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

  Another compliment, and one for her mind, not for her looks. Accompanied by something that could almost be an apology for assuming she’d join him for dinner without checking with her first.

  It became more and more difficult to recall how he’d barked orders to her down by the bridge. Diavolo, this charm was dangerous. Already she knew she’d be sensible to avoid his company. He wasn’t at all her sort of gentleman. And he’d given her a perfect excuse to say her goodnights.

  She stayed exactly where she was. “We’re not so careful in Italy either, especially as I’m neither an aristocrat nor just out of the schoolroom. I think my reputation will survive a meal with you.”

  “I’m delighted to hear that.” The warmth in his eyes lit an answering warmth in her blood. “Would ye like a wee glass of wine?”

  “Yes, please.”

  He poured two glasses of claret. “So what is a pretty half-Italian lady doing in wildest Scotland?”

  “Shivering,” she said, accepting her wine. She really must tell him not to waste any more time on compliments. They never worked with her. Well, they usually never worked. “I’d lay good money our coachman was lost when we crashed. We’re supposed to be on our way to the Isle of Skye.”

  The Mackinnon sat down beside her again, stretching his long legs out toward the fire. Marina was painfully conscious that mere inches of blue velvet separated them. One subtle shift, and their hips would brush.

  The thought tightened her throat. Down by the bridge, he’d touched her, slinging her around like a piece of furniture, and she’d wanted to slap him. When had that changed?

  He raised his glass. “Slàinte mhath.”

  “Salute.” She returned his toast, then sipped the wine, which turned out to be excellent. What else did she expect? She had a feeling the Mackinnon arranged everything here to suit himself.

  “You’re undertaking a tour?”

  “In a way.” She swallowed some more wine and strove to keep her mind on the conversation and not on her stirring attraction to her host. “I’m an artist. The Duke of Portofino has commissioned some Highland scenes. On the Continent, Scotland is all the rage.”

  Interest sharpened his gaze. “You work for a living?”

  “I do.” His skepticism, the standard reaction she received from the male half of humanity, reminded her that she was too old and pragmatic to throw her bonnet over a windmill for the sake of a pair of handsome gray eyes. Even if the eyes were bellissimi indeed. “I told you I don’t come from society’s exalted ranks.”

  He ignored the unspoken dig at his background. “And you’ve had some success as a painter?”

  “I’ve been lucky,” she said.

  He paused as if he was considering her reply, then his frown melted away. “By God, I think I’ve seen your work. M.R. Lucchetti? Is that you?”

  She shouldn’t be so pleased. “It is.”

  More admiration sparked in his eyes, and she resisted the urge to bask. Marina was much more comfortable with praise for her work than her feminine appeal. She was proud of what she’d achieved in her career. In the early days, many people had dismissed her as yet another woman who dabbled in watercolor, the medium every genteel lady learned from her governess.

  The Mackinnon went on. “Clarissa’s husband did the Grand Tour as a young man, and he bought a set of your pictures when he was in Italy. Views of Naples. They’re exquisite. Forgive me, I assumed they were done by a man.”

  Her lips firmed, although she, more than anyone, knew the prejudice against female painters. It was why she used her initials and not her Christian name when she signed her work. “Many people believe women have no real talent with a brush.”

  “Well, ye disprove that,” he said shortly. “What does the R stand for?”

  She’d been geared up to defend herself. When she didn’t need to, she felt winded, as though he’d punched her in the belly.

  “Repton. Mamma’s maiden name.” Because his partisanship disarmed her, she said more than she usually did when she described her beginnings as an artist. “Mamma was the one who fostered my talent and fought tooth and nail until the best drawing master in Florence took me as a pupil.”

  Even then Marina hadn’t been allowed to attend the school’s life classes along with the male students. A reason she confined herself to landscapes, now she earned her living as a watercolorist.

  “And is there a Signor Lucchetti?”

  Did she imagine that the question held a particular intensity? Up until now, she could almost dismiss the conversation as an exchange of harmless pleasantries, if her heart wasn’t lodged high up under her ribs and her blood wasn’t fizzing like champagne. “Yes, there is.”

  Was that disappointment in the silver eyes, or was she reading too much into his expression? Did the Mackinnon find her as intriguing as she found him? Did she want him to?

  Common sense and self-preservation said no, she didn’t. She had her life arranged as she wanted it, and an inconvenient liaison was the last thing she needed. Some hitherto unsuspected female impulse wanted to see where this unprecedented reaction to a man would take her.

  “And where is he?”

  “Upstairs in bed. Papa will be horrified when he realizes you’ve given us shelter without a proper introduction.”

  Definite relief. “You’re no’ married?”

  “No, I’m my own woman.” Marina spoke the words deliberately, because she guessed the concept wouldn’t please him. She needed to remember how patronizing he could be before she melted into a puddle of longing at his feet.

  He frowned. “I’m not sure the world recognizes such a creature.”

  Marina shrugged. “Then it should. I live off my talent. As long as people are willing to buy my pictures, I’m independent.”

  Those expressive brows rose in inquiry. “Yet ye travel with your father as your chaperone?”

