pulled it up. “That was inadvertent.”
Arrandale snorted. “Donna mistake me for naive,” he said, as if speaking to a child. “I am well acquainted with women, aye?”
Goodness, but he seemed quite proud of that. “Ah, you are acquainted with women,” she repeated as if this were a revelation to her. “You grace me with your superior knowledge of them,” she said and curtsied daintily, holding out one corner of her nightgown as she dipped, aware that he was probably being treated to a view of the swell of her breasts. Frankly, the thought of it gave her a thrill. She was so unlike herself! She’d never flaunted her figure like this. As she rose up, she liked that his blue eyes had turned a bit stormy, as if something was brewing in him. “But as you know women, so do I know men. You said I would never see you again, and yet here you are. I know that when a man appears in a meadow beside a lady’s abode, riding about when he clearly has no destination in mind, he means to encounter her one way or the other.” She smiled pertly.
Arrandale’s smile was so slow and so wolfish that she felt it trickle down to her toes. “You speak like a man.”
“Why should it be only the provenance of men to speak directly? Must women speak only when addressed, and never flirt, and only agree with everything you say?”
He arched a brow. “How cynical of you, Lady Chatwick. I didna say I disapproved of it, did I? As it happens, I donna care for the demure wee English flowers. I prefer women who lust for life. Nonetheless... I have no interest in engaging you in a flirtation.”
Daisy’s eyes widened with surprise. No one had ever said such a thing to her, especially not since Clive died. “I beg your pardon,” she said flatly, suddenly annoyed with his lack of decorum and his dismissal.
Arrandale’s smile deepened at her irritation. “I suspect it comes as a great shock that you are no’ roundly esteemed by all members of the male sex. But you are no’.” He tipped his hat to her. “Latha math, Lady Chatwick. I’ll leave you to return to your rooms to dress.” He reined his horse about and, with a whistle for his dog, galloped away.
Daisy stared at his departing back as he and his massive horse and massive dog bounded across the meadow.
There went a man who wasn’t afraid to offend her. Who refused to flatter her. Who did not feign infatuation so that might lust after her purse. And as annoyed as she was with him at the moment for rebuffing her, Daisy couldn’t help but admire him a very tiny bit.
Damn Scotsman.
She returned to her rooms and resumed her seat at the window, where she recorded her encounter with Lord Arrandale in her diary, biting back a smile as she recalled what he’d said: I suspect it comes as a great shock...
He was right. It did.
She pressed one of the rose petals she’d held out to his dog into her diary.
THE WIND HAD shifted from the north, bringing with it cool air that gave hope the long summer would soon be over. The freshness of it invigorated Cailean; he rode with gusto on his favorite horse, Odin, galloping down the glen on the road to Balhaire, the sprawling coastal fortress where he’d been born. It looked almost mythical when the mist rolled in from the sea and shrouded its walls and crenulated parapets. The village just outside the walls was bustling with Mackenzies, and today was no exception. This place was as familiar to him as his own head. He’d been raised here, had learned to fight here, had learned to sail here. Had learned to be a Highlander.
He and Odin trotted in through the gates of the fortress; Cailean leaped off his horse and handed the reins to Sweeney the Younger, who, like his father had before him, captained the house guards.
A gust of wind scudded across the courtyard, lifting the hem of Cailean’s plaid. He strode inside, into the din of voices coming from the great hall. It would be full of Mackenzies as it was most days, a sea of first and second cousins having their fill of ale.
Cailean marched into the room and through the throng like a crown prince—he was the heir to this seat, the future laird of this clan. He responded enthusiastically to those who greeted him and scattered lazy dogs in his wake.
He jogged up the steps of the dais to where his parents were sitting. His father, Arran Mackenzie, the laird of Balhaire, smiled with delight at the sight of his firstborn. “Cailean, lad,” he said, reaching his hand for his on. “What brings you?”
“It’s a bonny day to ride, Athair,” Cailean said, leaning over his father and kissing the top of his head. “How is the leg?”
“Och, it’s still attached to my body,” he said with a shrug.
His father’s leg was concerning. A few years ago, he’d broken it while attempting to train a mount. It had healed, but it had never been the same again. And now it pained him more often than not. Nothing seemed to ease him—he’d seen doctors in England and in Scotland, and even the old healing woman who still treated some of the clan with herbs. Nothing worked—short of a daily dose of laudanum, which the laird refused to take.
Earlier this summer, he’d told Cailean it was time to prepare to lead the clan. “My mind is too much on this leg, aye?” he’d said, rubbing it.
“You donna need me yet,” Cailean had protested. He was in the midst of building Arrandale, his own seat, on the lands his father had given him. He was sailing frequently with Aulay. He wasn’t ready to take over the responsibilities of the Mackenzie clan.
“Aye, but I do,” his father had said. “I’d no’ ask you were I not certain of it, lad. I canna go on as I have. I’m no’ a young man, and the pain wears on me. We’ll be slow about it, we will. A wee bit more each month, then.”
So it had been settled. Cailean would assume his father’s responsibilities at the end of the year. Most weeks he came to sit with his father, to receive clan members and hear their complaints and their requests, to receive their news. He reviewed the accounts with his father, learning just how much was required to maintain Balhaire and their trade. The responsibility would require his full attention, every day, when the time came.
His mother was seated beside his father. She was still the most regal woman he knew, even more so now that her hair was more silver than blond. “Where have you been, darling?” she asked Cailean, her voice still very British even after all these years.
He leaned down to kiss her cheek. “At work, Màthair. An estate doesna build itself, aye?”
“What of the cargo?” his father asked.
There was no shame among the Mackenzies of Balhaire when it came to their “free trade.” Since the union of Scotland and England, the burden of taxation had been increasing to such an extent that many of their clan struggled. Arran Mackenzie’s goal had always been to keep their clan close to Balhaire by giving them means to earn a living and reason to stay in the glen. They believed that good wine, good tobacco and good tea, sold at reasonable prices without usurious taxes were reasons to stay, and they were determined to see that they had those things.
Cailean filled his father in on the cargo and the progress he’d made on his estate since he’d last seen them a fortnight ago. It was not finished...but it had come along well enough that Cailean had taken up residence in a room with his best stalking dog,
