Rory paced the sloping embankment, counting his steps aloud as he went. Just as he’d expected, Joanna came hurrying over.
“What are you doing, laird?” she asked with a quizzical smile. Her violet-blue eyes were wide with concern, her long lashes, ruby-tinged in the sunlight, fluttered becomingly in her agitation.
He barely spared her a glance. “Measuring.”
She had to skip to keep up with his long strides. “Measuring what?”
He stopped, his hands propped on his hips, and looked at her with a show of impatience. In spite of the soot on her cheeks and chin, the sight of her upturned face filled him with pleasure. God, she was bonny. Small-boned, bright-eyed, and enticing as the perfume that drifted from her pillows.
And she belonged to him.
All five feet of her.
He wanted to snatch off that tawdry knit cap and release the coppery hair hidden beneath. To take her in his arms and taste the soft lips and discover if they were really as sweet as they looked. But Rory wasn’t about to enter marriage as the duped bridegroom. He’d no intention of playing court jester to Clan Macdonald.
First, he’d establish firm control over the wily Sassenach heiress and her equally deceitful kinsmen. Then he’d teach Joanna just how easily a MacLean tamed a recalcitrant wench too clever for her own good—carrots and apples be damned.
“We’re going to start the renovations on the barbican,” he told her and promptly turned away.
She caught hold of his sleeve. “Aren’t you planning to wait till you’ve wed Lady Joanna?”
He looked down at the tapered fingers clutching the saffron material of his shirt.
That’s it, lass, touch me.
As no lowly stable boy would dare touch his laird.
And before I’m through, you’ll have forgotten who you’re even supposed to be.
She snatched her hand away as though she’d read his thoughts. “You…you really should wait,” she added lamely. “At least till after the wedding.”
“I see no need to wait, Joey,” he replied in an absent tone. “I might as well get the masons and wrights started on the work while the weather’s still fine.”
The consternation in her eyes was laughable. Hooking her thumbs in her belt, Joanna squinted up at him. Her delicately arched brows drew together in displeasure. “And you’re determined to go ahead with your plans for the new fortifications without discussing them with Lady Joanna?”
Rory strode briskly along the edge of the barbican once more. “What good would it do?” he tossed over his shoulder. “The Maid of Glencoe appears too ignorant to comprehend the need to have towers stand astride the curtain walls or the emplacement of artillery in the gatehouse.”
He stopped, and Joanna, who’d been half-running to keep up, almost plowed into him. “She is simpleminded, isn’t she?” he inquired gruffly.
“Oh, very!” Joanna exclaimed with an adorable smile, then sobered, trying her best to look properly downcast at the heiress’s misfortune. “’Tis sad to be born that way, but such things happen now and again, I’ve been told.”
“I’ve been told you can read and write.”
The abrupt change of subject caught her unprepared. “Who said that?” she demanded. She raised her chin in cautious deliberation, uncertain if she should deny it.
“I’m not sure,” he lied. He looked up at the tower above them as though calculating its height. “Perhaps Father Graham mentioned you’d received some scholastic training. Is that true?”
From the corner of his eye, Rory could practically see her devious little mind whirling, trying to decide if she should tell the truth or fabricate another tale of folderol.
Come on, my wee lass, step right into the trap.
She wavered for the space of a moment, and he commenced walking once again. Just as he’d hoped, the opportunity to portray the fractious stable lad as the complete opposite of the half-wit heiress proved too enticing. She nodded. “’Tis true. Why do you ask, laird?”
“I think your talents may be wasted in the stable. You’re a clever laddie. Come with me to the library. I’ve a letter I’d like you to write.”
“Oh, Seumas usually writes all the letters,” she said, following at Rory’s heels as they crossed the lower bailey.
Curious eyes watched their progress, each Macdonald halting in his chores to make certain his mistress wasn’t in trouble.
Flashing a brief smile and nodding reassuringly, Rory swept Joanna along in his wake. He didn’t want a crowd of bystanders listening outside the library door.
“The steward has enough to do keeping the estate accounts, tallying sacks of seed, overseeing the planting of oats and barley, and preparing shipments of wool and hides,” he said. “I’m not going to burden him further with my personal correspondence.”
“Father Thomas can read and write, too,” she offered with helpful enthusiasm. “He knows English and Greek, as well as Latin.”
