To Catch a Highlander (6 page)

To her surprise, Sophia's cheeks warmed. She had been the object of admiration for as long as she could remember, yet with this man, mere compliments seemed to be more. They were suggestions, enticements, blatant invitations. All without an improper word.

The men she'd known were mere pale imitations of the man before her.

It was more than the masculine beauty of his face. It was the powerful lines of his body, from his muscled thighs encased in knit breeches to his broad, commanding shoulders. He stood at ease, one hand in his pocket, yet she could sense the power that reverberated from him.

He was a man coiled to spring, to devour anything that might get in his way. And that, Sophia realized with some alarm, included her. Which was why she needed to regain control of the situation, and quickly.

She sank onto the center of the lumpy settee, then gestured toward the small, rickety seat she'd vacated moments before. "Lord MacLean, pray have a seat. That chair is safe." And half the size of a regular seat. She
dared
him to be comfortable in it.

He eyed the chair and shook his head. "I believe I'll stand."

"As you wish." She smoothed her skirts, the movement of her slender hands drawing Dougal's gaze. She had the most kissable mouth and the most intriguing—and challenging—blue eyes he'd ever seen.

She was an intoxicating mixture, this woman who dared to trick him. She was beautiful beyond compare; he'd never met a woman so intoxicatingly appealing, her voice and movements matching the perfection of her face and form. It was a joy just watching her. Yet she was more than a beautiful face and body: she was intelligent and challenging, possessed a quick mind and, unless he were mistaken, an even quicker sense of humor.

He had to know more about this woman. She was lovely, amazingly graceful—and damned sure of herself.

It was this last that intrigued him the most.

She regarded him now, calm and yet faintly challenging. "Do you have any questions about the house that I—"

"I have changed my mind."

She blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"I believe I will sit, but not on this chair. The settee is the most welcoming piece in the room, especially with you sitting on it."

"Yes, but—"

He sat, his hip brushing hers.

She scrambled to move to one side, but he'd deliberately sat on the edge of her skirt.

Her gaze narrowed, and she said stiffly, "I beg your pardon, but you are sitting on my skirt."

Dougal smiled and leaned back, resting his arms along the back of the settee so that she was closed in by him. He found himself charmed by the thought.

"Lord MacLean, I have asked you kindly to remove yourself from my skirt. Please do so, or I will be forced to take more drastic measures."

"Such as?"

"Calling for Angus," she said flatly. "In case you didn't notice, my butler is larger than the average servant. He could easily pick you up and break you in two."

Dougal quirked a brow. "While that behemoth you call a butler could easily pick me up, he'd have to get close to me first."

She smiled smugly, setting Dougal's pride on edge. "I wouldn't try him, He's faster than he looks." She cast a glance down at Dougal's boots. "Plus, you'd have to race through the barnyard, which could prove fatal to your shine."

Damn this woman! She taunted with every phrase, teased with every look. He shifted so that his hip was even more firmly pressed to hers. "Miss MacFarlane, I believe—"

A knock sounded on the door, and Angus stuck his head in. "Excuse me, miss, but—" His brows lowered as he realized how close Dougal was to Miss MacFarlane.

Inwardly sighing, Dougal moved slightly, releasing the edge of her skirt.

She was up in a trice, sending him a glare before turning to her butler and saying in a firm voice, "Yes, Angus. What is it?"

The butler scowled, jerking his thumb back over his shoulder. "Lord MacLean's man insists he be allowed to come in and—"

"Move out o' the way, ye jabber jaw!" came a rough voice behind Angus.

Eyes squinted with irritation, Angus said stiffly, "Just one moment, miss." With that cryptic statement, he disappeared into the hallway.

There was a bit of scuffle, and Angus's head lurched in through the opening then disappeared. More scuffling sounded, then a loud "
Oof
!" followed by the appearance of a man Sophia didn't know. He was short and square, with bow legs and a large, square head from which flowed a mass of salt-and-pepper hair. He was dressed in the height of fashion for a servant, his black coat and breeches neatly pressed, silver buckles at his shoes and belt, a nicely starched neck piece stuck into his waistcoat.

"There ye are, me lord—" The servant's gaze darted from MacLean to her… and there it stayed, his eyes wide, his mouth half open.

"This is my groom,
Shelton
." MacLean flicked a cool glance at his man. "What is it?"

