave a theatrical shiver, only partly put on. It was as cold as a polar bear’s parlor, more January than March. “It’s perishing out here. I’m starting to turn into an icicle. I swear I haven’t got my eyes on the family silver.”

  No, he had his eyes on something much more precious.

  “You don’t understand.” Her uncompromising expression didn’t soften. “In heavy rain, the bridge goes under, and you’ll be marooned here.”

  As he’d ridden across, he’d noticed the wild water gushing high under the stone arches. Well, at least that might explain her lack of welcome. She feared she’d be stranded with a stranger.

  The last thing he wanted was to frighten her. However difficult it was to imagine this indomitable creature afraid. He bit back the impudent suggestion that he should come in anyway. Already he could see he’d got off on the wrong foot with Cinders, although God knew why.

  “Perhaps I should go back to the village.” What a letdown after the day of uncomfortable travel. Nothing had gone as planned, not least the weather, and his immediate and powerful reaction to seeing this lassie for the first time.

  “That would be best.” She’d closed the door before he reached his horse. Poor Saraband stood on the graveled forecourt, sopping, head down, as miserable as a cat in a washtub.

  Cursing, he swung into the saddle and set his tired mount to a canter. But when he came to the end of the lime-tree drive, he saw that he’d lingered too long at the house. The river gushed over a bridge that, mere minutes ago, had been clear. Cinders hadn’t exaggerated about the speed of the rising water. For one reckless moment, he contemplated setting Saraband to swim the flood, but the sight of a half-grown oak tree barreling down the torrent swiftly dissuaded him.

  It seemed he and Cinderella were fated to have another chat.

  “Sorry, my bonny. It’s back we go. And no dawdling.”

  Saraband’s ears flickered, and she answered his urging with a willing burst of speed. Like most lassies, she was happy to cooperate with the Earl of Lyle. Despite the rain whipping into his face and the freezing wind, he smiled. He could already see there was one exception to that particular rule.

  As he and Saraband splashed their way back to the manor, he saw that Cinderella stood in the open doorway, watching his approach.

  “I was too late,” he called through the gale, as he dismounted and strode toward her.

  “I know.” That acute golden gaze inspected him with visible disfavor. He had a horrible inkling that she meant to refuse him entry, despite knowing that he was stuck on the wrong side of the river. An elegant great hall with oak-paneled walls and black and white floor tiles extended behind her. “I checked from upstairs.”

  This time, she was better prepared for outdoors. She wore clogs and she’d wrapped a rough shawl around her head. For a moment, she bore a haunting resemblance to the clan women
on his Highland estate.

  “I didn’t want to risk crossing.”

  There was a suspenseful pause. Surely she wouldn’t lock him out. Then she stepped aside and gestured toward the house’s interior. “Come in.”

  Lyle didn’t immediately obey. Although the roaring fire in the ancient hearth beckoned like brandy to a drunkard. “Will you ask someone to see to my horse, please?”

  She glanced across to Saraband. “There’s nobody else here but me.”

  Lyle frowned in puzzlement, although the reasons behind her lack of hospitality became clearer by the minute.

  “There must be staff.” The house was large and well kept, too much for even the most diligent Cinderella to manage on her own.

  Her lips turned down. He couldn’t help noticing how full and pink they were. Alluringly kissable. From her slender feet in those incongruous clogs up to the ruffled blond crown of her head, Cinderella was a delectable package.

  “Of course there are staff. Just not here.”

  “They don’t live in?”

  She sighed. “We’ve been rehearsing the Easter play. The household had the afternoon off, to keep the details of the production secret. Because they all have family in the village, with the river rising, they’ll stay there now in case of an emergency. Bassington Grange is high enough to be out of danger. Bassington Lea isn’t.”

  “What about the cast, then? Are they still here?” Although Lyle regretted the prospect of company. Other people meant he needed to mind his manners. Some madcap part of him enjoyed this unconventional encounter.

  She shook her head. “They left about twenty minutes ago.”

  He must have just missed running into them. Cinders stepped past him to share the doorstep. To his surprise, she only reached his shoulder. Her bearing had made her seem taller. In the restricted area, she stood close enough for him to catch a drift of her scent. His nostrils flared at the fresh, flowery perfume, detectable even through the rain. Despite the cold, heat prickled his skin.

  A noise from inside distracted him from the lassie. Stubby legs skittered on the tiles and a small white dog raced toward them, barking all the way.

  “Bill, no,” she said in dismay, as the dog leaped around the trim ankles showing beneath the shortened skirt. “How on earth did you get out, you dreadful beast? I had you safely shut up.”

  “He’s just trying to protect you.”

  “I can look after myself,” she said, as the dog rushed up and down the shallow steps between the door and the forecourt. “Sit, you brainless hound.”

  The dog heeded the voice of authority and sat. Unfortunately in a large puddle below the lowest step. Filthy water splashed up and turned white fur muddy gray.

  “A great watchdog you make, my friend.”

  Lyle hid a smile at her resigned tone. “Perhaps he senses my benevolent intentions.”

  She shot Lyle an unimpressed glance as she stepped out into the rain. “I told you he’s a brainless hound.”

  He followed her down the steps. “There’s no sense in both of us tramping through the downpour.”

  He reached for Saraband’s reins, but the girl beat him to it.

  Any argument—that delicate chin was stubborn—meant longer outside. While Cinders lowered her head against the rain and hauled his horse, he splashed after her.

  As they battled around the mansion to the yard at the back, he realized that he hadn’t yet introduced himself. She’d turned his world upside down, and thrown his manners out the window. Be damned if he was going to do the pretty in the middle of this tempest.

