Love in the Time of a Highland Laird (A Laird for All Time Book 3) by Angeline Fortin (whitelam books .TXT) 📗

“He thought he was being kind.” Shrugging, she stared blindly at what she was sure was a fabulous portrait of the Madonna if she were capable of taking closer note. Humiliation of being caught in such a rant burned through her. “I shouldn’t have been so mean.”

“I think we need to refine yer definition of mean.”

“I was too harsh.” She paced down the hall, running her fingers over the head of a marble bust.

“He was too forward.”

She shrugged again. She couldn’t argue with that. The proposal had been premature.

“So, ye dinnae need a man, eh?” he asked, stepping into her line of vision, if she were to look up. “Ye said as much before. I confess I thought ye only teasing tae some degree. Deep down, I thought ye were like any other lass wi’ dreams tae wed and hae a home of her own. Bairns on her hip.”

“And barefoot in the kitchen?” she finished without anger. No, her anger was spent. She felt invigorated. As liberated from her past as her swim in the firth had made her feel.

It would be difficult to explain it to him though. Her sentiment, while she’d never shouted it on the rooftops quite so vehemently before, was centuries beyond his time and understanding. Maybe she’d never really understood what it meant before either.

For all her protests on feminism and independence, there’d still been a part of her thinking she lacked some achievement in her life because she hadn’t married. Didn’t have a man of her own. Even in her time, society viewed her lack as some sort of failure. A pie missing a piece. Perhaps she had as well.

But she had her own achievements to be proud of. She was a whole pie. She really didn’t need a man to complete her.

Tossing her head, she met his gaze straight on. “No, Keir, some women dream bigger than that. Maybe not yet. But they will.”

“For what purpose?” he baited her. “Ye’re a woman. Ye’ve naught more tae wish for in this world we live in now.”

“Then I will change it.”

He displayed none of the confusion Artair had. Or even the amusement she expected to see. No, his blue eyes shined with pride.

For her.

“Aye, I wager ye will, Big Al. I wager ye will.”

He tilted up her chin, his thumb tracing her lower lip. As always, his touch brought out feelings in her which aroused not feminism but feminine delight.

“Come here, lass.”

With a sigh, she leaned into him. His arms closed around her, drawing her close. She could feel the heat of his body radiating through his shirt and the tartan thrown over his shoulder, hear his heart beating strongly beneath her cheek. Smell the masculine combination of sweat, sunshine and him.

It was at once comforting and exciting. Even knowing whatever was growing between them couldn’t last forever, she hoped to stay there for a good long time.

Not because she needed a man to complete her but because a scoop of ice cream was always nice with pie. Everyone knew that.

Her lips curved up in a smile. No, there was nothing wrong with a little dessert.

He brushed her hair from her temple and pressed a light kiss there. “Ye quite impressed me. I’m glad ye dinnae accept Artair’s proposal.”

Why, she wanted to ask? But she didn’t. Instead, she sighed and snuggled deeper into his strong arms.

“Of course, I didn’t. How could I?”

How could she, indeed. She could never think of marrying another man when it was Keir who held her heart.

Chapter 26

It wasn’t only his brother who’d come down from Dingwall. Ceana had joined Artair on his journey.

Both joined them for dinner.

Cook, determined to lay a table worthy of a duke whether he be a night or two late in finding his way to it or not, had outdone herself. Seven courses in the French style—something she knew he and Hugh had enjoyed while abroad—from l’entrée (which he’d had to explain to Al didn’t mean main dish but appetizer) to le digestif (a healthy dose of cognac he was in desperate need of by the end of the meal). All of it served with the pomp and plodding speed typical of the French court by his new, liveried footman.

He’d far preferred the seven sensual courses he’d enjoyed privately with Al the other night. Each one more delightful than the last.

None of them involving the unwelcome company of his family. He’d come to Rosebraugh not only because his new duty to the title and clan demanded it, but simply because he wanted to have Al for himself. Away from them.

He’d not have an evening alone in any case. Somehow it’d slipped his mind that a fair portion of Hugh’s clan lived at Rosebraugh. His mother’s sister, cousins both close and distant. Having kept to his rooms the previous day and night, he had forgotten all about them. Where they’d hidden themselves all day, he had no idea.

Sharing every meal with every one of them in the days and years to come, made him cringe. He wanted Al all for himself.

At least someone had warned her to dress for dinner. The first time she’d done so since being set free of his dungeons. Her maid would gain an extra sterling in her pay for this. He’d have hated for his bonny lass to be uncomfortable if she weren’t dressed for the event.

Instead she outshone them all, looking as resplendent as any lady in the courts of Europe. Dressed in silk and lace, her glorious bosom straining above the low, square neckline. Though he preferred her blonde locks loose and long, they were upswept into a high, elegant twist with the same curls that had so tormented him before bouncing once more against the swell of her breasts like the sweetest caress.

She was splendid. He doubted after witnessing her set down of Artair that afternoon she’d ever not stand tall again, in any