The Laird's Willful Lass (The Likely Lairds Book 1) Page 9

  Shocked, she met the Mackinnon’s gaze. “You take your role as laird so seriously, I’d imagined your father must have been a stern taskmaster, all duty and hard work.”

  He released a dismissive huff of breath. “Anything but, lassie.”

  When she returned her attention to that handsome, painted face, she looked more closely. At first, she’d only noticed the resemblance to the man beside her. The imperial nose and clever gray eyes were familiar, but the mouth hinted at self-indulgence. The current Mackinnon’s mouth was all firm self-confidence. She should know; she’d spent enough time staring at it and wondering how it would feel if he kissed her.

  She turned to study the Mackinnon the way she’d studied the beautiful portrait. “So where did you get your sense of responsibility? It’s obvious that your people love and admire you, so you must be a good master.”

  What a revelation it had been, walking around the castle in the laird’s company. She’d wondered if Jock had exaggerated the level of fealty the Mackinnon inspired. She’d soon realized the brawny Scotsman had, if anything, played down the respect the people here gave their chieftain. She’d started to feel like she was on a tour of heaven, with the Almighty as her personal escort.

  No wonder Fergus Mackinnon believed he was omnipotent.

  “I try to be.” He regarded his father’s picture with a faintly troubled expression. “When I grew up, the estate wasnae well managed, and everyone here suffered as a consequence. My father was more interested in his own pleasures than in seeing his clansmen prosperous and settled. I swore that when I was in charge, things at Achnasheen would be different.”

  She couldn’t criticize his intentions, but that air of omniscience niggled. “And does nobody ever offer a contrary opinion, a better way to go on?”

  With a shrug, he returned his gaze to her. “An army marches best when there’s one general in command.”

  “And you’re that general?”

  “Aye. Who else?”

  It was her turn to frown. “But you’re running an estate, not a war.”

  Wry humor creased his eyes. “Och, what’s the difference?”

  She’d realized last night, when she’d listened to his tales, that in past centuries, this part of the Highlands had been lawless and dangerous. But it was 1817. The kingdom, even its wild northern reaches, was at peace. “These days, there’s nothing to defeat. The battle’s over.”

  “You wouldnae say that if you’d lived here in my father’s day.”

  “So you have subordinates, but no equals.”

  “I’m no raging tyrant, lassie.” Those expressive brows drew together in displeasure. “If you don’t believe me, ask the people who live here.”

  She didn’t need to. It was apparent that everyone at Achnasheen was more than satisfied to have Fergus Mackinnon in charge.

  The Mackinnon directed her attention to a portrait of his grandfather wearing the familiar red and black plaid, but her mind, for once, couldn’t focus on art. Instead, she kept stewing on the laird and the military terms he’d used to describe himself.

  There was no doubting his power within this glen. Or his capacity to fulfill his role as protector and custodian. Yet, despite the adulation he received from his followers, she couldn’t help thinking that the master of this estate sounded as if he was heartbreakingly alone.

  * * *

  Chapter Seven

  * * *

  Fergus stood in the shadowy courtyard, holding two stocky ponies. Macushla and Brecon waited at his side. The sun peeped over the hills, and as he’d predicted, the day was fine.

  His intriguing guest breezed through the castle’s doors and paused on the top step to survey her surroundings. Then her gaze fell on him, and she smiled with an openness he’d rarely seen in her. Her long, graceful body bristled with energy, and her pleasure in the forthcoming excursion made her black eyes shine.

  With the exception of his friend Hamish’s formidable mother and her interest in politics, he wasn’t used to women dedicated to anything outside home and family. Signorina Lucchetti’s ideas went against everything he believed about the ordained way of things, but he couldn’t deny that he found this unusual lassie appealing.

  She wore a rather masculine ensemble in dark green merino, designed for a day in the outdoors. The elegant, unadorned lines revealed the feminine charms of the body beneath. The portfolio she’d saved from the wreck hung from one shoulder, and she carried a wide-brimmed dark green straw hat in her hand.

