The Laird’s French Bride #3
She studied her fiancé now as he stood in deep and tense conversation with the young Scot whose broad back all but obliterated her view of the laird.
She’d been told that Rob Macalduie had been in more battles than she had years and it stood to reason that he’d carry physical reminders of them.
She knew that physical beauty was a vanity and an illusion but …
she had hoped that he’d be not unpleasant to look at.
But alas, he was. His brow overhung deep-set eyes like a rock shelf over small pebbles, and his heavy brow stretched across that great land bridge like a brown weasel.
His huge jaw hung at an oblique angle, caved in at one side.
But he did have kind eyes – worried eyes, but kind – and his hair was pretty, thick as a lass’s, long and scented.
And he was well-shaped. Though not so well-shaped as the large young warrior who had turned towards her.
Now, he was handsome. His eyes were a clear green, fringed by thick short black lashes, his brow high and clear, his nose was bold and straight.
His jaw was clean-shaven, his shoulders and the breadth of his chest beneath the leather waistcoat strong and hard, and the size of his hands and the length of his muscular legs and –
Oh my. She pulled her gaze away, feeling her face growing hot. His wide, well-shaped mouth quirked in a smile. The brigand! The great lout! He obviously thought she’d blushed because of him. Well, aye. She had. But he was no gentleman to make note of it.
And ’twould not do, besides! He would be her kinsman in but a few days.
“Lady,” the laird was saying and, even though it was hard to pay him the heed he merited when the younger man was watching her so intently, she forced herself to do so.
“Aye, sir?”
“When will your lady be arriving?”
Lady? Oh. Oh! He meant her! She must stop paying heed to the grinning Highlander.
“If I may make a request, sir. She bids your indulgence in letting me be her eyes and ears here for a single day.”
“Why so?” asked the giant.
She essayed a prim smile. “So that when I return to her tomorrow I might teach her better how best to please.”
“Ach!” At this the young giant broke into laughter, winning a sharp look from his laird. “Those are pretty words, lassie. Skilful. Are they yours … or hers?” His smile was vulpine.
Damn the man. He would make his laird doubt her. “Sir?” she managed to say with a guileless smile.
“Faith, yer a beauty,” he murmured, his gaze roving over her person so openly she felt another blush rise. Why didn’t the laird do something? But then, why should he? If his man indulged in a flirtation with his intended’s companion, what matter was it to him?
Well, it would presumably be a great matter when she revealed who she was.
She should do so now, before this got out of hand and the black-haired giant found himself exiled when the laird recalled his brazenness towards her.
But … she hadn’t learned anything of the laird yet and very soon it would be too late.
She would be married to him. This would be her most promising opportunity to see him as his people saw him. Perhaps her only opportunity.
She would be careful. Starting now. She turned away from the dark-haired Highlander towards the laird, ignoring the giant.
But he refused to be ignored.
“But, won’t your lady be uncomfortable, sleeping in a wagon on a narrow cot with a lumpy mattress?” he murmured from close behind her. “Why subject her to that when here her bed would be strong. And broad. And firm.”
He wasn’t talking about beds. Fire flashed up her throat and into her face as she heard the laird make some sort of constrictive sound in his throat.
She could feel the giant coming closer, caught a faint scent of pine and heather and a rich sort of earthiness.
She glanced down at Paula. The white bitch was looking at the man, wagging her tail, her tongue lolling happily. The tart!
She looked up, meeting the laird’s sympathetic gaze, silently praying he would agree to her request and take her away from this man’s proximity.
“Sir?” she asked.
“Faith, lady, do what you must,” the laird said, unhappily it seemed to her. “Since your mistress is not to arrive today, there’re other matters to which I must attend.”
“Of course,” she said. “I would not be in the way. If you could send one of the women to—”
“There’s no need to take some poor woman from her duties, or her leisure, when I am already here and more than willing to act as your guide …” the young warrior said. “Joan.”
No. No! “But,” she sputtered, “don’t you have things to do, too?” She cast a desperate look at the laird. “Doesn’t he have things to do?”
“Like what?” asked the giant.
“Like … hacking things? Sharpening your claymore?”
“Though kindly meant I am certain, you may lay aside your concern regarding both my prowess and my sword. I promise you that my prowess is at its zenith and my claymore is … well-shaped.”
