to the point of visible softness. Strapped around his waist was a thick leather belt that holstered two weapons: a gold-handled hunting knife and an exceedingly large sword that was not sheathed in a scabbard but slung bare and shiny into its looped harness. That exposed blade seemed to signify something, purposefully advertising not only its gargantuan size but its artful craftsmanship. He has the biggest sword of them all. His leather trews were tucked into tall boots. On his wrist was a wide leather band adorned with gold ornamentation and he wore a gold chain around his neck that was mostly hidden from view inside his shirt. His hair was a deep midnight-black and hung past the collar of his shirt in thick, sun-glinted skeins, curling slightly at the ends. He wore a small braid at either temple, as his traveling guards had also done: a Highlands warrior custom. I noticed all these details abstractly; it was his face and his demeanor that riveted me most of all. His posture was upright but relaxed, utterly confident. Power seemed to radiate from the wide set of his shoulders in heatlike, shimmery waves. The features of his face were bold but aristocratic, from the wide, straight nose to the carved, masculine jaw roughened by the light shadow of stubble. Strong, black, expressive eyebrows arched slightly with a note of absorbed assessment. And his irises, arresting in their charcoal-rimmed pale gray glow, as though alight from within. Long, thick black lashes brushed almost elegantly against his cheeks as he closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, there was a flash of bemused satisfaction. His full lips curved in an arrogant pout that wasn’t a smile.
“And who,” he said, his deep voice curling into me with unusual effect, “might you be?”
CHAPTER THREE
I REALIZED THEN what I must have looked like. My gown was not only exceptionally low-cut, a detail that had only become emphasized by the effects of my ridiculous tree-climbing expedition, but also bunched up around my knees. I had left my shawl near the tree’s trunk and fleetingly thought of scrambling over to retrieve it but didn’t want to make even more of a spectacle of myself than I already had done. My hair had come loose and hung down, almost to my waist, in untamed coil-tipped curls that did little to hide my abundant breasts, which were practically spilling out of the tight bind of my gown. I knew my face was likely flushed from my exertions. And worst of all, I was still agog at the spectacle of this...this person who stood over me with all the advantaged superiority of the lord that he was. I recognized instantly that this was the venerable Laird Knox Mackenzie, not only from his vague resemblance to his sisters but also from the aura of authority that clung to him along with the fine, well-worn clothing, the gold adornments and the immense, exposed steel sword. Power was written all over him.
He remained motionless for several seconds, seemingly stunned. Or miffed, perhaps, by my brazen intrusion into his ordered world.
Then, after a brief bout of what appeared to be indecision, he held his hand out to me.
The gesture—and I noticed that his hand was large and strong-looking and he wore a gold ring on his right pinky, which struck me as incongruent to this overall impression of excellence: edgy somehow, as though he had a hint of pirate in him, or a little devil that lurked in the deeper recesses of his character—was enough to stun me out of my stupor. But I hesitated. I was almost afraid to touch him. I suspected—and it was confirmed as soon as I placed my hand in his—that his effect would be absolute. A flourish of warmth leached into me from the point of contact. The enveloping clasp of his hand pulled me to my feet with ease. Despite the fact that I was tall for a woman and was often able to look men in the eye, he outsized me considerably. I felt subtly dominated by him and, for the first time in my life, that feeling was not entirely unpleasant. But my initial stunned reaction was fading, and my usual resilience was returning to me. I had never been one to cower under the weight of authority and I met his unwavering gaze with my own.
He did not immediately release his hold on me. His gray eyes, from this closer angle, were startlingly vivid, the darkness of his thick lashes and the charcoal rim of his irises contrasting with the light, charged brightness of his keen attention. He did not smile, yet there were sparks of measured raptness in him, as though I had somehow caught him by surprise but he was too controlled to be visibly caught off guard. His gaze wandered then, lower, and I pulled my hand away, making an unsuccessful attempt to stretch the cloth of my gown up a fraction to cover myself. I ran my hands down the bodice of my dress, to smooth it, and my fingers found the length of a curl, which I played with idly, knowing there was nothing to be done about the state of my hair. The blasted blond-red curls were untamable.
Appearing to be mired in some sort of trance of his own, Knox Mackenzie licked his lips then. The way his did this was so unconsciously yet wickedly sultry, I was utterly hypnotized. His bottom lip was plump and wet. The sight of his mouth was unbearably...inviting. I felt an outrageous urge to taste those lips. Shocked by the turn of my own thoughts, I looked away, letting my eyes rest instead on the long length of his sword.
“I’m still waiting,” he said softly. My gaze returned to his face. His manner was stern and solemn.
Waiting?
“What is your name,” he repeated, “and how do you find yourself here at Kinloch, climbing apple trees?” It struck me that Laird Mackenzie would already have known my name and all the details about which he had just asked me. His sisters and his guards would have fully and immediately informed him of our story and the nature of our impromptu visit. Yet he wanted to hear the details as I offered them. This intrigued me, and seemed to hint at hidden facets of his very guarded disposition: he was wary and meticulous and practiced.
With that, he looked up at the apple I had been attempting to pick. In a move that seemed slightly incongruous to the inherent sternness in him, he reached for it with one hand, straining so that the edge of his shirt came untucked, exposing a glimpse of his torso, which was lightly tanned and muscled. The masculine hardness of his body made me feel inexplicably giddy. I laughed lightly at the state he had found me in, and at the image of my wanton dishevelment.
“Falling out of apple trees, you mean?” I said, my laughter lingering.
Laird Mackenzie did not return my smile but instead contemplated me with narrowed eyes. He held the apple out to me, but not close enough for me to easily reach it. I would need to take a step forward to do that. He was challenging me.
As imposing a figure as he was, I didn’t feel intimidated by him. Quite the opposite. His expression, despite its commanding scrutiny, was not unkind. He was intrigued by me, this was clear enough, possibly enough to grant me leniency for whatever rules of decorum I might have broken, or maybe because of them. I did take a step forward, and as I bridged that narrowing divide, a tiny ripple of warmth darted through the low pit of my stomach. That peculiar urge to taste his full lips returned to me as a most unfamiliar, compelling, barely there ache that seemed to start in my mouth and infuse my body with a lightly feral flush.
I took the apple, and the brush of his fingers against mine caused the flush to flare. I’ll admit I was mildly disconcerted by this newfound sensation, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Not at all. In fact, I felt surprisingly spirited, in a soft, subdued way. I was suddenly glad my shawl wasn’t wrapped around me, concealing me. My breasts felt rounded and plush. Since I wouldn’t have dreamed of acting on my urges but was indeed feeling quite overwhelmed to taste something, I took a bite of the ripe red fruit, which was, as I had guessed, warm from the sun and the heat of Knox Mackenzie’s hand. And juicy. So very delicious. I took another bite and the juice wet my lips and dripped down my chin.
Knox Mackenzie was watching my mouth with a glazed, spellbound expression that looked very similar to how I felt. I didn’t dare to presume he was thinking the same thing I was, that his urges might be mirroring my own. Maybe he was hungry. “Would you like a bite?” I asked him, sucking some juice from the apple.
I was somewhat surprised when he said, “Aye. I would like
