Highlander Mine by Juliette Miller Page B

proportioned physique that would intimidate even seasoned warriors, but also a masculine beauty that no doubt caused many women to swoon.
    Luckily for me, I wasn’t one of them. I could acknowledge that there was a definite allure to the supreme Laird Knox Mackenzie. If I’d been a hapless debutante with good breeding and a cultured sense of gentility, I might have described him as utterly dazzling. But I was not a hapless debutante. I was in fact a skilled and underhanded cardshark with few prospects beside the strength of my own wit and, perhaps, the occasional use of my own physical attributes. Attributes that had so far brought me more trouble than advantage. I could see the way his gaze lingered on the lavish curves of my body, gliding over my full lips, touching the long, feminine coils of my softly fiery hair and caressing the plush bounty of my half-exposed breasts. It was a look I was accustomed to, for better or worse.
    It was glaringly clear to us both that I was at a distinct disadvantage in the universal scheme of things. Despite this, there was some indescribable thread of imbalance, in the opposite direction, as though he was deferring to me on a base level and in a way that flustered some inner sanctum deep within his psyche that had not been flustered for some time. I saw the light touch of craving in his eyes, and it was laced, oddly, with a profound flicker of sadness. Again, a subtle contradiction. He was an enigma and one that, against my better judgment, I couldn’t help being drawn to. Knox Mackenzie was privileged but he was not at all unscathed: this was a pronounced feature of his mien.
    So, he was clever. And so was I. I planned to explore these small intuitions, to use them to my best advantage. After all, they were the only advantages I had and were tenuous at best.
    “Thank you, Laird Mackenzie. Aye, I am hungry. And thirsty. It has been a long trip.”
    He walked over to where my shawl lay on the ground and picked it up. He didn’t just hand it to me but draped it carefully around my shoulders. A gentlemanly gesture—not something I was particularly accustomed to. I left the shawl where he had placed it, not bothering to fasten it yet with the pin. His eyes were on me and, as never before, with a sense of almost bashful amusement, I found I liked that he was watching me, feasting somehow on the look of me. It made me want to grant him whatever pleasure he might have been deriving from my femininity. After years of discouraging or altogether ignoring the forthright attention of men, this was an entirely new response.
    He led me through the orchard to one of the side doors of the manor. There were servants and other clanspeople about, all of whom bowed to Laird Mackenzie as he walked by. They took little notice of me, beyond a light glance. In some circumstances, it might have been inappropriate for a young woman to be alone with a man. But lairds, I suspected, were above scandal. Either they were too highly respected to be accused of making untoward advances, or they were allowed whatever untoward advances they chose to make. I hardly cared. It wasn’t as though my reputation was as pure as the driven snow. That I had managed to traverse the path of my young adulthood without experiencing even so much as a first kiss was all but a miracle. I wasn’t afraid of being alone with Knox Mackenzie. And, in fact, I was hungry.
    Our path was interrupted by the sudden approach of a young soldier, who was well armed and also bloodied and dirty as though from a fight. “Laird Mackenzie,” he said, with clear urgency in his voice. “A dispute between Eamon and Fraser is in full force in the sparring ring. I fear one of them might take the other’s life if they aren’t persuaded otherwise. I’ve attempted to intervene, but they’re in a blind, provoked rage. They’ve already injured themselves quite severely.” Then, as though noticing me despite the circumstances, he took a quick bow. “If