Highland Rogue, London Miss. Margaret Moore
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were weeping. “Is Ducky going to be cruel to his dearest, sweetest love?”
MacLachlann scowled as he reached for his cut-crystal goblet of excellent red wine. “If you really don’t want to ride, very well, don’t.”
“And you’ll sell the mare?”
His frown deepened for a moment, then it was as if he’d suddenly seen an angelic vision. “I should be able to make an even better profit on it,” he declared with obvious satisfaction, “so yes, I’ll sell the mare.”
A predatory gleam came to MacLachlann’s blue eyes. “Dry your tears, my sweet, and come give your husband a kiss.”
With the servants in the room, what could she do except obey? So she did, keeping her eyes demurely lowered and sliding an apparently bashful glance at the nearest footman before she gave MacLachlann a peck on the cheek.
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