Lessons in Loving a Laird

by Michelle Marcos

  He drew in a deep cleansing breath. The smell was green and pure, and full of life. Birds sprinkled music in the trees, and the sweet sounds were carried to him on the wind.

  He gazed upon Shona. Her young eyes still had not seen so much of the beauty of the world. And yet she delighted in the simplest things.

  Or, perhaps, it was he who needed to see things through her eyes.

  He handed her the handkerchief from his pocket. “Right. Let’s go and find Mr. Raeburn. We’ll get a full account of his crops and create a rough sketch of his land on the map. I’ll also tell him that I wish to meet with all the farmers on the estate in a fortnight.”

  An hour later, they had finished speaking with Mr. Raeburn, and were trotting toward the neighboring farm.

  Conall had been thoroughly impressed with Shona. In addition to the jovial familiarity she shared with Mr. Raeburn, she asked more questions about the old man’s crops than Conall had ever even considered were important. In one visit alone, Conall gained an appreciable understanding of cultivating crops.

  “You have a very shrewd eye for farming, Shona. Given your youth, I’m quite impressed by how much you know. Sometimes I wonder which of us is the master and which is the apprentice.”

  “Och! ’Tis nothing ye canna learn. There’s a book in yer library that I studied years ago. Since ye’ve a duty to know, ’twould be a good primer for ye.”

  Surprise flashed across his face. “You … can read?”

  She blinked her eyes in disbelief. “Did ye think me such a dolt that I could no’ read?”

  “I just assumed that—”

  “You thought that since I worked on a farm that I must be illiterate?”

  He shook his head. “No. Well … yes. The thought had crossed my mind.”

  “Ye’ve a great deal to learn aboot me. I went to classes until I was fourteen. After that, I schooled myself with books. I’ve been reading since I was a wee lass. My father, God rest him, was never without a book, and he used to read stories to us at night by the fire.”

  “I apologize for my misguided assumptions.”

  “Apology accepted. But mind ye dinna make the same mistake again.”

  “Just a moment. Be fair. Had you made any untrue assumptions about me?”

  “None that ye haven’t disproven yet.”

  He smirked. “Come on.”

  “Well … behind yer back I may have called ye a name that implied yer parents were never married.”

  He chuckled. “I taste some vinegar in that sentiment.”

  “Well, ye were fairly vinegary to me.”

  “Perhaps I had cause,” he said, cocking an eyebrow. “But I think I may have since discovered in you some compensating qualities.”

  “Such as?” she tossed at him saucily.

  He grinned. “Let me think. Well, I like the way you talk—though not always what you say. I admire your courage—except when it’s in defiance of me. I perceive how caring you are, and I believe that your husband and children, when you have them, will be very fortunate indeed.”

  A smile brightened her face. “Thank ye. ’Tis gentlemanly of ye to say.”

  By late afternoon, they had prospected three more farms. The sun began to sink in the western horizon, and gray clouds stained the sky, but Shona insisted they let the horses graze beside a brook. They walked over to a chestnut tree in blossom.

  “You know, Shona,” he began as he picked up a dried chestnut from the ground, “the tenant farms are in a state of disrepair far greater than I had at first surmised. I don’t mind investing a small sum to improve their next harvest, but I’m concerned that the return on the investment won’t be enough to continue running the estate.”

  A weight bore down upon Shona. “What does that mean?”

  “I may be forced to sell some of the land.” A look of regret clouded his features. “I may be forced to sell Miles’ End.”

  “What?”

  He threw the chestnut into the forest. “It was one of the suggestions that Hartopp had made to bring in a fresh stream of money. He’d even located a buyer, the Baron of Bainbridge, who’s offered to annex Miles’ End and two adjacent farms to his own property, plus some of the hunting forest. Before you react—”

  “Are ye oot of yer bloody mind?”

  He sighed. “You should calm down first.”

  Shona gritted her teeth. “In the first place, ye must never sell off yer property.”

  “Sometimes a surgeon has to amputate a leg if he wants to save the patient.”

  “And in the second place, ye can’t sell it to the Barren of Brains.”