“The letters I send can be written in plain, everyday Gaelic,” he replied. “And the priest is busy at the moment. I’ve asked him to remain in the chapel for the next few days. Did you know that someone keeps blowing out the candles lit for the wedding couple in front of the Virgin’s altar?”
“That’s terrible!” she said in a scandalized voice. She tugged the ridiculous knit cap further down over her ears and made a moue of distaste. “Who’d dare do a sacrilegious thing like that?”
“Some wicked varlet who isn’t afraid of burning in hell for all eternity.”
She halted, staring at him with a stricken expression. “Do you think the sin is mortal, then?”
“I can’t imagine anything more serious than interfering with another man’s prayers. Can you?”
She gulped, big-eyed and apprehensive. Her reply came out in a whisper. “I never thought of it that way.”
“When I catch the culprit,” Rory said, lowering his voice to a threatening growl, “he’ll wish he were in Hades instead of my dungeon.”
Joanna’s heart started to work its way up into her throat. “Why?” she squeaked. “What will you do to her—him?”
“Hot pincers. Thumbscrews. The rack.”
She wrung her hands. “You’d torture a man because he blew out a holy candle?”
One hand caressing the hilt of his dagger, MacLean leaned over her and grinned malevolently. “That’s what happens to heretics.”
She staggered backward a step, nearly speechless. A cold chill whistled down her back. “Heretics?”
“Don’t dally, lad.” He caught her elbow and hustled her along beside him. “We’ve lots to do.”
Joanna accompanied The MacLean into her grandfather’s library. Her library now, though the tall man dragging her like a felon insisted it belonged to him.
He sank down in a caned armchair behind the table piled with charts and pointed to a sheaf of vellum, a quill pen, and a small bottle of ink. “Let’s see how well you can write,” he said in a dubious tone. Obviously, he had no confidence in the schooling of a scruffy orphan.
Well, she’d show him.
Her tutors at Allonby Castle had insisted on a grandiose script befitting a monk given the task of copying the Holy Book for future generations.
Joanna took a large atlas from a nearby shelf to use as a writing desk, positioned herself cross-legged on a cushioned bench in the window embrasure, and waited with exaggerated politeness.
“Dear Lady Emma…” he began.
“Who’s she?”
Godsakes, did he plan to dictate a letter to his ladylove? And him a promised bridegroom! Evidently sea dragons never learned of chivalry and honor and self-sacrifice. They were too busy taking carnal lessons from the water nymphs.
MacLean glowered at her. “What difference does it make who the lady is? Go on, write it down.”
Biting her lip to keep back the scathing retort burning the tip of her tongue, Joanna wrote the salutation: Dear Lady Emma.
Satisfied with her belated compliance, he leaned back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head, and stretched out his long legs. “Dear Lady Emma,” he continued, “my plans have changed. I’d like you to bring the rest of the family here to Kinloch—”
“Slow down!” Joanna called, scribbling furiously. “You’re going much too fast.”
He stopped and waited for her to catch up.
Her quill poised above the parchment, she glanced over at him. “How large is Lady Emma’s family?”
“Never question your laird and chief about his personal affairs, Joey,” he admonished.
She stiffened at the imperious remark. “I haven’t had a laird since the mighty Somerled Macdonald died.”
“Well, you have one now.”
Joanna glared at the obnoxious, thick-skulled, condescending libertine. The day a MacLean became her laird and chief was the day she grew wings and flew about the chapel, trilling alleluias and plucking on a harp.
Seemingly unaware of her indignation, the Sea Dragon rose and strode lazily across the carpet to stand beside her. Folding his arms across his broad chest, he looked down from his great height at the vellum sheet. Sunlight from the window gilded his hair, forming a halo around his head. Lucifer in all his glory couldn’t have been more alluring.
Humph. He could use all the sorcery within his power. She’d no intention of succumbing to the bronzed warlord’s physical charms. Why, at that very moment, his scaly green tail was probably twitching with self-approval beneath that green and black plaid.
Green.
She hated green.
It was the color of toads and frogs and slimy moss.
Joanna shifted uncomfortably beneath his steady gaze. If the obvious display of beauty, size and strength was meant to intimidate, it succeeded. She could feel the back of her neck start to prickle, and her scalp grew tight beneath her striped cap.
“Are you ready to continue?” he inquired, his tone brusque.
She moistened her lips and swallowed. “I am now.”
“The wedding will take place at Kinlochleven,” he dictated, “not at Castle Stalcaire as we’d planned. Invite whomever you wish to accompany you here, including His Majesty and the entire court. King James sets great store in this alliance, and he should be present to witness the nuptials as he’d intended.”
