The Highlander Is All That (Untamed Highlanders #4)(9)

He threw back his head and laughed, a sound that arrested her. “Ah, lass, Catriona is no’ my wife.”

His lover then? Somehow that was not any better.

“She’s my daughter.” He leaned in and said, conspiratorially, “She’s five and itching for independence.”

“At five?” So young?

He shrugged. “She’s a Scots lass. As wild as the tors.”

“And you left her?”

“No’ alone, of course. She’s staying with the duchess’s sister, Susana, who has a daughter about the same age.” That wicked grin again. “They’re both hellions. I can only imagine what trouble those two will get into together.” He seemed delighted at the prospect, which floored her.

“You seem pleased that she is a hellion.”

He lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug. “I love her as she is. She could use a mother though. At some point.”

“I imagine so.” Curiosity pricked her and after a moment she asked, “What happened to her mother?”

“Ah.” His expression darkened and he scrubbed at his beard. “Fever.” The word was choked out.

“I’m . . . sorry.”

“It was difficult. I do miss her.”

“Of course.”

Something of an awkward silence settled then, and Anne couldn’t think of a thing to say to break it. It was strange enough that she wanted to. That she wanted to converse with him more, which was an anomaly indeed.

At long last, he spoke. “I do hope we can be friends while I am here,” he said sincerely. “T’would make things much easier, I imagine. For both of us.” He held out his hand, but she hesitated.

Speaking to him was one thing. Touching him was another thing entirely.

“What do you think, Lady Anne? Shall we work together to find your sisters wonderful husbands?”

How could she say no to that? Besides, she really didn’t want to. Friendship did sound attractive and even though he was far too handsome and reminded her of Kirk, there were also ways he was unlike her old lover.

Could she forget that he was a Scotsman? Probably not. But could they be friends? “Yes.” She thrust her hand forward and hardly shivered at all as he enclosed it in his enormous, warm paw. “Friends.”

“Friends, indeed.”

And this time, when he smiled, she smiled back. And meant it.





Chapter Four


Hamish blew out a breath. Bluidy hell.

Had he thought his mission would be hard?

Impossible was more like it.

He’d been here less than a day and he had already succumbed to Elizabeth’s seductive wiles. Already yanked her into his arms, like the barbarian he was, and kissed her soundly.

And damn. What a kiss.

Hamish was not a green lad. He’d had more lovers than he could recall, but never, not ever, had he kissed a woman who made him so crazed.

He’d nearly lost his mind and taken her on the floor of the folly. And what folly that would have been.

Lachlan would flay him alive, for one thing. For another, he would never forgive himself if he allowed himself to seduce an innocent. He was a man of the world, and his tastes were . . . sophisticated. That girl had no idea what fate she was tempting. Beyond that, Hamish had no intention or desire to marry, but he knew damn well what the cost was for deflowering an English debutante.

And forget a forced wedding. The British lords would string him up by the balls.

The only sane course was to keep his distance from the enticing Elizabeth and absolutely, positively never kiss her again.

“There you are!”

Hamish jumped as a militant roar echoed behind him. He whipped around to see Lady Esmeralda with her cane in tow. “My lady.” He bowed.

“Bah. Don’t ‘my lady’ me. Call me Essie.”

He swallowed. Hard. Essie? And what was that glimmer in her eye? It horrified him a little. “Aye, my lady.”

“Come along, boy. We have work to do.”

“We . . . do?”

“Yes. Get moving.” She thwacked him on the bottom with her cane. It surprised him just enough to have the desired results.

“Where . . . are we going?”

She fixed him with an impatient stare. “To the parlor, of course. Come. Come.”

He really had no choice, with her herding him as she was. And he suddenly regretted his decision to leave his room. If he’d been wise, he could have avoided all of this—and that unfortunate kiss—by sleeping the day away as Ranald was.

But when Lady Esmeralda—Essie—opened the door to the parlor, his friend sat, still and uncomfortable on the divan looking remarkably like a prisoner of war.

“I thought you were resting,” Hamish said.

Ranald made a face. “So did I.”

“Nonsense. I have no use for layabouts.” Both men opened their mouths to dispute this accusation, but Lady Esmeralda did not give them a chance. “Henley, a tea tray for me and whisky for the gentlemen,” she barked. Then she picked up a thick folder and began thumbing through it.

While Hamish was more than happy to stay—now that there was sustenance on the way—he did have to wonder, “What work have we to do?”

Esmeralda gave him another one of those looks, one that inferred he was hopelessly clueless—which he was—and she sniffed. “We need to plot out our strategy for the season.”