  He chuckled. “It’s Baron of Bainbridge.”

  She folded her arms at her chest. “Clearly ye haven’t met him, because my name is better suited.”

  “I have no choice, Shona.” He shrugged. “If I’m to improve some of my existing farms, I have to raise the capital. Money doesn’t grow on trees, you know.”

  “It does for ye!” She threw her hands outward. “Ye’ve got orchards all over yer estate!”

  He cocked his head. “Touché. But dribs and drabs of money won’t go very far to buy what each of these farms needs. And you know that.”

  She sighed, calming herself down. “I ken that ye want to do what’s best for yer estate. But carving off bits and pieces is not going to make ye any richer. Keeping the estate intact may mean ye’ll have to do a bit of saving to stretch a farthing into a shilling. But the thrift won’t have to last forever. Land, though … land is forever. There is nothing better to put yer money into than the land that already belongs to ye. Give it up now and ye’ll never get it back.”

  Conall weighed her words. He was stuck between two very difficult options: becoming a pauper aristocrat, which Shona was asking him to do, or start dividing up the inheritance from his ancestors, as Stewart and Hartopp had recommended.

  Shona looked up into his face. “I never promised ye it would be easy or quick. But it will be worth it.”

  His azure eyes gazed out to the horizon, worry creasing his brow. He was already bleeding money by taking on the arrears of the estate, but he wouldn’t last long if he began to invest too much capital.

  Life in England had been so much simpler. He worked and he got paid. And always discreetly. As a gentleman doctor, remuneration for his services was left inside his carriage or on a table in a silk pouch, which he collected after dining with the family. As a gentleman landlord, he could expect to collect rents only four times a year—and then only if the harvests were plentiful. And if they weren’t, well, there was little he could do about it. Paying tenants were hard to come by. With the war on, there was a dearth of men to work the land. So if his tenants didn’t prosper, then the one who’d be forced off his land by creditors would be himself.

  He sighed. “Do you think I may actually turn a profit by the time Eric is ready for marriage?”

  She smiled. “Aye. That I can promise ye.”

  “And if not, well, then I expect you’ll have to teach me to become a farmer.”

  A twinkle appeared in her eye. “Ye? Become a farmer? With yer soft hands and yer London ways? I couldn’t hold my breath that long.”

  He put his hands on his hips. “What calumny is this? I am hale and hearty yet! I’ve a strong back and sturdy arms!

  “Psh! How old are ye, now?”

  “I’m but thirty-five.”

  “Goolies! I thought ye halfway to a hundred.”

  A line deepened in one cheek. “That does it! It’s high time we washed out that dirty mouth of yours.”

  Conall swept Shona into his arms, making her shriek in surprise. With grim determination, he carried her down the slope to the brook.

  “No! Don’t ye dare put me into the burn!”

  “You asked for this.”

  Draped over his muscled forearm, her legs scissored helplessly. “Put me doon, ye great pillock! I’m warning ye!”

  “Spare the rod,” he said as he marched inexorably to the end
of the brae.

  She wound her arms tightly around his neck. He could almost read her thoughts. If he threw her into the brook, she meant to take him with her. As if he would let her do that.

  Fearfully, she eyed the water below. “If ye get me wet, I’ll—I’ll—”

  “Yes?” A determined chin dared her to make another threat.

  She exhaled in playful defeat. “I’ll not utter another swear word again.”

  He narrowed his eyes upon hers. “Have I your word? Your decent word?”

  “Aye.” She nodded eagerly.

  Conall lowered his right arm, allowing her legs to slide to the ground. Shona remained adhered to him, her feet now mere inches from the edge of the freezing water. Nervously, her eyes flittered to his face as she unwound herself from his shoulders. But Conall found he could not let her go.

  Waves of unspoken feelings washed across her face, feelings that mirrored his own. His heart beat thunderously in his chest, in rhythmic time with the hammering of his conscience. Wrong, wrong, wrong, it said, flashing a million reasons why it was so.

