The Highlander Is All That (Untamed Highlanders #4)(5)

Ah, well. The lovely widow could wait.

Hamish stilled and the little hairs on his nape prickled as he caught the trail of a tantalizing song. Like a sailor called by a siren, he followed the sound. As he rounded a corner, a whimsical gazebo came into view. There, leaning against a column, was his angel.

Her face was exquisite, delicate, and finely formed, utterly classical but for the button nose. Her hair, curly and glossy, skimmed her shoulders, and her dress pinched in at the waist, highlighting a fine form.

His breath caught as she tipped up her chin and warbled a few more notes. Then he must have made a noise, for she abruptly stopped singing and turned.

As she saw him, her cheeks turned a charming pink, and Elizabeth clapped her hand over her mouth.

“Doona stop,” he said before he could halt the words.

“Oh dear,” she said with a delightful laugh. “I’ve been caught out.”

“You have a lovely voice,” he said, stepping closer.

He should not step closer. He should not be alone with her, here in the garden. This he knew to the depth of his being. But, to the depth of his being, he could not resist.

Her grin was entrancing. “You are a very kind liar.”

“I’m no’ a liar.”

“Well, thank you, sir.” She gifted him with a mock curtsey.

“Do you often sing in the garden?” he asked.

“Only when I am certain no one can hear.” She turned away and stepped into the gazebo. He couldn’t help but notice the seductive swish of her skirts.

Hell.

He clamped down on his lustful thoughts. She was a girl. One who was far too young to know a thing about seduction. Obviously, his imaginings were born of his own desire, and it would behoove him to remember that. He was here to see her wed. To be her protector. Not to pursue her.

She was the duke’s cousin.

Still, he followed her up the steps into the folly. She sat on a padded bench and he took a seat on the other side, far out of reach.

“Have you recovered from your journey?” she asked politely.

“Aye. A walk in the garden has helped immensely.”

“I can imagine. Traveling can be so dull.”

“Have you traveled much?”

“A bit here and there. Brighton, on holiday. York, for a house party. We went to Scotland once, but I was young.”

“Ah.” That caught his attention. “How did you like it?”

“Oh.” Her face transformed to one of rapt excitement. An expression that grabbed him by the solar plexus and tugged. “I absolutely loved it.”

“Did you?” How . . . intriguing.

“It was so beautiful and wild. The people were lovely and the food was delicious.”

“Even haggis?”

Her adorable nose curled a little. “It has its . . . charms.”

He had to laugh. Her lie was so blatant.

“I would love to go back sometime.” He appreciated the wistful note in her tone.

“I miss it already.”

“I can imagine you do.” She sighed. “It must have been difficult to put your life on hold to come here and help us.”

“The duke insisted.” He regretted his words immediately, as she flinched. “However, I’m certain we shall enjoy this adventure.”

“I do hope your time here is pleasant.” Unfortunately, she’d gone all prickly and formal, which he couldn’t help but regret.

“Thank you.”

“It must be difficult for your family to have you gone as well.” She looked away as she said this, but he caught an odd glimmer in her eye before she did.

“My family?”

She cleared her throat. “Your . . . wife? Children?”

Ah. That was it. The little minx was fishing for information. Something warm trickled though his veins, and he bit back a grin. “I doona have a wife, lass.” Why he invested the words with a low rumble, he did not know. Or perhaps he did.

Her response was immediate. A slow smile blossomed on her beautiful face. Was it possible it made her even lovelier? “No wife?”

“No’ a one.” He chuckled. Damn, if she wasn’t flirting with him. Though it was foolish, the prospect danced through him in ribbons of pleasure.

“And the baron?”

His mood plummeted. “What?”

“Does the baron have a wife?”

Blast.

Aye, she was fishing for information.

On Ranald.

He shouldn’t be disappointed. He’d already acknowledged that his friend was a far better catch for her. “He is a widower.” A disgruntled offering.

“Oh, how sad.”

“He has a daughter.”

“Oh, that is even sadder. A helpless little mite without a mother?”

“Aye.” Though Catriona was hardly a helpless mite. She was more of a hellion.

“Does the baron plan to marry again?”

This was going from bad to worse. “He hasna spoken of it.”

“I was just wondering, you know, because he is very handsome.”

“Aye.”

“And he seems very nice.”

“Aye.” There was no call for such misery, but it swamped him nonetheless.

“What a pity that Anne dislikes Scotsmen.”