Highlander Mine. Juliette Miller
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“I would think it’s still too early for the fruit.”
But I was soon pulled at his insistence out the door and down the stairs. The workers took no notice of us. They were likely accustomed to guests and visitors. We found our way out-of-doors and into the day. The light was clear and golden, slightly hazed with the climbing heat of summer. The orchards themselves were something akin to a wonderland of lush green. Soft, waving grass carpeted the expanse. Compact, leafy trees created inviting little curling paths so exquisite that if someone had told me faeries were hiding among their branches, waving magical wands and leaving gold-dust trails, I would have believed him. Hamish ran ahead. I called to him, but he had disappeared. He wouldn’t have gone far, I knew. Let him be, I thought. He needed to play, to run. To be a child for an hour or two.
I strolled along, thoroughly enjoying myself, taking a deep breath and feeling the air in my lungs and the sun on my face for the first time in...perhaps ever. This was a different sun from the muted light of the city. This sun felt healthy and restorative. I unpinned the clasp of my shawl to feel the warmth on my skin.
I heard laughter. From somewhere up above me.
“Come down from there,” I told him. “You’ll fall.”
“I won’t fall. You should come up here, Ami. I can see over the orchards. And at the very top of the tree, the apples are turning red.”
“Pick one for me.”
“There’s one right above you,” Hamish exclaimed. “On that branch there. You could reach it if you climbed across.”
I looked to see where he was pointing. A thick, low branch was within my reach where it met the trunk of the tree, rising at an inclined angle as it grew outward. At the end of it was a very big, very red apple. It nearly glowed with its luscious rosy ripeness in the dappled sunlight. “You get it,” I said.
“I’m all the way up here. You’ll have to.”
I’d never picked an apple straight off a tree before and eaten it when it was still warm from the sun. It simply looked too good to resist. This truly was Eden, I couldn’t help musing, and I was Eve, overcome by temptation. Laying my shawl on the grass, I reached up and slid my palms over the comfortingly rough bark of the tree branch. Placing one hand farther, then the other, I inched my way along it until I was hanging several feet off the ground. My arms were already getting sore from the effort, but I was now determined to reach my apple. And I was almost there.
I was close enough to reach out, through the leaves...I almost had it. My fingertips brushed against its smooth, perfect surface. But then I heard a sound. Someone was clearing his throat. The deep rumble was so close behind me it startled me and I lost my grip, tumbling to the ground in an unruly heap.
Slightly dazed from my fall, I looked up to see the most striking vision I had ever laid eyes on.
A man.
He was very tall and backlit by the sun so that his lit silhouette was framed by a wash of bright, molten gold. The shape of him was somehow superb, as though he’d been carved by a master. I could see the colors of him and the details of his white shirt, loose and open at the neck to reveal the tanned skin of his throat. His shirt was exceptionally well made and of high-quality cotton but worn to the point of visible softness. Strapped around his waist was a thick leather belt that holstered two weapons: a gold-handled hunting knife and an exceedingly large sword that was not sheathed in a scabbard but slung bare and shiny into its looped harness. That exposed blade seemed to signify something, purposefully advertising not only its gargantuan size but its artful craftsmanship. He has the biggest sword of them all. His leather trews were tucked into tall boots. On his wrist was a wide leather band adorned with gold ornamentation and he wore a gold chain around his neck that was mostly hidden from view inside his shirt. His hair was a deep midnight-black and hung past the collar of his shirt in thick, sun-glinted skeins, curling slightly at the ends. He wore a small braid at either temple, as his traveling guards had also done: a Highlands warrior custom. I noticed all these details abstractly; it was his face and his demeanor that riveted me most of all. His posture was upright but relaxed, utterly confident. Power seemed to radiate from the wide set of his shoulders in heatlike, shimmery waves. The features of his face were bold but aristocratic, from the wide, straight nose to the carved, masculine jaw roughened by the light shadow of stubble. Strong, black, expressive eyebrows arched slightly with a note of absorbed assessment. And his irises, arresting in their charcoal-rimmed pale gray glow, as though alight from within. Long, thick black lashes brushed almost elegantly against his cheeks as he closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, there was a flash of bemused satisfaction. His full lips curved in an arrogant pout that wasn’t a smile.
“And who,” he said, his deep voice curling into me with unusual effect, “might you be?”
CHAPTER THREE
I REALIZED THEN what I must have looked like. My gown was not only exceptionally low-cut, a detail that had only become emphasized by the effects of my ridiculous tree-climbing expedition, but also bunched up around my knees. I had left my shawl near the tree’s trunk and fleetingly thought of scrambling over to retrieve it but didn’t want to make even more of a spectacle of myself than I already had done. My hair had come loose and hung down, almost to my waist, in untamed coil-tipped curls that did little to hide my abundant breasts, which were practically spilling out of the tight bind of my gown. I knew my face was likely flushed from my exertions. And worst of all, I was still agog at the spectacle of this...this person who stood over me with all the advantaged superiority of the lord that he was. I recognized instantly that this was the venerable Laird Knox Mackenzie, not only from his vague resemblance to his sisters but also from the aura of authority that clung to him along with the fine, well-worn clothing, the gold adornments and the immense, exposed steel sword. Power was written all over him.
He remained motionless for several seconds, seemingly stunned. Or miffed, perhaps, by my brazen intrusion into his ordered world.
Then, after a brief bout of what appeared to be indecision, he held his hand out to me.
The gesture—and I noticed that his hand was large and strong-looking and he wore a gold ring on his right pinky, which struck me as incongruent to this overall impression of excellence: edgy somehow, as though he had a hint of pirate in him, or a little devil that lurked in the deeper recesses of his character—was enough to stun me out of my stupor. But I hesitated. I was almost afraid to touch him. I suspected—and it was confirmed as soon as I placed my hand in his—that his effect would be absolute. A flourish of warmth leached into me from the point of contact. The enveloping clasp of his hand pulled me to my feet with ease. Despite the fact that I was tall for a woman and was often able to look men in the eye, he outsized me considerably. I felt subtly dominated by him and, for the first time in my life, that feeling was not entirely unpleasant. But my initial stunned reaction was fading, and my usual resilience was returning to me. I had never been one to cower under the weight of authority and I met his unwavering gaze with my own.
He did not immediately release his hold on me. His gray eyes, from this closer angle, were startlingly vivid, the darkness of his thick lashes and the charcoal rim of his irises contrasting with the light, charged brightness of his keen attention. He did not smile, yet there were sparks of measured raptness in him, as though I had somehow caught him by surprise but he was too controlled to be visibly caught off guard. His gaze wandered then, lower, and I pulled my hand away, making an unsuccessful attempt to stretch the cloth of my gown up a fraction to cover myself. I ran my hands down the bodice of my dress, to smooth it, and my fingers found the length of a curl, which I played with idly, knowing there was nothing to be done about the state of my hair. The blasted blond-red curls were untamable.
Appearing to be mired in some sort of trance of his own, Knox Mackenzie licked his lips then. The way his did this was so unconsciously yet wickedly sultry, I was utterly hypnotized. His bottom lip was plump and wet. The sight of his mouth was unbearably...inviting. I felt an outrageous urge to taste those lips. Shocked by the turn of my own thoughts, I looked away, letting my eyes rest instead on the long length of his sword.