She made a strangled sound.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“Umhm. That’s a lot of people.”
He lifted one golden brow sardonically. “Not for a wedding.”
“Tell that to Ethel,” she muttered.
“Who?”
“The cook.”
A smile flickered over his lips as he indicated for her to continue writing. “I’ll be waiting for your arrival,” he concluded. “Your son.”
Joanna stared up at him in befuddlement.
“Go on,” he said with an impatient flick of his finger. “Write it down.”
Drops of ink splashed on the parchment from the shaky nib, and Joanna hastily blotted them with her fingertips. “Lady Emma is your mother?”
“What other woman would I invite to my wedding?”
“I-I had no notion,” she replied. “I thought…perhaps…a sweetheart.”
“Joey, Joey, Joey,” he scolded with a slow, disbelieving shake of his head. “Would a bridegroom invite one of his light-o’-loves to his nuptials? Where did you get such a bizarre idea?”
“I haven’t been out in the world much,” she admitted grudgingly as she hunkered over the atlas. She could feel a blush creep up her cheeks. “I’m not sure what a man forced to wed against his wishes would do.”
“What makes you think I’m marrying against my wishes?” he demanded, his tone incredulous.
“You said so.”
“I never said any such thing.”
Dismayed at his pathetic memory, she tipped her head back and gazed into his bedazzling green eyes. Eyes the color of mountain forests. Dark and deep and mysterious as a Druid’s spell.
Inexplicably, the fresh scent of pine trees washed by the rain seemed to linger about him. She might hate green, but she loved the smell of juniper and spruce. Something shivered and bubbled inside her. Something as warm as mulled wine and as sweet as treacle.
“When we were talking in the stable,” she insisted with a gulp, “you said I was lucky that I’d never have my bride chosen for me.”
“Ah, well, I think you misunderstood me, lad. I’m very pleased to be marrying Lady Joanna.”
“You are?”
He flicked the tassel of her stocking cap with one finger and smiled disarmingly. “I am.”
Joanna squirmed on the bench, strangely affected by this show of playfulness in the fearsome warrior. “Even if she’s a simpleton who wanders away and can’t be found for days—weeks, really?”
Rory left the window seat and dropped back down in his chair. Propping an elbow on its arm, he rested his chin on his fist and studied Joanna. There was no mistaking the bewilderment on her expressive face. Her youth and inexperience shone like starlight in those mesmerizing blue eyes. A thousand candle flames couldn’t equal their glow.
She was so damn easy to mislead, he should feel guilty.
What he felt was pure delight.
“Once I’m married to the lass,” he said softly, “I’ll put a leash on her.”
“You’ll do what?” Joanna leaped up from the bench, the letter and book falling to the floor at her feet. She held the quill in one hand and the vial of ink in the other, clutching them like lifelines in a stormy sea.
“Oh, I’ll tether her on a long chain,” he assured her. “She won’t be confined to one room, only the castle grounds.”
“How could you be so cruel?”
“I can’t have my wife wandering off,” he replied reasonably as he brushed a speck of lint from his sleeve. “How will she ever see to my comforts and produce a batch of weans if she’s forever tromping through the woodlands in a daze?”
Joanna’s small frame trembled with barely suppressed ire. “Well, she won’t see to your comforts.”
“She won’t?” He reached down, retrieved the atlas and ink-splattered parchment, and waited for her to be seated again.
“The maid’s far too dull-witted.”
“I’ll teach her how to serve me,” he replied with a complacent grin.
Her eyes shooting sparks, her jaw clenched, she fairly spit out the words. “She’ll never learn.”
“She’ll learn, lad, I promise you. With enough apples and carrots, I’ll teach the ninny to jump through hoops before I’m done.”
Devastated by his complete lack of sympathy for the tragic heiress, Joanna sank back down on the velvet seat. She’d have to warn Idoine to stay well out of sight till her father arrived. “You should see the lady’s embroidery,” she said halfheartedly. “’Tis a mass of knots and tangles. And she lacks all the skills for running a household.”
He leaned over and set the large volume on her lap, then placed the sheet of vellum on top of it. “We’ll all get along fine here at Kinlochleven, regardless of my wife’s many drawbacks.”