  Diavolo, she should have known he’d pick up on that point. “I must bow that far to social convention. There are some battles I can’t win. If I traveled alone, I’d be called a—”

  He broke in before she could pronounce the unflattering words. Loose woman. Meaning “whore.” “So you do need a man for some things.”

  “For the sake of appearances.” She met burning silver eyes. She’d been wrong. This conversation extended past polite platitudes after all, and they both knew it. “But Papa works for me. He travels at my direction. I pay the bills. I make the decisions. I’m in charge.”

  The Mackinnon set his glass on a side table with a distinct click. “It’s unnatural.”

  “No.” His reaction shouldn’t disappoint her. It wasn’t as if he sought to hide what an autocrat he was. And it was clear from everyone else she’d spoken to at the castle that his word was law. “What’s unnatural is one half of the population believing it has an inalienable right to control the other half.”

  “Signora Lucchetti, you’re dangerous. You preach revolution.” His gaze uncompromising, he rose and stood in front of the hearth. “Men have always been in charge.”

  “That doesn’t make it right.” She spoke with some heat.

  All her life she’d fought against the uncritical acceptance of masculine superiority. She’d seen male painters with half her talent end up twice as successful, in a world that believed no woman could compete with a man when it came to art.

  “You needed my help tonight,” the Mackinnon pointed out in an odiously superior manner.

  She should be grateful that he’d started to act like a blockhead. His attitude might serve to tear the net of attraction strangling her common sense. If only his sheer physical magnificence didn’t draw her. It was so difficult to dismiss him as an ignorant brute, when every turn of his head had her itching to capture that male beauty on paper.

  But his jibe reminded Marina that she enjoyed this man’s hospitality, and she owed him her courtesy, if not her respect.

  Oh, who was she trying to fool? He’d rescued her father from deadly danger. How coul
d she fail to respect him?

  Beyond her gratitude, she admired his competence and his power. His was a penetrating intelligence, even if she ignored his beauty, which for an artist was impossible. Much as she’d like to condemn him as nothing more than a bigoted bully, he was more complex than that.

  She sucked in a breath and told herself to settle down. “Yes, I did, and I appreciated it,” she said quietly.

  He arched one russet eyebrow, and she might almost say he looked piqued at her quick capitulation. “Giving up the argument?”

  “Staging a strategic retreat.”

  “Good Lord, ye must forgive me.” His mouth turned down in self-reproach. “I havenae asked after your welfare.”

  He wasn’t touching her—of course he wasn’t, they were strangers—but the genuine concern in that deep voice wrapped around her the way her ruined crimson velvet cape used to.

  That was the problem with masterful men. The other side of all that pushiness was the urge to protect. She loved her Papa dearly but was under no illusions about who was the stronger personality in the partnership. Nobody had offered up their strength as her shield since her mamma died.

  Sitting on the wet hillside with her father, she’d felt shaky and vulnerable and alone. That must explain her sudden urge to nestle against the Mackinnon’s powerful chest and rest in the knowledge of perfect safety.

  If only for a moment.

  “I’m fine,” she said stiffly.

  “I cannae believe that.” He shook his head. “You must have suffered a few knocks, when the carriage crashed. Here I am, getting you to sit up and make polite conversation.”

  “Hardly polite,” she muttered.

  His lips twitched, although his eyes remained concerned. “At least I can put your mad ideas down to concussion.”

  “Mackinnon…”

  He raised his hands in a gesture of conciliation. “Tell me, would you rather eat upstairs?”

  She shook her head and summoned a smile. “A bath helped. I’ve got a few bruises, but the worst of it was waiting in the cold. Anyway, if I go upstairs, you’ll dismiss me as a frail woman, and think you’ve won the point.”

  “Och, you’ve worked out my evil scheme.”

  Despite everything, his humor disarmed her, and she laughed. “Just one thing—were we on the way to Skye when we crashed?”

  “Aye, in a way, if all ye want is a view. You can see Skye across the channel. You were miles off track if you want the ferry.”

  “That idiot driver.” She took another sip of wine, hoping it might soothe her turmoil. “When we hired him in Glasgow, he swore he knew this part of the world like the back of his hand. Once we were on the road, though, he never listened to orders, and he always drove too fast. That’s what happened today, when he lost control of the carriage.”

  “I should have tossed him in the burn.”

  “Instead, I’m sure you’ve taken him in, as you’ve taken in Papa and his outspoken daughter.”

  The Mackinnon was too wise to rise to that. “I believe we might have found him a bowl of soup and a bed. I can send word to have him pitched out into the rain if you like.”

  He wasn’t smiling. He didn’t seem to be a man who smiled much, she’d noticed. But he did like to tease.

  “Maybe tomorrow.” She sighed. “At least he doesn’t drink.”

  “Given what happened today, he might as well. How is your father? I should have asked that, too, when ye came in.”

  “Under expert care.”

  “Old Maggie? Aye, she’s better than any doctor I ken.”

  Marina set down her glass and met her host’s enigmatic gray gaze. “After a night’s rest, Papa should be well enough to travel on. We won’t inconvenience you for long.”

  The Mackinnon responded with one of those already familiar huffs of sardonic laughter. “My bonny signorina, do ye have much experience of broken bones?”

