erstwhile steward Tearny, who had almost killed Ian’s wife and had died by Ian’s hand, without him getting tangled up with his employer’s ward. If he wasn’t careful he’d find himself scuttling back to Dunross with his tail between his legs and no chance for advancement. Or income. Back relying on his brother for his food and lodging.
His shoulders tightened at the thought.
Oh, he’d always made himself useful to Ian and the clan, taken on any task required of him, because it was his duty as brother to the laird. And he’d enjoyed teaching the clan’s children at the tiny school in Dunross village. But if he faced the truth, it was hardly a challenge. And as Molly’s father had been quick to point out when Niall had invited her to walk out with him, a man with no income or property was hardly a good prospect for a husband.
A blow to his pride, to be sure.
Even if his formal schooling had been cut short owing to lack of money after his father died, he had plenty of book learning. It was time to put his brain to work, for his own sake and for the good of his clan. Here at Carrick Castle, he hoped to earn enough to permit him to go to Edinburgh and find a lawyer willing to take him on as a junior.
Meeting this young lady was hardly a propitious start to his new career. Not if she told Carrick about that kiss. He half-wished he had never set eyes on the lass. Not true. He did not like to think of what might have happened to her had he not come along at that moment.
He glanced sideways at her, looking down at the crown of a black hat fashioned like a man’s curly-brimmed beaver with a bit of net tacked on. He couldn’t quite believe how tiny she was. Her spirit facing those footpads had made him think her much taller, but in reality her head barely came up to his shoulder. How she had managed to kiss him he wasn’t quite sure.
Oh, but he must have lent his aid to accomplish that bit of stupidity. Indeed, if he thought about it, his arm had gone around her to bring her closer. Instinct. Natural reflex.
The girl was, after all, devilishly attractive in a pixyish sort of way.
Her eyes were as green as mossy banks, changing to the mysterious green of winter forests with her mood. A bewitching face with creamy skin framed by unruly tendrils of auburn curls.
No one would call her pretty, but he found her fascinating. She reminded him of drawings of wee fairies in children’s books. A haughty wee fairy. One that would turn you into a toad on a whim.
And she’d faced those ruffians without flinching. Extraordinary and worrisome. It spoke of a recklessness he had learned to abhor.
As they walked side by side, he tried not to notice the way her habit clung to the sweet soft curves of her slender figure. Curves that had plastered themselves against his body minutes before. A body that had responded with a will to her soft swells and gentle valleys.
His blood warmed again. He had the urge to float his hands over those curves, to savour again the taste of her full bottom lip …
No. This was his employer’s ward. A lady to be treated with respect despite her surprising behaviour.
‘And where are you going, Mr Gilvry?’ she asked in her clear soft voice.
He had the feeling she wasn’t going to like his answer. ‘Carrick Castle. I am to start my employment there.’
‘Not Mr McDougall’s new under-secretary?’ she said in a sort of wail.
He’d been right. She didn’t like it one bit. ‘Indeed.’
‘I expected someone older. More—’
More what? Better dressed? He’d worn comfortable clothes for travelling first by boat and then on foot. He could imagine the sort of dandified gentlemen she was used to. ‘I am sorry if I disappoint.’
She gave him a look askance that he could not interpret. Annoyance, probably, because he did not have a silver tongue like his brothers. He always said what came into his head.
He kicked at a pebble. By all accounts, where females were concerned, honesty was not the best policy.
The silence had been going on for some time now, he realised. She was looking at him expectantly. No doubt waiting for him to say something witty or charming.
It wasn’t his style. He’d always felt completely left-footed with teasing and quick repartee. Too much theory and not enough practice, Logan, his youngest brother, always jibed.
The only time he’d ever tried anything of the sort had been at school in Inverness when he’d fallen hard for the headmaster’s daughter. She’d been horrified at the temerity of a lowly third son even daring an approach. He’d never again wanted to go through such a mortifying experience.
Hence his rather cold-blooded courting of Molly. He’d been surprised at the relief he’d felt when her father suggested he look elsewhere.
The woman at his side was still looking at him, waiting for him to say something.
‘It is a fine day for a ride,’ he said finally.
‘Except for the brigands,’ she said, tilting her head and affording him a full view of her face and the teasing curve to her lips.
A smile he answered with one of his own. ‘And the fact that your horse went lame.’
‘And the chill in the wind from the north,’ she added, her smile broadening.
‘And the dust.’
‘In fact, not a good day for riding at all,’ she finished.
He bowed slightly. ‘I stand corrected.’
She chuckled, a sweet soft sound that made his heart lurch as if it had stopped to listen. Inwardly, he shook his head at his odd imaginings. They were most unlike him.
They rounded a bend in the road, the castle, its towers and turrets, reflected in the loch at the foot of its walls. Damn. He’d forgotten just how tall those towers were. He hoped to God his duties didn’t take him to the top.
‘Carrick Castle,’ she announced.
‘I see it.’ Of course he saw it. It was huge. ‘I have been here before.’
Another of those quick glances up at his face and he noticed that her dark lashes were tipped with gold.
‘Not since I arrived last winter,’ she said. ‘I would have remembered.’
Now what did she mean by that? ‘I was last here more than a year ago.’
She stopped and faced him.
As he stared into those clear green eyes fringed with sooty lashes, his chest tightened with painful longing. The kind he’d experienced as a lad when he realised he would never be like his brothers—dashing like Drew, or devil-may-care like Logan. Always analytical, he was the kind to look before he leaped into danger. To weigh the odds, while Logan scoffed at his words of caution. Ian simply made use of his knowledge as it suited him.
And now he wanted what? To cut a daring figure to this lovely young woman? Wouldn’t that be hypocritical?
‘I’d
