Highlander Mine. Juliette Miller
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“What is your name,” he repeated, “and how do you find yourself here at Kinloch, climbing apple trees?” It struck me that Laird Mackenzie would already have known my name and all the details about which he had just asked me. His sisters and his guards would have fully and immediately informed him of our story and the nature of our impromptu visit. Yet he wanted to hear the details as I offered them. This intrigued me, and seemed to hint at hidden facets of his very guarded disposition: he was wary and meticulous and practiced.
With that, he looked up at the apple I had been attempting to pick. In a move that seemed slightly incongruous to the inherent sternness in him, he reached for it with one hand, straining so that the edge of his shirt came untucked, exposing a glimpse of his torso, which was lightly tanned and muscled. The masculine hardness of his body made me feel inexplicably giddy. I laughed lightly at the state he had found me in, and at the image of my wanton dishevelment.
“Falling out of apple trees, you mean?” I said, my laughter lingering.
Laird Mackenzie did not return my smile but instead contemplated me with narrowed eyes. He held the apple out to me, but not close enough for me to easily reach it. I would need to take a step forward to do that. He was challenging me.
As imposing a figure as he was, I didn’t feel intimidated by him. Quite the opposite. His expression, despite its commanding scrutiny, was not unkind. He was intrigued by me, this was clear enough, possibly enough to grant me leniency for whatever rules of decorum I might have broken, or maybe because of them. I did take a step forward, and as I bridged that narrowing divide, a tiny ripple of warmth darted through the low pit of my stomach. That peculiar urge to taste his full lips returned to me as a most unfamiliar, compelling, barely there ache that seemed to start in my mouth and infuse my body with a lightly feral flush.
I took the apple, and the brush of his fingers against mine caused the flush to flare. I’ll admit I was mildly disconcerted by this newfound sensation, but it wasn’t unpleasant. Not at all. In fact, I felt surprisingly spirited, in a soft, subdued way. I was suddenly glad my shawl wasn’t wrapped around me, concealing me. My breasts felt rounded and plush. Since I wouldn’t have dreamed of acting on my urges but was indeed feeling quite overwhelmed to taste something, I took a bite of the ripe red fruit, which was, as I had guessed, warm from the sun and the heat of Knox Mackenzie’s hand. And juicy. So very delicious. I took another bite and the juice wet my lips and dripped down my chin.
Knox Mackenzie was watching my mouth with a glazed, spellbound expression that looked very similar to how I felt. I didn’t dare to presume he was thinking the same thing I was, that his urges might be mirroring my own. Maybe he was hungry. “Would you like a bite?” I asked him, sucking some juice from the apple.
I was somewhat surprised when he said, “Aye. I would like a bite.”
There was something increasingly sensual about this exchange. He took the apple from my grasp, watching my eyes as he bit into it with decadent relish. God, that greedy mouth. I had never found such a thing—or such a person—so fascinating.
“My name is Amelia,” I said, almost breathlessly. “Amelia Taylor. I’m—”
“Who are you talking to, Ami?” Hamish’s voice came from far above. I’d practically forgotten he was perched up there. Knox Mackenzie looked up.
“I believe I’ve just met Laird Mackenzie,” I called up to my nephew.
“How do you know who I am?” Knox asked. Actually, it was more like a demand than a polite question.
“Everyone knows Laird Knox Mackenzie,” I said, remembering Katriona’s annoyance at my complete ignorance when his name had first been spoken of, and my thoughts at the time. “From the tribesmen of deepest Africa to the nomadic plainsmen of the Americas.”
His dark eyebrows knitted together as he attempted to gauge whether I was mocking him, or something else. I wasn’t sure either way if I was—I hadn’t meant to—but I smiled at his expression. This man was not at all accustomed to impertinence of any kind whatsoever. Tease him, my little devil was whispering. He doesn’t know what to make of you.
I wondered what he looked like when he smiled, and what his laughter might sound like. I suspected he did not smile often, and I wanted to try to inspire one. But I had no idea how to do such a thing.
Hamish had climbed down and jumped out of the branch above my head to land lightly beside me. He appraised Knox Mackenzie with a critical eye, deciding for himself whether this was the genuine article, the laird with the mightiest weapon. When Hamish’s eyes landed on Knox’s sword, they widened. It was proof enough. “You’re Laird Mackenzie?” he said.
“I am. And you are...?”
“Hamish—” with barely a pause “—Taylor.”
“I’ve heard about you,” Laird Mackenzie said. Hamish appeared stunned by this information, and the laird continued when Hamish didn’t respond. “One of my most trusted officers told me of your nerve and your...creativity. He thinks you’ve the makings of a soldier.”
I thought Hamish might burst with the praise. I smiled, but the laird’s light note of sarcasm did not escape me. Creativity. Hamish’s—our—tall tale might have been discussed between Lachlan and Knox Mackenzie. Knox’s trusted officer had shared his suspicions with his commander, who was also, quite possibly, his friend. Of course he would have. It was wise to voice suspicions, to be alert and aware of newcomers who were residing within the walls of your own keep. This sort of practice, I suspected, was typical.
And Knox Mackenzie was a clever man. “Hamish, I need a message sent to my officer Lachlan, who is over at the barracks. Would you be able to deliver this message for me, lad?” Noticing Hamish’s small wooden sword that hung from his belt, Knox added, “In return for the favor, I’ll see if any of the men have a smaller steel sword that they no longer have use of. You look man enough to handle an upgrade.”
Hamish’s jaw dropped open at the thought: that he might get a steel sword of his very own. It took him several seconds to respond. “Aye, Laird Mackenzie. Aye. What’s your message?”
“Tell him I have a few things to discuss with my new guest. And after we’ve finished speaking, I will be having a similar conversation with her young brother. I’d like Lachlan to give you a tour of the barracks while you’re waiting for Amelia, and see if any small swords are about. The barracks are that way,” he said, pointing. “On the other side of the apple orchard. I will meet you in the grand hall after the midday meal has been cleared away. Have you got all that?”
“Aye,” Hamish said, and he took off in a full run, disappearing from sight.
Knox Mackenzie was going to question Hamish and me separately, to see if our stories matched. A faint flutter of panic squirmed in my stomach, but I forced myself to remain calm. We’d already established the details of our tale, and we were both gifted and practiced with spinning lies, for better or worse. There was no reason we couldn’t sail through our individual interrogations with ease.
But I felt far from easy.
“Would you join me for a chat?” Laird Mackenzie said, without waiting for an answer. The question was clearly not a request but understood in advance to be an order that would be readily obeyed. I almost felt a perverse inclination to refuse, but then he added, “I can offer you food and drink. You must be hungry after your travels.”
Knox Mackenzie had a way about him that intrigued me. He was a blend of contradictions that somehow harmonized perfectly. His face was both rugged and refined, his tall form both relaxed and on guard. His expression showed no trace of humor. Yet there was a glint in his eyes that might have been described as charisma. He was comfortable with the upper hand that he undoubtedly always had, with whomever it was he happened to be with. He was laird of his clan, leader of his army, wealthy beyond belief, blue-blooded to the extreme and, as if that wasn’t enough, he was also endowed not only with a wide-shouldered, perfectly proportioned physique that would intimidate even seasoned warriors, but also a masculine