Joanna gazed at the obtuse man, and her shoulders slumped in defeat. ’Twould do no good to argue with him. He was more stubborn than a donkey with a load of bricks on its back and a field of clover behind it. She looked down at the letter in front of her and sighed. “Are you sure you want to begin with ‘Dear Lady Emma’?”
MacLean looked at her in surprise. “That’s her name.”
“But it sounds too…” She paused, searching for the right word.
“Too formal?”
She nodded. “What do you usually call your mother?”
“Mother.”
Joanna leaned forward and smiled encouragingly. “Then why don’t we change the salutation to ‘Dear Mother’?”
He thought about it for a moment. “All right. Go ahead.”
She drew a line through the words and corrected them. “Actually,” she said, “I think it sounds better, ‘My dearest Mother.’”
He quirked an eyebrow as she scratched out the correction and rewrote it, but didn’t protest.
Joanna chewed her lower lip, still not satisfied. Then above the word dearest she added darling. “There,” she said, pleased at last with her work, “that sounds much better.”
MacLean rose and walked over to stand beside her once again. The salutation, crossed and recrossed and crossed out again, finally read: “My dearest, darling, angel Mother.”
“’Tis fortunate I’m signing the letter,” he said dryly. “Otherwise she’d never guess who’d sent it.”
“If I can make another suggestion,” Joanna said, “I thought it would be better to end it this way.” Without waiting for his assent, she scratched through the ending and wrote: “Your loving, devoted, and dutiful son.”
He took the letter and perused it without comment, and Joanna realized, too late, that her handwriting appeared much too ornate for a mere orphan lad. The script was embellished with elaborate curlicues and grand flourishes.
“Naturally, I’ll have to copy it over,” she said, reaching out to take the sheet of parchment.
“No need,” he told her, a tiny smile playing about his lips. “My mother will enjoy it just the way it’s written.”
His eyes gleamed with humor, and their sudden warmth took her breath away. How could she have thought his gaze frigid? Looking up at him now, she found it hard to believe he was only part human, a spawn of the sea monsters that roamed the ocean depths.
MacLean seemed different this morning, though she couldn’t exactly say why. For one thing, he was standing much closer than he’d ever stood before. Godsakes, she could almost feel the heat of his large, well-muscled body. She scooted back on the bench before the scent of fresh pine could fog up her brain.
He took the ink and quill from her and set them on the desktop, then lifted the book from her lap and caught her hand.
Joanna flinched at his touch, expecting a sea dragon’s skin to feel cold and scaly. She tried to squirm away, but he placed the atlas on the brocaded window seat and drew her up to stand in front of him.
His warm, firm clasp seemed to set off the clanging of bells that warned of a fire amid the haystacks. Her first reaction was to run to the well in the upper bailey and douse herself with a bucket of cold water.
MacLean turned her palms over and surveyed the signs of the toil she’d been doing since he’d arrived. Along with the blisters, fresh inkstains marred her fingers. “Jock’s been working you too hard,” he said with a frown.
“He’s not,” she denied. “I like working in the stables.”
“I’ve changed my mind about that, laddie,” he stated, ignoring the fact that she was trying desperately to escape his hold. “You’ll make a better clerk than an ostler. From now on, I’ll have you work here in the library with me.”
Joanna couldn’t believe what was happening. In spite of her best efforts to break free, the laird held her fingers in his strong grasp and looked down at her with the strangest expression—a mixture of amusement and affection.
What the devil was he up to?
If she didn’t know better, she’d think he actually liked her—well, Joey. The last thing she’d anticipated was the ferocious Sea Dragon developing a brotherly attachment for an impudent, dirty-faced orphan boy.
A firm step interrupted her useless struggle, and Joanna looked over to see Fearchar standing in the open doorway. She expected to be released at once, but the chief of Clan MacLean continued to hold her hand as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Godsakes, what would his second-in-command think? Lairds didn’t show a personal interest in lowly serving lads.
But Fearchar gave no sign of surprise. He merely flashed his good-natured smile and waited.
“You can run along now, Joey,” MacLean said, finally releasing her. “But plan to spend the afternoon working with me.”
She turned on her heel the moment he freed her, darted around the tall, bearded titan, and raced out the door.
The next morning, Father Graham stood at the chapel door, his opened breviary in his hand. When he looked up to watch the hunting party mount, his face grew pale. Prayers abandoned, he hurried across the bustling lower bailey.
“Milord,” he exclaimed as he approached Rory, already seated on Fraoch, “you can’t mean to take Joey with you!”