  “I’m sure if you’ll lend us a carriage…”

  “And I’m sure that your father is stuck here for several weeks. Perhaps longer.”

  “Several weeks?” She couldn’t conceal her horror.

  Per l’amor di dio, several weeks of this man telling her what to do? Several weeks of fighting this roiling sexual attraction? Several weeks of reminding herself that she wasn’t a woman who crumpled into a man’s arms just because he was bold and strong, and he had a spark in his eye that told her he wanted her?

  This time he did smile, and how she wished he hadn’t. He was a handsome man anyway. The smile made him more approachable, irresistibly charming. Within reach, when she knew the danger of reaching out to take him.

  The inchoate, unwelcome impulses that had tormented her from her first meeting with the Mackinnon solidified into desire.

  A hint of wolfishness entered that smile. “Aye, Signorina Lucchetti, you’d better face the fact that you’ll be my guest for at least the next month.”

  * * *

  Chapter Four

  * * *

  Fergus leaned his elbow on the mantelpiece and watched her reaction. His unexpected house guest wasn’t at all the sort of woman who met with his approval. But by God, Marina Lucchetti was the most interesting thing that had happened to Achnasheen since…

  Well, since forever.

  And she was stuck here in his power until her father could walk again. Who knew what mischief a man could get up to, when he had a reckless lassie to pursue?

  Beneath their odd, rather spiky conversation, a growing attraction bubbled. He nursed a suspicion that he wasn’t any more her preferred type of gentleman than she was his type of lady. He also had a feeling that their preferences would soon matter less than the passion flaring between them.

  Did her claims of independence mean she’d come to a lover’s bed without promises of marriage? He didn’t know enough about this exotic creature, a woman outside a man’s control, to be sure.

  The signs were good. She seemed to take his company in her stride, and she hadn’t accepted his offer to provide a chaperone. In Scotland, that indicated a woman of some experience, and perhaps an eye to an affair. Was it the same in Italy?

  He’d never traveled further than London, and that was five years ago. What the devil did he know about society in lands across the seas?

  But a laddie could hope, couldn’t he?

  What he did know was that he’d never experienced such a swift and powerful yen to have a lassie. The moment he’d met those snapping black eyes staring him down from the window of the wrecked carriage, he’d wanted her. His hunger had only grown since. He couldn’t be happier she was staying.

  But the dismay with which she greeted his announcement of an extended visit indicated that he was getting ahead of himself. “We can’t put you out so long,” she said.

  “You’re going to argue with me again,” he said in a long-suffering tone, as he stepped away from the hearth and extended his hand to her. “I feel it in my bones.”

  She had the grace to smile. “Probably.”

  When she took his hand and rose, heat sizzled up his arm like raging flame. His heart crashed into his ribs with the sort of force that had brought her carriage to grief at the bridge.

  All from merely holding her hand. If she ever kissed him, he’d explode like a keg of gunpowder.

  “Then come through to supper.” It was an effort to hide the titanic effect she had on him, but at this early stage, he didn’t want to make her skittish about his intentions. He tucked her hand into his arm. “You’ll need your strength, if you plan to take up your cudgels again.”

  “My goodness, this really is a castle,” she said in awe, as they entered the vaulted dining room, with its tall lancet windows and tapestries. “No wonder your ideas are so out of date.”

  The prospect of her company put him in such a good humor, her jibe made him laugh. “After you’ve been here a month, I’ll wager ye’ll agree that what’s tried and true works at Achnasheen.”

  Fergus pulled out a heavy chair
for her. The massive oak table was designed for clan gatherings, but he’d asked for Signorina Lucchetti’s place to be set beside him at the head. Heavy silver candelabra extended down the length of the table, but only the two nearest ones were lit, lending an air of intimacy.

  Kirsty and Jenny brought in the food, and Jock took charge of the wine. Then they left Fergus alone with his intriguing guest.

  Signorina Lucchetti tasted her soup, then set down her spoon and sent him one of those uncompromising looks that rapidly became familiar. He was used to lassies who sidled around telling a man what they thought and were quick to bend to a stronger opinion. He had a feeling this lady’s opinions were as strong as his own, and she wasn’t at all shy about expressing them.

  A novelty in a woman. A disaster in a wife.

  But perhaps lending an extra touch of spice to a mistress?

  “It will be a vast inconvenience to you, if we stay until my father’s leg is mended.”

  Fergus tried his soup before he answered calmly and with authority, because he knew he was in the right. He always was. “In the Highlands, we have a strong tradition of hospitality. I’d be delighted to have you and your father as my guests as long as you wish to stay.”

  “That can’t be true.” He rather liked the wry amusement that curved her lips.

  In fact, apart from her outlandish ideas of female equality and her tendency to flout his will, there was quite a lot he liked about her. Not least how she wore his sister’s dress. The frothy yellow concoction should look absurd on tall, dark Marina Lucchetti., but it only emphasized the elegant sparseness of that long body. Not to mention he approved of its pleasing tendency to droop over her bosom. He’d already noted that although her breasts mightn’t be abundant, they offered plenty of scope for a man’s entertainment.