Wild Highland Magic (The Celtic Legends Series Book 3)(20)

Her eyes narrowed in that contemplative, puzzled way. “You’re flirting with me, aren’t you?”

“You’re surprised.”

“I know what flirting is,” she retorted. “I’ve seen it happen during the thatching season.”

I’ve seen it happen. Like she’d never experienced it herself. “Are there no men on this island with red blood running in their veins?”

She tilted her head and a little line appeared between her brows. “Is that a compliment? Are you saying—”

“—that you’re a fine-looking lass as any I’ve known, if a bit slow when it comes to flirtation.”

“Well, how am I to know what you’re talking about, if you veil your true thoughts with false words?”

“The same way a man comes to know the mind of a woman. By getting to know her better.”

A blush spread right to the roots of her hair. He watched it rise, then, distracted by the way strands of her hair flew around her face, he became jealous of the sea wind.

He tore his gaze from her and sought the far horizon. He’d spoken too bluntly. The sooner he changed the subject, the better for both of them.

“Wherever you’re leading me, lass,” he said, “will there be a pint of ale at the end?”

“Not unless the fairies see to it. We’ll be climbing to the dolmen stones up there.”

In the distance he could see a lonely structure limned against the sky, two upright stones supporting a long, horizontal capstone. It brought to mind the hilltop at Loch Fyfe, at least the way it had been in his youth. In truth, this whole island stirred up a strange cauldron of youthful memories. There was something in the brightness of the white sun after a gale, the briny smell in the air, the way the rain clung to each blade of grass, glittering in the sideways light of the morning. He could almost imagine he was chasing Fingal and Elspeth across the hills, playing hide-and-seek amid the stones on the council height.

“Lachlan,” Cairenn said, in a voice that sounded as if it were forced through her throat. “You’re thinking of home, aren’t you?”

Yes, but only to distract himself from thinking of what it would be like to kiss her until her knees faltered. “I’m always thinking of home. That dolmen reminds me of the place where my clan chooses their chieftain.”

“And you want to go back soon.”

“Considering what befell me, I won’t rest easy until I lay my eyes upon my father again.”

“But isn’t it foolish to be eager to return to whatever made a man plunge a knife into your back?”

“Shall I abandon my people to our enemies, then?”

She raised her brows. “You talk of ‘your people’ as if you are lord over them all.”

He reached for deflection. “Your sister thinks I’m a king.”

“That’s my fault, because I told Dairine that your father is the king of North Sea seals. I told her that you ran away from your father because the princess he was trying to marry you off to has a chin full of whiskers.”

He suppressed a snort. “You do have an imagination.”

“But me, myself,” she continued, as if he hadn’t spoken, “I’ve been thinking on this for some time now. I can’t decide whether your father is a merchant fighting over trading privileges, a baron fighting over borderlands, or the king of a pack of common thieves.” She slid that piercing green gaze toward him. “Any of the three could end up in a knife-fight on a sea-bound ship.”

He knew he should tell her nothing. He’d kept quiet about his situation for her protection and the protection of her whole family. But if he didn’t tell her the truth now—a truth that would put a gulf between them as wide as that between a plowman and a king—he might find himself unable to resist those rosy lips much longer.

“My father,” he said, “is a clan chieftain.”

He saw her quick little swallow.

“A chieftain, is he?” Her voice was forced. “We’ve had O’Flaherty and O’Brien chieftains find their way here, and plenty of those English barons and knights sporting tournament wounds.”

“Before long, I suspect every outcropping of land you see will be full of those English barons, and they’ll be sporting wounds not from tournaments, but from war.”

“The English wouldn’t dare start a war here. Have you seen the O’Flahertys fight?”

“Irish fighters are fierce. So are the Scots. But when it comes to fighting the English, fierceness isn’t enough.” How isolated she must be on this island to not feel the encroachment of the enemy that had harried his father’s lands most of his life. “The English are united, but the Scots are divided by clan. Our landholdings are small chieftaincies, and every passing of the rod causes infighting. Divided as we are, we’ll never hold out against the English, our true enemies.”

“Was it an English knife that put a hole in your shoulder, then?”

“Nay, lass. It was a Scottish one.”

She gifted him with the sight of her upturned face, those rosy lips parted in surprise, those winged brows raised high.

He was telling her too much. She didn’t need to know why someone had aimed a blade at his heart. And yet, when she looked at him with so much concern and curiosity, he wanted to tell her everything.