  “Good morning, Mackinnon,” she said, crouching to pat the dogs who trotted up to meet her. “You didn’t have to get up to wish me well.”

  “You said ye wanted to leave early to catch the light.”

  She descended the steps with that long-legged, loose-hipped prowl that always set his heart racing. No other woman he knew walked like that either, as if she required nobody’s permission to go where she wished.

  “I did, but there was no need to crawl out of bed at dawn to see me off.” She glanced around curiously. “You said my guide would be waiting.”

  Ah, they reached the point where there might be trouble. “He is.”

  Fergus gave her credit for being quick on the uptake. A few feet away from him, she went completely still. “I…see.”

  He wasn’t in the habit of explaining himself, but nor did he want her storming back inside. “Nobody knows these hills better than I do. I wouldnae entrust ye to anyone else.”

  “I appreciate your kindness—” she began hotly.

  “No, you don’t,” he said with a huff of amusement. “You’re wishing me to Hades right now.”

  “Yes, I am.” To his relief, laughter brightened her black eyes. “I also recognize an argument I’m not going to win. You’ll soon regret your chivalry, Mackinnon. Be warned. A day with an artist is extremely dull. Papa always brings a book when we go out. So if you find yourself wishing you hadn’t come, remember this moment. I suspect tomorrow you’ll be more than happy to hand me over to Jock or one of his friends.”

  As if he’d consign her to another man’s care.

  “You shouldn’t challenge me, you know,” he said neutrally, leading the black pony up to her. He released the bridle and took her portfolio, tying it to the pony’s saddle. “It just makes me more determined to prove ye wrong.”

  “We really aren’t designed to get along, are we?” she said easily. “We’re too alike. Too accustomed to getting our own way.”

  “The weaker will must yield in time.” When he caught her by the waist, he let his hands linger.

  Every time he touched her, it was like holding high summer in his grasp. Only a Highlander could appreciate how appealing that was. Winters at Achnasheen were long and dark and cold. When Marina Lucchetti gave herself to him, she’d flood his world with sunlight.

  Her sleek dark eyebrows rose and to his pleasure, she didn’t try to break his grip. “Of course, you assume the weaker will must be mine.”

  “Of course,” he said, appreciating her spirit. It was inevitable that he’d win the battle between them, but by heaven, he’d have fun along the way before he did.

  “Pride goeth before a fall,” she said, then gasped as he hoisted her onto the pony’s broad back. She settled her delectable rump into the sidesaddle and took up the reins.

  “In that case, you’d better do your best to hold on, signorina.” He caught the dun pony’s rein and rose into the saddle. He noted her sardonic expression. “What is it?”

  “I’m not sure the pony fits the lord and master image as well as that gray mare did.”

  Fergus brought his pony up beside hers. “There’s no mount more surefooted and hardy in the hills than these wee beasties. They’re very strong too – they’ll easily carry a full-grown stag of over 500 pounds.” He paused. “I forgot to ask if you ride.”

  “I’m no great horsewoman, but I can just about manage something this size.” They headed out of the castle under the archway, the two shaggy black dogs trotting at th
e ponies’ heels. “At the English houses I stayed in, my reluctance to join in the fox hunt provided great amusement.”

  This lady was sophisticated, accustomed to dealing with society’s upper echelons. He needed to remember that. Had any of those fine English gentlemen been her lover? No doubt they’d desired her. Any laddie would.

  He’d recognized straightaway that she was temperamental and stubborn and headstrong, and not at all the kind of lassie he usually took on. Now that he’d known her a day and a half, those qualities made her the most exciting woman he’d ever met.

  Their affair wouldn’t be a simple matter, but it seemed Fergus was in the mood for fireworks.

  * * *

  Marina should have expected Fergus to offer himself as her escort. She’d read the usual masculine signals that he considered her his exclusive concern.

  She should be annoyed at yet more high-handedness from her host. Part of her was. Yet part of her was flattered and...thrilled.