“Oh!” She gasped.
“He’s right, lady,” the laird said. “You’ll not find a better guide nor a more knowledgeable one and so I will leave you in his care.”
“But, what of Paula? And what of her pup?”
“They’d best stay with you until … They’d best stay with you for now.” And with that, the laird sketched a quick bow and left.
Slowly, Jeanne turned around to regard her guide. He was standing with his fists on his hips, his bare legs braced wide beneath his belted kilt. She’d never seen so large, so intimidating, so virile a young man.
“Well, Joan,” he said, his teeth flashing white and strong in his dark, handsome face, “what would you like to see first?”
She blushed, her cheeks turning as bright as autumn apples and ducked her head.
Rob was utterly captivated. Her letters had revealed her intelligence and character, but not her youth or femininity.
Hers was a girl’s blush, shy and unknowingly seductive and Rob felt his body react to its sweet temptation.
To disguise his discomfort, he hunkered down on his heels and held out his hand to Paula, palm down, fingers curled under.
At once, the white bitch came forwards, tail-wagging, ears notched back in pleasure at the invitation.
She sniffed his hand and he scratched her silky neck.
Needing no further encouragement, she bowled into him, knocking him flat on his arse, and proceeded to bathe his face with her great pink tongue.
He laughed and this only encouraged her further, for she squirmed in delight, planting her great boulder head in his lap and rolling over so that her four paws waved in the air.
“Ye great hussy!”
Rob looked up to find Jeanne smiling down at them. He grinned back. “I like a lass who’s a bit of a tart.”
“Bit of a tart?” She laughed and the sound was lovely, infectious, but then recalling herself, her smile faded and the blush deepened.
She raised her chin to a haughty angle – because even though for all she knew “Joan” could be his equal or even his subordinate, Jeanne Forbes was definitely his superior – and demanded, “What is your name?”
It must have dawned on her then that she had not been introduced to anyone for her brows knit together. “What is anyone’s name? Who were those men?”
He rose, dumping poor Paula at his feet and sketched a bow. “Forgive our poor manners. ’Tisn’t everyday Barras is treated to the company of someone so elegant and exotic as yer fair self.”
She eyed him closely but since his words were no less than the truth, she could find no deceit nor mockery in his face or tone and so blushed again, making him smile even broader.
“My name is Rob, my lady,” he said then, catching the slight widening of her eyes, added, “Aye. ’Tis a name as common as bracken in the Highlands, I’m afraid.
As to who the others might be,” he continued, not giving her time to ask his surname, “the older man is Colin Frasier, the laird’s uncle and the graceless cur he hauled out of here is his son, Alex.
” He left off naming Francis, but then she assumed she already knew his identity.
“Now, where would you like to go?” he said, offering her his arm. After a second, she took it. “What would you like to know?”
He smiled down into her tip-tilted eyes.
Her lashes were so long they brushed the delicate flesh beneath her arched brows.
This close he saw her eyes were the colour of wild honey, a rich glowing amber.
Eyes a man could get lost in. “What would you like to see? How can my laird win your … mistress’s heart?
What would impress her most? What least?
Let’s connive between the two of us, Joan, to see this union come to pass.
And then,” he covered her delicate hand with his and felt the fingers flutter like a captive bird beneath, “we’ll have time to devote to getting to know one another. ”
“Oh!” A gasp escaped her lips and she turned her head away. “No! No. Never.”
“Never?” he asked, cocking his head, pleased. Despite their mutual attraction, she understood honour and duty, the meaning of sacred vows and political necessity. Once sworn to Rob Macalduie she would be his and no other’s – no matter how much she might want to. And she did.
He could tell from the agitation that lifted the delicate lace kerchief covering the soft swells of her bosom, by the colour staining her throat and the warmth of the hand beneath his, the glow in her eyes, the catch of her breath …
“Well, there’s a sadness then,” he said, trying not to sound too cheerful about it. He gave a gusty sigh. “But if that’s the way it is, far be it from me to try and foist my attentions on an unwilling maiden. So then, where is it you wanted to go?”
Her head swung up, her gaze sharp with disappointment and, aye, exasperation. He almost laughed. He’d apparently given up too easily and her pride did not like it much.
“The stables,” she said frostily.