Her Highland Fling (3 page)

William was on his feet and halfway across the floor, ignoring McRory’s shout of protest, when she gathered herself for a proper breath. Unfortunately, his chivalry had the misfortune of placing him squarely in her line of sight as her eyes snapped open.

Her shocked gaze met his, five seconds of time that felt like a match set to paper. Her fair brow furrowed, and he felt again that jolt of lust—fueled, this time, by four of the best draughts of ale the Blue Gander had to offer.

And then she bent her head.

It was only then that William realized she held in her hand a leather-bound notebook and was scribbling furiously in it with a pencil.

Well. She might stay alone at her table if she acted like
that
. Academically accomplished females were even rarer in Moraig than attractive ones, and the Gander’s usual sort of patron had no idea what to do with one besides stare at them. She would probably stay safe enough if she kept that pencil clasped in her pretty hand.

Despite the lack of an obvious need for his assistance, William forced his feet to continue their forward trajectory. After all, she had seen him. No point hiding now. At least he was wearing trousers this time, his great hairy knees properly covered and his more frightening parts safe from the odd breeze. She was prudently covered as well. In fact, she looked a proper lady, no excess bit of skin visible anywhere on her person. But William was possessed of a solid imagination, and his mouth was already watering over the possibilities that lay beneath.

He wanted to say something witty. Something better than a stammered greeting. But despite the fact he counted a Cambridge education among his list of accomplishments, his tongue was apparently still as tied tonight as it had been this afternoon.

He paused in front of her table and grunted like a peasant.

Blue eyes raised to his. “Was there s-something you wanted, MacKenzie?” she choked out, still suffering the residual effects of her brush with the whisky.

Bloody hell, she even addressed him like a man. And his brain was apparently not as tied as his tongue, because inside his skull, a refrain echoed:
I want you
.

For once, he was glad of his limited abilities for actual speech while in her presence.

“Er . . . I came to ask if you knew what you were doing.”

She wiped her watering eyes on the edge of a napkin. “Research, of course.”

Christ, he really
was
an idiot. She was a reporter. Reporters researched things. And if there was one thing Moraig could boast to London tourists, it was twelve varieties of a good Highland whisky.

“Ah, I remember my first brush with a Highland malt. Much the same reaction as yours. ’Tis the sort of taste one acquires with time and practice.” He slid into the wooden bench across the table from her and pointed to the glass that held the darkest liquid. “Someone should warn you that this one is rather potent. And the previous lass who did this sort of research at the Blue Gander wound up married.”

Blue eyes widened. “To
you
?”

He chuckled, the words coming easier now. “No. To my brother, James. Not that the lady minded in the end, you ken.”

“That sounds intriguing.” She leaned forward across the table. “T-tell me more.”

William grinned. It was a relief to know his tongue could still work with a little effort. “It was quite the scandal at the time. Now they’ve a bonny wee babe to bounce on their knee.”

Her blond head bent down, and she scribbled something in her notebook.

William felt a frisson of foreboding. “I don’t believe . . . that is . . . Their courtship is not something you should write about.”

“Oh?” she asked, still writing furiously. “I thought I was invited here to expressly write about Moraig’s charms.” She looked up at him, though her hand kept flying across the page. “And it’s very a charming story. T-tell me, how does one usually get married in Moraig?”

William hesitated, distracted as hell by the sight of her talking and writing at the same time. “The blacksmith most often does the honors. And . . . ah . . . Reverend Ramsey, if the couple wants a church wedding.”

“And your brother’s wedding,” she pressed. Her nonoccupied hand slid the darkest glass of whisky toward him, as though inviting him to share. “What sort of ceremony d-did they have? You mentioned the lady was inebriated?”

William’s chest squeezed tight, and he sought a moment’s respite by tossing the proffered glass back. His brain was definitely muddled, and not only by the ale. He could handle four pints. What he was beginning to doubt he could handle was Miss Tolbertson.