  As they wended their way into the hills behind the castle, she jogged along behind him. The track wasn’t wide enough to accommodate their ponies side by side.

  “I suppose if I insist on going to Skye, you’ll come along as my guide.”

  Those wide, straight shoulders moved in a dismissive shrug. “A good friend told me that once someone saves your life, the two of you are linked forever more.”

  “That’s an alarming thought,” she said, her tone dry.

  An amused grunt greeted her comment, although she hadn’t been entirely joking. “Aye, it is at that.”

  “So if you’re to dog my footsteps, what is the point of my leaving Achnasheen?”

  She felt the Mackinnon’s brief backward glance like a knife. “Is it so bad here?”

  He didn’t look where he was going. She wasn’t exactly steering her pony either. With its broad back and swaying gait, the pony made her feel like she was in a boat, rocking on a gentle swell.

  “I don’t like being a prisoner.”

  “Is that really how you feel?”

  “If I’m trapped and can’t leave by my own free will, how else would you describe it?”

  Taking her pony by surprise, he pulled up. There was almost a nose-to-tail collision.

  He turned in the saddle to face her. “Marina, I’m hellishly sorry if ye believe that’s the truth.”

  The bristling silence extended. After a few seconds, she sighed.

  “Oh, it’s not the truth, and you know it,” she admitted grudgingly. “And given your kindness to my father and me, that was an ungracious thing to say. I don’t understand why I have to assert myself against you all the time. I’ve met overbearing men before and handled them with a modicum of tact, while still managing to get my own way.”

  “Overbearing, am I? You don’t pull your punches, do you?” Humor lit his eyes to bright silver. “I’ve never met a lassie who wants to fight me the way you do.”

  She looked at him curiously. “In your whole life, no woman has ever stood up to you? What about your mother?”

  “My mother was a sweet wee thing, absolutely helpless once my father passed away, and not that effective when he was alive, if truth be told.”

  The reasons Allan Ramsay had chosen to paint the pretty blonde in that languorous pose became clearer. “And your sister?”

  “Sisters. There’s two of them.” He shrugged. “Much the same. After my father’s death, I became head of the family, so both of them grew up obeying me.” His lips twitched. “It helps that I’m always right.”

  Marina rolled her eyes. “Don’t make me hit you.”

  “I might enjoy that.”

  Startled, she looked at him. “What?”

  The gray gaze remained unwavering. “You heard me.”

  Unwise to pursue the subject, when she had a whole day of his company ahead. “How long have you been laird?”

  He clicked his tongue at his pony. It ambled on, and hers followed, the horses as obedient to his will as everything else in the glen was. Damn them, and damn him.

  “About twenty years.”

  She frowned. She’d assumed he was about her age, but this put the lie to that idea. “You must have been little more than a boy when you inherited.”

  “We grow up fast in the Highlands.”

  He avoided her question, which was interesting. “How old were you, Mackinnon?”

  “Nine.”

  Shock silenced her. Nine years old? He’d been a mere child. How had a child shouldered all this responsibility? His father had left things in a mess, she gathered, and his mother didn’t sound like she’d been any help at all. In fact, she sounded like just one more duty. He hadn’t told her his sisters were younger than he was, but something made her think they were. More duty.

  He glanced back with the familiar sardonic expression. Maledizione, even on the stubby little pony, he looked like a prince. “Nothing to say?”

  “I’m trying to imagine being a child and having so much care thrust upon me.” No wonder he’d grown up arrogant and sure of his abilities. She couldn’t approve of his attitudes, but she came to understand the reasons behind them.

  “Och, it wasnae so bad as all that. I had trustees, and there was plenty of experience and goodwill among the local folk.”

  “But you were still the Mackinnon, head of the clan.”

  “Aye. It’s a privilege.”

  “And an obligation.”

  “That, too.”

  Marina chewed over what she’d heard. “All right, I can see that the estate isn’t overrun with women ready to put you in your place.” She frowned in thought. “You said you go to Inverness and Edinburgh. Somewhere away from Achnasheen, you must have run into an outspoken woman.”