  But Shona looked up at him expectantly, the pulse at the base of her throat racing. Her unadorned beauty dazzled his jaded sight. The freckles that dusted sun-kissed cheeks. The shoulders drowning in a sea of rook’s wing hair. The luminous green eyes surrounded by thick black lashes, like the stained-glass windows in an ancient church. A whisper of musky earthiness breathed upon him, and it sent his senses spiraling out of his control. She was a thing wild and untamed, belonging only to this unfamiliar Scottish wilderness around him—and yet she hung pliant in his arms.

  Since he’d met this creature, he’d felt an urge to possess her. Being her master was not enough … he wanted to own her desire. He lowered his head, bringing his mouth closer to her parted lips. As their lips touched, all warning voices in his head faded to silence.

  His lips sank into the soft flesh of her own, and it lit something deep inside him. To his surprise, she didn’t shrink from him, but met him right where she stood. Feelings of sexual longing, long dormant since the death of Christina, surged anew. He cupped the back of her head gently, not wanting to frighten the trapped bird he had just caught. Slowly, his mouth smoothed over hers, beckoning—no, begging—her to open up to him.

  Finally, her lips responded in kind, tentatively seeking a taste of him as well. A secret thrill warmed him all over. Her desire for him was set alight, and now he wanted to stoke it to a full-fledged burn.

  She brought her arms back to his shoulders, and the added weight of her only made him feel stronger. Her body, pressed against his own, sparked hot yearnings in his loins. His mouth descended onto her neck, and he kissed the soft, sun-kissed flesh under her jaw. Her hot breath puffed onto his ear, and the warmth made his skin tingle all down his side.

  Once again, his mouth opened onto her lips, this time with greater need as her hands splayed down his chest. At any moment, she could push him away. Instead, she moaned softly into his mouth, sending vibrations shooting straight through him.

  At once, his mind was flooded with images of her in the stable. The memory of the curves of her naked body under the worn chemise, outlined in golden light from the lamp behind her, filled him with an intense sexual desire. He felt his manhood start to fill with long-neglected desire.

  His hand spread across her back and caressed the strength beneath the woolen dress. She was strong and lean, so unlike the fragile, pampered ladies of his acquaintance. Of its own volition, his hand traveled down to her bottom and squeezed the firm roundness. Instantly, his mind was sparking with thoughts of thrusting into her lithe body.

  “No more,” she breathed.

  He pulled away a little, the spell that had intoxicated him hanging in the air.

  “I canna carry on,” she explained to his closed eyes. “I’m sorry.”

  He groaned. He was caught in a war between his body’s insistence to satisfy its carnal desire and his conscience’s demand to do the right thing. Shona was his charge, his responsibility, and despoiling her would make him a reprehensible cad. But his body was still raging for her, and it would be a painful battle to make it give up.

  “No,” he rasped. “It is I who should apologize. Please forgive me. I forgot myself.”

  A callused hand stroked his cheek. “I think I like it when ye forget yerself. Ye become someone I’m very keen on.”

  He swallowed hard, wondering how many times he had wanted to do that very thing. “It’s getting dark. Let’s start back before it becomes too dark to navigate our way home. We could find ourselves marooned out here and have to spend the night.”

  To his surprise, her green eyes flashed a shared wish. Then she turned around before she divulged any more. But that alone was enough to put him in soaring spirits for the rest of the evening.

  * * *

  As midnight rain spattered on the nursery room window, Willow and Shona squeezed onto a single bed. While Eric slept quietly in his crib, the sisters whispered to each other in the dark.

  “He kissed ye? Just like that?” Willow’s blue eyes became saucers.

  “Aye!” Shona giggled. “One moment he was preparing to fling me into the burn, and the next, he pressed his lips again’ mine and…” Shona closed her eyes to indulge again in the memory. “We kissed.”

  Willow bit her lower lip. “What was it like?”

  Shona sighed deeply. “I canna describe it to ye. He’s a very handsome man, to be sure, and he has a strong, braw shape to him. But there was something tender aboot him, too. He wanted me. He made me feel … beautiful.”

  “But ye are beautiful!”

  “Och! Ye know what I mean. Not in the way Iona says … ‘beautiful on the inside.’ Beautiful in the way ye are. Desirable.”

