Julia London - Sinful Scottish Laird

“You have not been invited to fish my lake! Sir Nevis warned of poachers—”

“Poachers?” He snorted with disdain as he withdrew a handkerchief from the pocket of his waistcoat. “I donna need an invitation to fish the loch. It is no’ yours. It couldna possibly be. Your land lies beyond that wall and to the east.”

“What?” She turned to look behind her with such force that her thick braid swung around and over her shoulder. “No, you are mistaken. My uncle said my land extends from the point where the lake empties into the sea,” she said and pointed.

“Aye, your uncle is correct. But the loch meets the sea there.” He covered her outstretched hand with his and moved it around so that she was pointing in the opposite direction. Her hand felt delicate in his, like a child’s, and he felt a jolt of something quite warm and soft sluice through him.

Her brow creased with a frown. “Are you certain?”

“Diah, as if I could possibly be wrong. The loch belongs to no one. We may all fish there. You’re bleeding.”

“Pardon?” She looked back at him, startled.

“Your hand,” he said, and turned it palm up. “May I?” he asked, holding up his handkerchief.

She glanced at her hand, nestled in his. Her frown deepened. “Oh, that wretched garden! It is my greatest foe. You need not fear being invited to a garden party after all, my lord, for it would seem that with every weed or vine I cut, another lurks behind it.” She squinted at her palm, sighing, then glanced up at him through her long lashes. “My hands are quite appalling, aren’t they?”

“Aye, they are,” he agreed. They were surprisingly roughened and red. She looked like a crofter in her worn muslin gown and leather apron, with the tiny river of dirt that had settled in the curve of her neck into her shoulder. He watched a tiny bead of perspiration slip down her collarbone and disappear between her breasts.

He had an abrupt but strong urge to swipe that bit of perspiration from her chest with the pad of his thumb.

“I hadn’t realized how bad they are,” she said, gazing at her hand.

He looked at it, too—at the long, tapered fingers, the smooth stretch of almost translucent skin across her inner wrist. He had another puzzling urge—to lift her wrist to his nose and sniff for the scent of perfume.

He wiped away a bit of dirt from her palm. “Your eyes are very blue,” she said.

He looked up; she was observing him with a softness in her eye he didn’t like. “Aye,” he said warily and ignored the shiver her slow smile sent rifling through him.

Cailean turned her hand over to examine the back of it. “Have you no gloves, then?” he asked, staring at the many pricks and scratches.

“None that are suitable for that damnable thicket.”

He turned her hand over once more to examine her injured palm. She sported a callous and several pricks here, too, he noticed. “You’ve been hard at work, aye?” He traced his finger across her palm; she immediately tensed, shifting from one foot to the other.

“I think I’ve never worked as hard as this. I know what I should like the garden to be—a square of green and roses surrounding an old fountain...if my uncle can make it function once again. And I’d like benches for sitting and arbors for shade. But I have begun to believe none of it possible.”

Why would she want all that? Gardens required attention year-round. Surely she didn’t intend to stay so long, the little fool. “Is there no one to help you?”

She shook her head. “All hands are needed to finish the repairs to the lodge. Nevertheless, I am determined to return the garden to its former glory.”

He was beginning to wonder if she was truly daft. “There’s never been any glory to Auchenard,” he said flatly.

“Pardon?”

“Since I was a wee lad,” Cailean said, pausing when she sucked in a breath when he dabbed at the cut in her hand, “it has no’ been properly kept, aye? MacNally was no’ entirely responsible for its decline.”

She stared at him, clearly not understanding, eyes framed with lashes light in color but quite long. “Then who is?” she asked.

“The Sassenach who claimed it, that’s who. Your husband, his father before them—they didna care for Auchenard, much less a bloody garden.”

“Really?” She looked disappointed, as if she believed if she kept digging and cutting, kept rooting out the weeds that choked the life from all other vegetation, she’d discover some secret garden underneath the growth.

He returned his attention to her palm. “Did no one tell you, then? Auchenard has no’ been inhabited in many years.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said with a weary sigh. “Someone may have told me. In fact, I am certain someone did. But I didn’t listen.”

What a curious thing to say—why wouldn’t she have listened to wiser heads? Ah, of course—because that pretty head of hers was filled with cake. He dabbed at her palm again and she sucked in her breath, wincing.

“You’ve a bit of a thorn or wood embedded in your flesh,” he said. “Shall I remove it?”

She looked uncertainly at him. “I, ah...yes, if you would be so kind?”

He wasn’t that kind, but he pulled a dirk from his belt. She gasped loudly and tried to pull her hand free.

“Be still, lass.”

“I’d rather—”

He didn’t wait for her to refuse. He made a tiny nick. It startled her and she cried out, then bit down on her lip as he carefully worked out the bit of wood. “Oh,” she said, once he had removed the bit of thorn. “Oh.”

He watched her closely a moment to assure himself she wouldn’t faint. Her bottom lip was red from where she’d bitten it, and he was suddenly and annoyingly filled with another unwelcome urge—he wanted to bite that plump lip. Suck it in between his teeth and thread his fingers through her gold hair.

“Thank you,” she said.

He removed his gaze from her lush mouth and moved his hand to her wrist, holding it lightly but firmly as he began to wrap her hand with the handkerchief. “You should have it looked after, aye? There is a healing woman in Balhaire.”

“Where?”

“What, then, did you put yourself on a boat and a coach knowing nothing?” he asked.

“Well, yes,” she admitted. “Oh, of course. Balhaire. Where is it?”

“Follow the loch to the sea,” he said. “That way,” he added, pointing. “Ask for Marsaili. And when she’s treated it, ask after passage to England. Enough ships come round—someone will take you.”

She seemed momentarily confused by that, but then something sparked in her eyes. “Why would I do that?” she asked.

“Because you donna belong here,” he said. “It’s only a matter of time before you admit it, aye?”

Her gaze narrowed. “So you’ve said, more than once. But I like it here.”

Barmy and daft and stubborn to boot. He didn’t believe for a moment that a lady of her obvious stature enjoyed rough hands and living without all the comforts her title brought her in England. “This sort of life is no’ for refined ladies,” he said.

“How would you know that? Are you some sort of master of refined ladies? I really don’t care for your opinion, sir, for I think it’s starkly beautiful here,” she said emphatically, surprising him somewhat. “It’s rugged and strong and...vast,” she said, nodding as if she’d found the right word. “With a bit of hard work, we might be very happy here.”

“With no society?”

Her face darkened. “Society? You cannot know what a relief it is to escape London society.”

He was ready to question her about that, but she continued. “I like everything about this place, with perhaps the exception of the mist.”