  The sardonic light deepened. “I’ve even been to London.”

  “London?”

  “I went to a few balls and the opera, and a place called Almack’s that was heaving with giggly debutantes. Dreadful crush, hot as Hades, and the waiters only served lukewarm lemonade. What sort of drink is that for a red-blooded laddie, I ask you? No wonder the Sassenachs are all so lily-livered.”

  “Does that include the ladies?”

  He made a dismissive gesture and faced the front again so she couldn’t see his expression. “All the lassies I danced with seemed to have a proper understanding of a lady’s role in life. None of them tried to take the lead when I waltzed with them, anyway.”

  She narrowed her eyes at that long, straight back in its loose white shirt, wishing she could find some physical imperfection to mar the magnificent sight. “You’re just saying that so I’ll bite back.”

  He cast an amused look over one broad shoulder. “When ye puff up your feathers like an angry hen, you’re awfully bonny, Marina.”

  With a start, she realized that this wasn’t the first time he’d called her Marina. “I didn’t give you permission to use my Christian name,” she said stiffly, knowing she sounded like a fool.

  “Och, Signorina Lucchetti is such a mouthful for a poor, ignorant Highlander.”

  “He’ll get used to it,” she said, grappling with what she’d learned about him. “At least one of your friends must have married a girl with something to say for herself. Not every woman in Scotland is a doormat. I refuse to believe it.”

  He shook his head. “My neighbors’ wives all ken their place. My two closest friends are yet to marry. One’s Laird of Glen Lyon down on the coast near Oban, and the other’s Laird of Invertavey a little north of here.”

  “And do they also resist the concept of a woman who can think for herself?”

  “Perhaps they’re not quite as convinced as I am. Actually I can bring an exception to mind, now you mention it. Hamish at Glen Lyon has a dragon of a mamma who writes books and sets the wee Sassenach gentlemen in Parliament jumping. She’s a terrifying monster. Ye wouldnae want to be like her, Marina. She’s unnatural.”

  Marina choked back a laugh at the theatrical dread he injected into his description. “And what ab
out the Laird of Inver…”

  “Tavey.”

  “Yes. Him. What about his mother?”

  “Och, she was a wild one. I never met her. She ran away with a soldier when Diarmid was sixteen. She died of a fever in Jamaica a year later.”

  “Oh, how sad.”

  “Aye. And an example of what happens when a man’s not master in his own house.”

  She supposed the Mackinnon would look at it that way. “I like the sound of Hamish’s mother.”

  He sighed. “Aye, I thought you might. You’re sisters under the skin.”

  “Do I terrify you, too, Mackinnon?” She rather liked the idea.

  “Aye, you’re the stuff of nightmares.”

  She laughed. “In that case, are you sure you don’t want to send me on my way?”

  He turned his pony up the hill, following a track she couldn’t see. “Och, a man has to face his fears if he wants to prove his courage.”

  “Very commendable,” she said drily.

  They climbed higher. She’d been so fascinated—and horrified—by the conversation, she’d hardly paid attention to her surroundings. Which was absurd, given her sole reason for being in Scotland was to find suitable scenes to paint.

  The hills rose ahead of them, stretching into the blue sky. A pretty haze of purplish pink covered them. Heather, she knew. And a brown and green patchwork of bracken. After yesterday’s rain, the colors were sharp and clear.

  A waterfall tumbled over the escarpment above. She glanced back, surprised to see how far they’d climbed. Below, the castle looked like an illustration from a fairy story. In the distance, islands floated in the sparkling blue sea.

  Coming north, she’d seen many pretty scenes, but this was the loveliest yet. Perhaps painting here rather than on Skye might prove a smart move.

  At least for her art.

  Her fingers weren’t tingling to paint yet, although the shapes of the landscape sank into her mind and started to create patterns. Instead, she couldn’t help going over her discussion with the Mackinnon.