Rory continued to tug on his leather gauntlets, unperturbed by the cleric’s outrage. He glanced at the slim youth astride a capricious chestnut mare and then back to Father Graham. “Why not?”
Joanna’s eyes flashed a warning to her chaplain, who paid her no heed. “Because he’s—he’s too young to mingle with a group of rough soldiers. And he’s never been hunting in his life.”
“’Twill do the laddie good to be in the company of grown men,” Rory said. “And with Arthur gone, I can use a bright lad to serve as my gillie.”
“But not Joey!” Father Graham implored. His dark eyes betrayed his alarm. “There are other boys in the castle who could serve you better, laird.”
Rory gathered the reins in his hand and shifted restlessly in the saddle. “Whom would you suggest?”
Father Graham looked wildly around the bailey, scanning the listening Macdonalds, till his gaze lit on two burly figures standing in front of the smithy. “Jacob’s apprentice would be an excellent choice.”
“And who, then, would work alongside the farrier?” Rory inquired in a bored tone. “Joey’s not nearly as robust as the man’s own son.”
By now, several Macdonalds had left their work and come to stand near the small hunting party. The sandy-haired blacksmith reached up and grabbed the prancing chestnut’s halter in his large, work-roughened hand, then looked over at Rory. “I’d be proud to lend you my son Lothar, milord, until your gillie returns. He’s fifteen and stronger than most full-grown men.”
Lothar hurried to stand beside his thickset father. Whisking off his brown wool cap, he bowed his head and waited hopefully.
Rory looked at the strapping fellow, then back to Joanna’s slight figure, seated on the restive chestnut. “And I’m to leave the wee laddie to take Lothar’s place at the forge?” He rubbed his chin, pretending to consider the idea.
Joanna patted Bebind’s graceful neck in a soothing gesture as she tried to hide her own nervousness. If she could slip away from the men-at-arms in the woods, she could put miles between them before they realized she’d disappeared. “Let me ride out with the hunters,” she implored. “I’ll come to no harm.”
Father Thomas hurried to stand beside her, the long, white cord that tied his robe swinging briskly with each stride. Anxious to stretch her legs in a gallop, the pretty mare sidestepped and tossed her head at the sudden movement.
Joanna bent down to address the priest in a low, urgent tone, praying he’d read the message in her eyes. “I want to go, Father.”
But her chaplain wasn’t convinced. “’Tis too dangerous, my child. You might take a spill and break a bone.”
’Twas a lie, of course; Joanna was an expert horsewoman.
MacLean drew on his reins and turned his black stallion toward the raised portcullis. “You’ve coddled the halfling for too long, Father,” he said. “But if you think the laddie might fall off his horse, I’ll stay right beside him. Don’t worry, I’ll make a man out of Joey yet.”
Without waiting for a reply, the laird led the hunting party through the gate and across the drawbridge. Then the horsemen urged their mounts to a canter in the direction of the heather-covered hills above the loch and the forest beyond. Four deerhounds gamboled beside the curvetting horses, barking ecstatically.
’Twas a glorious May morning, the sun seducing the spring flowers with its kiss. Wild daisies and clover bloomed on the hillsides. Overhead, the new leaves of the silver birch shivered in the gentle breeze.
Joanna could hardly contain her exhilaration. ’Twas wonderful to be out riding again. The opportunity to accompany the MacLeans had come in answer to her prayers to Jeanne d’Arc, and she assured the Maid of Orléans that she wasn’t going to waste it. She’d be patient and wait for her chance to lag behind. When the men galloped off into the trees, chasing after the hounds, she’d simply ride away in another direction.
Ballachulish was only a day’s journey, and she knew the way. From there, she could hire an escort to Mingarry Castle. She wasn’t afraid; this was her land and her people. She’d be safe enough as long as she didn’t happen upon strangers, which would be very unlikely. Once she was at Mingarry, Ewen would protect her. Clan Macdonald’s courageous war leader would fight to the death before letting the chief of the MacLeans capture her again.
The barking of the deerhounds shattered Joanna’s happy reflections. With cries of elation, the men kicked their horses’ flanks and the chase was on. But the diabolical chief of Clan MacLean ruined everything.
Blast the man for a perverse, blackhearted scoundrel.
True to his promise to Father Graham, he stayed right at her side, till the two of them were moving at a slow walk and his men had disappeared, whooping and hollering, into the forest.
