Kieran Kramer - If You Give A Girl A Viscount

“What?”

“It can feel even more perfect than the perfect you felt on the Stone Steps.”

She groaned as if she couldn’t bear to hear it. “Really?”

“This is good news,” he said, “usually. But not for us. We can’t go to that particularly perfect place. It would mean I’d compromised you so completely, there would be no turning back. We’d have to marry.”

“Gad,” she said.

“It’s how babies are made, and I’m afraid neither of us is ready for that.”

“No, indeed.”

“But we can still enjoy ourselves, and each other.”

“The other perfects suit me very well,” she said gamely.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m going to make you feel perfect again, but this time you won’t be sitting up on some stone steps, you’ll be flung back against some lovely pillows.”

And before she could protest, he’d pleasured her that way. Twice, as a matter of fact. But the second time, he’d been beneath her, his tongue flicking in and out of her sweetest spot while she clung to the headboard and whimpered above him.

God, he was happy.

But she made him even happier in the next few moments, with no instruction at all.

“I’ll explore,” she said, and did just that … with her fingers and her mouth.

It was exquisite torture for him.

When she dared to kiss the length of him, he almost stopped her.

But she insisted on continuing.

“Messy,” he croaked out. “It. Will. Be.”

“I don’t care,” she flung back.

Resigned to his fate—and oh, what a fate it would be!—he lay back against the pillows himself and watched her graceful body and generous mouth pleasure him almost to the point of no return. But he didn’t crash over the edge until she locked gazes with him and he read in her eyes her own happiness.

He closed his eyes and let the feeling of complete and utter perfectness overwhelm him then.

And the cymbals crashed louder than he ever knew they could.

The next morning, Daisy did all she could to find a man to take on the role of son of a son of a Highland chief for the remainder of the travelers’ visit. But she’d no luck in Glen Dewey.

Those men were preoccupied with truly being fierce and readying themselves for the hunt and the subsequent games. All they cared about was preparing their weapons and their own bodies for competition.

“We’re all descendants of chiefs in one way or another, lass,” said one man, sharpening a hunting knife. “We don’t want to be bothered, and no one wants to sit in a silly chair and pass out ribbons to the winners of the games. We want to be in them.”

Except for one shy young man, a scholar who was the actual grandson of a Highland chief. He said he’d love to play the role, but he gave no impression of strength, despite his impressive height, sturdy body, and trunklike legs. He held up a magnificent old kilt—the kind with a sash that goes over the shoulder—and all the imposing accessories that went with it.

“It’s not often I wear the great kilt of my ancestors, miss.” His voice didn’t match his body. It was thin, modest, and all too agreeable. “But for you and your project, I’ll be happy to put them on and come stay at the castle and tell stories about my grandfather.”

She didn’t know how to tell him that he wouldn’t do. He wouldn’t do at all. The foreigners expected a Highland chief who’d make them tremble in their shoes with his fierceness.

She sat there racking her brain, but then he said, “I know you’re disappointed in me. I don’t seem particularly ferocious and brave, do I?”

How could she answer that?

She gulped. “I—I’m sure you are,” she told him. “And you’re an impressive scholar, too. It’s just that—”

He waved a hand at her. “Never you mind, Miss Montgomery. I know what the guests must be expecting, and it’s certainly not me. Take my kilt if you must. I wish you luck finding someone worthy of donning it.”

She brightened. “Really?”

“Aye,” he said. “Now, would you like some tea? And a bite to eat?”

A question that only proved he was entirely too thoughtful to be the man she needed.

She gave a sigh of relief. “I’d love that. Thank you, sir.”

Back at the castle, Daisy didn’t know what to do. She brought the kilt, which she’d hidden in a burlap sack, into her bedchamber and dumped it out on the bed that she and Charlie had slept in the previous night.

Well. If you could call it sleep.

She blushed at the memories. Last night had been spectacular …

She almost became dreamy about it, but the sight of the kilt and its matching sash, as well as the sporran and the scabbard gleaming with richness, evoked an amazing history of which Castle Vandemere and her ancestors were a part.

They must have the son of a son of a Highland chief by the midday meal, or it would be difficult to keep fobbing off Mr. Woo and the rest of the visitors.

She couldn’t afford to have them upset in any way.

Castle Vandemere was at stake.

And Mr. King must remain long enough to discover how perfect Cassandra was for him.

“Dai- seee !” The shriek came from down the hall.

She rolled her eyes and went to see what her stepmother wanted.

“Perdy’s all thumbs, as usual,” Mona said with a scowl. “Come tie my laces.”

Perdita flopped into a chair and pouted.

“She also broke my favorite brooch, trying to open the clasp,” Mona complained.

Daisy stole a glance at Perdita. As much as she despised her, it must be difficult to be so clumsy.

“I’ve the perfect substitute pin for you,” Daisy told Mona. “Perdita, would you mind going to my room and getting it, please? It’s on my dresser, the small silver thistle.”

“That old thing,” Mona said rudely.

Which Hester had very lovingly given Daisy last Christmas! It meant the world to her. She pressed her lips together, refusing to rise to the bait.

“Tell Daisy to get her own pin,” Perdita said, her voice practically rattling the windows.

“Do as you’re told,” Mona barked almost as loudly.

Perdita roused herself to stand and slouched out of the room, her hands clenched into fists.

Daisy finished tying her stepmother’s laces and was desperate to leave. Being alone with her was not fun.

“Since we’re waiting,” Mona said, “massage my feet.” She strode to her bed, threw herself back on it, and wiggled her toes.

God, no. The last thing Daisy wanted to do was touch her stepmother’s feet, much less squeeze them. Mona would wince and yell and perhaps kick out at her if she didn’t do an excellent job.

“I—I’ll be right back,” Daisy said. “Maybe Perdita can’t find the pin.”

Before Mona could answer, she ran to her own bedchamber.

And found Perdita there, holding the kilt up to herself before the looking glass.

“It’s the most magnificent skirt I’ve ever seen.” Perdita’s words, as usual, came out almost like the growl of an angry bear.

“You know it’s not a skirt, Perdita,” Daisy admonished her. “Scotsmen will take huge offense at that. It’s a kilt. They used to wear them to cross rivers and to hunt, to live the rough life.”

Perdita sighed. “Men have all the fun.”

And then she looked over at Daisy: square jaw, fierce eyes, booming voice.

Heavens. The answer had been here all along.

Perdita was Daisy’s Highland chief!

Charlie was at Castle Vandemere doing chores around the byre with the ever-willing Mr. King, who was currently with Joe, learning about the sheep, when Daisy came over from the Keep, her cheeks bright from the exertion and the crisp Highland air.