  The wind turned the rain into needles, and his booted feet sloshed through puddles that came up past his ankles. A huge stone building with a clock tower loomed ahead out of the gray. He hoped to hell it was the stable.

  It was. Once they entered the vast, echoing space, a blessed calm descended. High windows lit the interior, even on a gloomy day like this. The scents of hay, leather, and pampered horseflesh surrounded them.

  Lyle was yet to see much of Sir John Warren’s estate, but his impression so far was of a prosperous and well-maintained property. The impression now firmed to certainty, and that was deuced interesting. Thoughtfully he followed Cinderella and Saraband down lines of stalls, past bloodstock that wouldn’t disgrace his own stud, to an empty loosebox.

  Before he’d set out on this knuckleheaded quest, he’d feared he’d fallen victim to a trickster. Perhaps Bassington Grange would turn out to be a rundown disaster in desperate need of an injection of cash via a gullible Scottish earl. Sir John had appeared plump in the pocket—not to mention the person—but he wouldn’t be the first fellow to make a show that he couldn’t afford in the bright lights of London.

  But if these well-stocked stables were any indication, the ebullient baronet was exactly what he presented himself to be. Rich. Worldly. Respectable.

  Which left Lyle puzzled on several counts.

  A soft grunt from his fair companion pierced his musings. The lassie struggled to lift the heavy valise off Saraband’s wet back.

  “I’ll do that,” he said, brushing her aside.

  The white terrier settled in a corner, black eyes riveted on his mistress. Lyle couldn’t blame the dog for watching her. The saturated shawl slid down, revealing that breathtaking face. Cinderella was a bonny sight, and there must be magic at work, because she got bonnier by the second.

  Lyle even found her managing air enticing. Clinging vines had never appealed to him. Both his sisters were clever and independent—and fully capable of putting a mere younger brother in his place. He’d missed that Scots snap in the demure Sassenach lassies he’d met in London, even the ladies lauded as diamonds of the first water.

  To his mind, a diamond worthy of the name needed to have a flash of fire.

  Ignoring him, the lassie was untying a couple of smaller bags from the saddle. He was piqued that she’d made more of an impression on him than he’d apparently made on her.

  However, that didn’t absolve him of his obligations.

  Setting down his valise, he ripped off his leather gloves. He dropped the sodden gloves on top of his luggage and swung his greatcoat off, scattering drops of water everywhere and making Saraband snort in protest.

  “Here.” He slung the heavy woolen garment around the lassie’s straight shoulders.

  Surprised, whisky-colored eyes widened as they focused on him, and her hands clutched the coat closer. It was warmer in the stables than outside, but not much. “Thank you,” she said in an uncertain voice. “But you’ll be cold.”

  “I’ll live. For pity’s sake, go back to the house and dry off. I’ll follow once I’ve settled Saraband.”

  He waited for her to object to the order, but her attention had already shifted from him to the bay. “She’s yours?”

  “Aye.” He’d ridden down from London in easy stages to avoid having to trust to hired hacks.

  “She’s a beauty.” She stroked Saraband’s silky nose. The horse extended her neck for more attention. “Far too fine to stay out in the rain.”

  His lips twitched. He’d offer Cinderella half his fortune if she’d describe him in similar terms. “She’s part Arab.”

  The lassie’s knowledgeable air as she surveyed the horse betrayed the identity she concealed under her humble costume. “You can see that in her head.”

  Lyle patted the mare’s rump and praised her in soft Gaelic, for she’d done more than her share through today’s heavy weather. With care, he lifted the saddle from the bay’s back. When he raised his head, Cinders regarded him with an oddly arrested expression.

  “There’s no need to wait,” he said in a mild tone. “I’ll see you inside.”

  Her eyes narrowed. This time, Saraband wasn’t going to save him from Cinderella’s displeasure. “You’re very free giving orders in another man’s house.”

  He shrugged and bent to grab a handful of straw to rub his horse down. “As you please.”

  When he looked up again,
the girl had gone. “She’s a gey odd lassie,” he murmured to Saraband. “I’m not sure what to make of her.”

  The horse shifted and whickered as if in agreement. He lifted a currycomb from a hook and continued the grooming. After the difficult journey, the familiar task was soothing. “Definitely an odd lassie. But bonny. Aye, dashed bonny.”

  “I’m glad you think so,” a familiar voice said from behind him.

  Startled, he turned. Devil take this weather. The rain on the tiled roof concealed the fact that Cinderella hadn’t taken his suggestion and returned to the house. She was carrying a bin of oats which she poured into a manger in the corner.

  “I mightn’t be talking about you,” he said gently.

  She cast him another of those unimpressed glances as he set aside the brush and shouldered his valise. Behind him, Saraband buried her nose in her feed. The mare might make a braw confidante, but she was useless when it came to giving advice. And as Lyle surreptitiously studied the lass who set out ahead with such a confident step, he’d love a woman’s perspective on his situation.

  They dashed out of the stables and through the rain, the wee dog barking at their heels, into the Grange’s kitchens. Like everything else Lyle had seen on the estate, they were spotless and modern. The warmth from the huge hearth sent the blood to his prickling extremities.

  He dropped his luggage on the floor and headed for the fire. The dog was two steps ahead of him.

  The lassie opened a cupboard and pulled out a pile of towels which she dropped on a well-scrubbed table. “Here.”

  He stripped to his shirt and started to mop up the damp. Without looking at him, she unwrapped herself from his coat and spread it and her sodden shawl across a couple of chairs. Then she kneeled near the fire to tend to the dog.

  When Bill was a fluffy white blob, the lassie rose and started to dry her thick hair, darkened to milky coffee with rain. Lyle struggled not to notice how the brisk movement of her arms jiggled her generous bosom against her thin blouse. He had a liking for small, curvy women. Or at least he did now.