The groom collected himself by gulping loudly. "Aye, me lord. Sorry fer—" He straightened his shoulders and said in a singsong manner, much as if he had memorized his lines, "What I meant to say was that the horses have been walked. They're ready to go, me lord."

"Stable them."

Shelton
blinked. "Stable them? But me lord, ye tol' me to—"

"
Shelton
," Dougal said softly.

The groom snapped his mouth closed and bowed. "Yes, me lord. I'll stable them right away. How long will we be?"

Sophia was aware of MacLean's gaze on her face.

"I will need to stay a day or two in order to evaluate the house," he said.

Sophia said a short prayer of thanksgiving. She'd have time to persuade him to wager the house in a game of chance. Yet she had the uneasy feeling that perhaps it would be safer to let him go.

She shook off the ominous thought. Such ridiculous emotions! She needed to watch herself; her feelings for her home were already affecting her judgment.

"Of course, you'll need to stay for two nights, perhaps more, if you wish to see all of the lands."

MacLean looked at his groom. "We're staying, then."

The man's shoulders slumped. "Aye, me lord." With an accusing glare at Sophia, the groom left.

Sophia dipped a curtsey and smiled up into MacLean's eyes, saying huskily, "I will be pleased for the company, my lord."

It was a trite but effective way to capture a man's attention. For some reason, they all seemed to fall for it. And for a second, so did MacLean. His gaze darkened, and he leaned forward ever so slightly, his expression intent.

But as quickly as he'd reacted, he also recovered, his face going smooth and blank. It was with a decidedly cool voice that he said, "So I will, Miss MacFarlane."

"There are still several hours until dinner. Perhaps we can will away the time with a walk in the gardens or a game of cards or something." She looked up at him with a hopeful smile.

"I wish I could, but if I'm to stay the night, I will need to speak to my man about my portmanteau. I assume meals are served on country hours?"

"Dinner is at seven."

"Excellent." He bowed deeply. "Until this evening, Miss MacFarlane."

She curtsied in return, fighting to hide her irritation.

He turned on his heel and left.

Ne'er pass the point o no return without bein certain 'tis exactly where ye wish to be.

Old Woman Nora from
Loch Lomond
to her three wee granddaughters one cold evening

Red shook his head. "I don't like this."

They were in the large storeroom beside the kitchen, where Mary had bustled Red after he'd returned from the squire's carrying the borrowed coat. Once there, he'd questioned Sophia about every detail of MacLean's arrival and their conversation in the library.

"I don't like it, either," Sophia agreed. It had been two hours since MacLean had excused himself from the library. He'd sent his groom to fetch his clothing, and Angus had escorted MacLean to the guest bedchamber.

Sophia had been hard pressed not to laugh when MacLean had tripped over one of the floorboards she and Angus had pried loose. Better yet, MacLean had ripped his lace-edged sleeve on a broken nail in the doorframe of his bedchamber. She knew because she'd heard his loud curse from the hallway.

Sophia had expected him to roar at the servants and demand things be repaired, but all he did was ask Angus for a hammer to protect himself from the loose boards and stray nails that seemed to plague MacFarlane House.

To Sophia's delight, Angus had gloomily replied that there weren't enough hammers in the whole of
Scotland
to do that.

Since Angus had left MacLean in his bedchamber, they hadn't heard a word from him. Perhaps the man was sleeping, although how could anyone sleep in such a damp room and with such a lumpy mattress and smoky chimney?

More likely, he was awake and seething at being forced to endure such horrid conditions. She wished she had been there to witness his reaction to the threadbare furniture with broken springs and flat cushions, the inadequate bed coverings for the chilly chamber (it faced north, where the wind was fiercest), a window that was nailed slightly open, and more.

Red turned to her, his brows lowered. "Something's wrong. I can feel it."

"You and your premonitions! Nothing's wrong."

"Then why do you look worried, too?"

"I'm not. Everything is fine. MacLean is just a bit more…" She paused to consider. "A bit more
everything
than I thought he'd be. It's as if everything he says has another meaning. I feel as if I'm at cross purposes with him with every word."

"He's mocking us," Red said darkly.

"It's more as if he's looking for something, or trying to decipher a set of clues—though I don't know what, exactly. He can't know our plan, so it must be something else."

Red turned to look at her, his gaze steady. "Perhaps he's trying to decipher you."

That was possible, she supposed. He
had
reacted to her flirtation with interest, though he'd attempted to hide it.