Now would be a good time for his tongue to retie itself. The story wasn’t a secret, per se. In fact, the circumstances of his brother’s impromptu wedding came closer to legend around these parts. But he felt rather protective of Georgette, his new sister-in-law, and truly, the events of that night had not been her fault at all.

Through his panicked musings, the pencil scratched merrily on. William stared at it, half fascinated, half appalled. Christ, but Miss Tolbertson was tenacious. He was beginning to have an inkling she was probably an excellent reporter.

And that meant he needed to be a bit more careful around her.

William reached out a hand and stilled the pencil’s furious progress. “Has anyone ever told you about the mysterious creatures that inhabit Loch Moraig?” he asked, thinking as quickly as his addled brain would permit.

“Are you referring to water d-dragons?” A pale, perfect brow arched high. “Several bodies of water in this region boast such creatures. That hardly makes Moraig special.”

William blinked, already mortified he had said such a thing
. Out loud.
Damn his brother for putting such a ridiculous idea in his head. He might have had a few pints and a glass of whisky, but he was also an educated man, hardly believing in such things, even if some of the more superstitious town residents still spoke of wraiths and other creatures that would drag a man to his death.

And Moraig
was
special. He would prove it to her yet.

But he needed tourists to want to come here for a restorative holiday, not fear for their lives if they dipped a toe in the loch’s waters. “No, I refer to
crodh
mara
, of course.”

She laid down her pencil. “Crodh mara?”

“Aye.” He nodded. “Water cattle.”

“Really.” Her lips pursed into a heart-stopping smile. “C-cattle seem so much less . . .”

“Fearsome?” William leaned back, feeling rather proud of himself for thinking of it.

She shook her head and laughed. “Charming.”

P
en watched as surprise and good humor flitted across MacKenzie’s broad face.

Though this afternoon he’d seemed a rather empty vessel, tonight he wore his every thought openly. Was this really the same gruff man who’d greeted her so rudely outside the posting house? He seemed more relaxed. Or perhaps that was just an effect of a mild intoxication. He really was rather sweet, trying so hard to convince her of Moraig’s appeal.

But he needn’t bother. The town
was
charming.

Far more charming than London, which had done little to impress her with anything beyond its sheer size and head-spinning bustle. Though she’d only just moved to the city, she was already questioning how she might live there. As a result of her impoverished Brighton upbringing, she’d come to expect a certain freedom of movement beyond that which most ladies enjoyed. But she certainly couldn’t move about London without an escort, or else she risked being accosted on the street. And after experiencing the summer stink of the Thames firsthand, she could see why the city’s residents fled to more pastoral places when the temperatures soared.

Though she was still none too impressed with the man’s intelligence—blathering on as he was about mythical creatures—she was marginally impressed that MacKenzie had at least shown enough sense to deflect her questions about his brother’s marriage.

She was a reporter. It was her lot in life to ask probing questions.

But it was equally clear that
his
lot in life was to protect his family and his town, and that was something she could not help but respect.

Still, she couldn’t resist teasing him a bit now. “If you would like me to report on these water cattle, then by all means, do go on.” She picked up her pencil again. “Are they very large creatures?” She tapped the pencil against her lips. “Perhaps they b-bellow a warning to unsuspecting boats, warning them of the water dragons?”

His lips twitched. He leaned forward, and she was surprised to find herself dragged into the warm depths of his eyes. “Crodh mara are not to be trifled with, lass.” He lifted his hands, pantomiming horns. “They’ve gored all the water dragons, you see. But that’s a good thing, because now it’s quite safe for the tourists to walk about
our
loch.”

She couldn’t help it. She laughed out loud.

He chuckled as well, and with that shared intimacy, warmth spread through her that had nothing to do with the whisky she’d gulped. Tonight, there was something about his easy grin that threatened to lay waste to the poor initial impression he’d made. She was tempted to believe that perhaps he’d not meant to mock her this afternoon.