  Willow cast her glance away, as if looking as she did were a curse instead of a blessing. “Ye had that lad in love with ye.”

  “Which one? Ye mean Dùghall?”

  “Aye, that’s the one. He was fair smitten by ye.”

  Shona tsked. “Dùghall was little more than a boy! And as thin as a stick. If he tried to make love to a woman, she’d barely need to spread her legs to let him through.”

  Willow let out a snort. “Shona! For shame! At least Dùghall was sweet on ye.” She poked her sister in the shoulder. “And so, it seems, is the master.”

  A dreamy look descended upon her face. Conall MacEwan was sweet on her.

  “What’s he like?” asked Willow, yawning.

  Shona stared over Willow’s shoulder, as if Conall were standing in the room with them. “He’s educated. And proper. And handsome.” Shona looked deeper into the shadow of him. “Considerate. A man of principle. He’s the perfect balance of gentleness and manliness. He touched me, Willow. In a way that’s hard for me to name. But it felt so wonderful to be needed, to be wanted. Do ye ken?”

  Shona glanced at Willow. Willow’s eyes had closed, she moaned something unintelligible, and her breathing had steadied to a slow and even rhythm.

  Smiling, Shona got up from the narrow bed, and adjusted the blanket over Willow’s shoulder. Once in her own bed, Shona rested her head on the pillow and relived the events by the brook.

  The memory of his kiss lingered, as fresh as if it had happened just a moment ago. The feel of his manly lips pressed against hers, his fingers threaded in her hair, his palms squeezing her shoulder and cupping her bottom. But her hands tasted of him as well … wide shoulders that stretched the fabric of his fine wool coat, a chest that was hard as Highland granite, and a face that softened at her slightest touch. She chuckled as she remembered trying to threaten him if he got her all wet. Faith, but that kiss really did get her all wet.

  He had told her that he’d forgotten himself. So had she, and indeed, that had been the best part of it all. She’d forgotten she was naught but a parish apprentice, forgotten she lacked beauty and grace, forgotten she was a slaighteur. He saw beyond all these things, and held her in high esteem anyway.

  She
hadn’t wanted to stop. She hadn’t wanted it to ever stop. But to give of herself so freely would lessen her value in his eyes. And that she was not willing to let happen.

  And as slumber overtook her, she marveled at the foolishness of trying to seduce a man who was clearly trying to seduce her.

  Demo version limitation

  Demo version limitation

  TEN

  Duncan McCullough was a most insidious man. Though outwardly cordial and open, he fashioned his words carefully to elicit a desired response, and there was a motive behind every handshake and minute gesture of hospitality. Perhaps, Hartopp reasoned, it was how he was able to amass such a large fortune without much opposition—at least not from anyone who dared to be vocal about it.

  “Ye’re no doubt tired of being squeezed into that cramped carriage. My son Brandubh and I were just about to do some hunting. Walk with us.”

  Only two things would have relieved the ache in Hartopp’s stiff joints—a good rest or a good walk. He nodded, and followed the McCullough men out of the house and into the forest. Trailing behind them were two servants who carried ammunition and bottles of whisky.

  “The MacAslan gels,” he said, staring straight out ahead of him. “I’ve been looking for that ragamuffin pair since they ran away from my man Seldomridge more than a decade ago. Where did they turn up?”

  Hartopp knew better than to reveal his hand. The information he possessed had a monetary value. Once the information was out, there was no need to pay him for it.

  “Down south, just north of England. I know precisely where they are, and where ye can find them.”

  “That’s good news indeed,” McCullough said. “I’ll want to know. But how did ye find them?”

  “Accidentally. I found them working on a remote farm.”

  “And how came ye to know that I was looking for them?”

  Many had heard about the justice meted out to the MacAslan family. It served as a cautionary tale for anyone even considering not showing for battle. But Hartopp had learned of the slaughter directly from the chief of the McBray clan. One of the daughters of the chief was to be married to Hamish, the eldest MacAslan son. The McBray lass was so distraught at learning of her fiancé’s murder that she took her own life.