me or not, but whatever you do, my Jeanie, know that seduction is off the agenda.’
* * *
Which was all very well, she thought crossly as she did what was sensible. She ate her sandwiches and she drank one glass—only one—of wine, and she thought she should have settled, but why did he have to have called her my Jeanie? And Jeanie lass?
It was merely familiar, she told herself as she cleared their debris into the backpack. Any number of the older folk on the island called her Jeanie lass. Any number of islanders referred to her as our Jeanie.
But Alasdair McBride was not a member of the island’s older folk. Nor was he really an islander.
It shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter.
It did. It made her feel...
Scared.
‘It does seem a shame to waste the rug. Do you want a nap before we head back?’ Alasdair was watching her—and the low-life was laughing again. But not laughing out loud. It was more a glint behind his eyes, a telltale quiver of the corners of his mouth, the way his eyes met hers...
Laughter never seemed too far away. What did this man have to laugh about? she demanded of herself. Didn’t he know life was hard?
But it wasn’t hard for him. This man was the Earl of Duncairn. He could laugh at what he wanted.
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