“There’s no need for you to miss the chase, laird,” she said, trying not to disclose her chagrin. “I won’t fall off Bebind. She’s spirited, but Father Thomas was being over-cautious. Ride on and catch up with your men. I’ll be quite all right.”
He ignored her suggestion. “I was told that the chestnut is Lady Joanna’s favorite mount, but you handle the little mare well. Almost as though you’ve ridden her before.”
“Oh, I’m certain she won’t mind my choosing Bebind,” she asserted with all the aplomb she could muster. “Milady rarely rides out. She doesn’t like the exertion.”
Rory watched Joanna with concealed admiration. She had a fine seat and controlled the lively animal with expertise.
His future bride pleased him immensely. He’d expected a haughty, petulant Englishwoman, not this intrepid Scottish lass. Quick-witted and resourceful, Joanna displayed a winsome charm and an endearing, albeit irreverent, sense of humor.
“Tell me, Joey, does Lady Joanna look forward to the wedding with anticipation?” he inquired offhandedly.
His sprightly companion gazed up at the cloudless azure sky and pretended to ponder the question. Then she turned her head to look at him, and a smile played about her kissable lips. Her blue eyes danced with hilarity. “I don’t believe she’s one bit happier about her marriage than on the day you first met.”
He frowned in apparent disappointment. “I see.”
“Well, Lady Joanna wouldn’t be quite so reluctant,” she offered bracingly, “if it weren’t for the far better offers she’s received.”
“Better offers?”
“Umhm. For her hand.” She lifted one gloved hand and waggled it tellingly.
“Ah hah,” he said, staring at her dainty fingers. “From better men than my own humble self, I gather.”
Her perfect smile revealed her delight at his frown of concern. “Oh, from warriors far more valiant, more chivalrous, and…” She paused and looked at him as though afraid she might hurt his feelings.
“Go on,” he insisted. “Say it.”
With a shrug of appology, she continued. “Far more handsome.”
Rory wanted to reach over and drag Joanna off her mount and set her in front of him, so he could cuddle her small, lithe body close to his and cover those naughty, lying lips with his own.
But as captain of the Sea Dragon, he’d learned to bring recalcitrant sailors in line with iron-fisted authority. Swift and sure punishment for a man’s wrongdoing prevented mutinous behavior in the future. Rory had no intention of allowing his bride-to-be to think she could mock him and not pay the price.
And in any event, he dared not risk her realizing he’d discovered her secret, lest she try something foolish in an attempt to escape before the wedding.
He set his jaw and fought back the surge of raw lust that coursed through him. “Anything else I should know?” he asked with appropriate misgiving.
She sat up straighter in the saddle, clearly enjoying his discomfiture. “Apart from the fact that she’d rather marry another man? Not really. But the most unfortunate fact for Lady Joanna is that one of her other suitors has lots and lots of gold.”
“That’s important to her, then, I take it?”
Joanna nodded tellingly. “Don’t you wish you were extremely wealthy, milord?”
“I am,” he said.
She cocked her head to one side and frowned. “You are?”
“I am.”
“Well, you can’t possibly be wealthier than all her other suitors, laird,” she declared. “Are you certain you wish to marry a lady who’s heart has been given to another.”
“I do.”
“Why, for God’s sake?”
He smiled at her incredulous expression. “Because the king commands it.”
Joanna urged her chestnut forward, irritated beyond belief by his smug, self-righteous reply. The black stallion immediately kept pace with Bebind.
She studied MacLean covertly. Sometimes it was hard to remember he was the lecherous, evil Sea Dragon, especially when she gazed into his thick-lashed green eyes.
The three eagle feathers on his bonnet, pinned with the clan badge, fluttered and dipped in the breeze. He’d pulled his golden hair back and tied it with a leather thong, and the sharp edge of his profile could have cut glass. Beneath the hem of his plaid, his massive thighs tautened as he guided his bad-tempered stallion effortlessly.
Though she knew he’d spent years on the sea, capturing pirate galleons for King James, MacLean rode like a centaur, part man and part horse.
“We appear to have lost the rest of the hunting party,” she pointed out with a nonchalant smile.
“There’s no need to worry, Joey,” he assured her. “After they’ve brought down the deer, we’ll meet the others by the mill at the edge of the loch and have some midday refreshments.”
She gazed at him in surprise. “How do you know your men will wait for us at Rannoch Mill, laird?”
“I told them to.”
With a confident smile, he reached over and slapped Bebind’s flank. Both horses broke into a gallop and tore across the hills.