Moreover, both James MacKenzie and David Cameron had insisted that William MacKenzie was the man to speak to if she had any questions related to the upcoming Highland Games, so she knew she needed to further this acquaintance.

And heaven help her, the way he’d said “crodh mara,” with a caress of brogue, made her stomach tilt in new and dangerous directions. Then, of course, there was the matter of his well-made legs to contend with—the memory of which made the blush she had fought off so valiantly this afternoon return in full measure.

She was disturbed enough to take another sip of one of the remaining glasses of whisky—a smaller taste, this time. She tasted peat and smoke and an underlying hint of salt. It went down far more smoothly than her first swallow. She blinked in astonishment.

Was William MacKenzie much the same as the whisky?

Something to choke down at the first but then savor later?

She took another sip and then set down her glass, curiously studying his profile as he called the serving girl to their table. Though he wasn’t the swiftest of men—or even the most handsome man in the room—there was something about him that made her want to lean across the table and brush her lips against that wide, laughing mouth.

The serving girl strolled up to their table, with eyes only for the gentleman. “Ready for another pint, then?” She was a buxom, brunette thing, and she cocked her hip, clearly willing to serve up whatever MacKenzie wished. “Or have your thoughts finally turned to something more pleasurable? You know you need only ask.”

Pen’s cheeks heated. Despite her thirst for adventure, she’d led a somewhat sheltered life, living in genteel poverty with her mother and sister in Brighton. Even with this recent move to London, she’d made sure to find lodging in a respectable establishment, and had kept to well-lit paths. She’d never heard such a blatant offer made to a gentleman before.

Then again, she’d never set foot in a tavern before, either.

It was a night of several firsts, and she was feeling a bit lightheaded as a result.

MacKenzie tossed a coin out on the table. “No, Sally, none of that now. We want to be on our best behavior for the reporter who’s come to make Moraig famous. I only want to pay for Miss Tolbertson’s attempt to research our whisky, as we’re leaving now.”

A bit of Pen’s pleasure faded, though she was glad to hear he didn’t intend to leave with the serving girl. She didn’t want to be disappointed in this man, now that she had finally sorted out there was a bit more to him than she had first presumed.

But was he one of
those
gentlemen, who believed a lady must be ensconced at home or escorted everywhere? She encountered far too many of the sort in the course of her daily work. And as she had no reputation she planned to preserve—having already firmly committed herself to spinsterhood and the shocking impropriety of having a profession—she was ill inclined to bow to such whims now.

As the servant left, the coin safely tucked between her generous breasts, Pen leaned in. “Perhaps I am not yet ready to g-go, MacKenzie,” she warned.

“ ’Tis your choice, of course.” He turned back to face her. “But I can see you don’t believe me, lass.” His voice deepened. “So I’ve a mind to show you the crodh mara by moonlight. ’Tis said to be when their magic is strongest.”

The pleasure rushed back in. “Oh,” she whispered.

“You’re a courageous thing, I’ll allow. Not many women would try their hand at a malt. But I suppose it stands to be seen whether you’re brave enough to risk a stroll down by Loch Moraig.”

Something in his voice, and in his eyes as well, told her he’d be willing to show her more than water cattle, if only she were brave enough to want that, too. Pen knew that to most people, she appeared the sort of woman who would happily spend her days lost in a book. But he wasn’t looking at her the way most gentlemen did, as though they saw only a twenty-six-year-old spinster with a stammer. No, he was looking at her as though he understood her motivations, and that was a novelty she wanted to explore.

It surprised her that MacKenzie seemed to see more in her than most. She enjoyed nothing so much as the challenge of trying new things, probably because so much of her life in Brighton had been lived in the opposite fashion. She had taken the job in London because her fledgling success with Brighton’s small newspaper had made her want more. She’d come here alone tonight because she’d wanted the freedom to view the town in its natural state, rather than through the eyes of a tightly chaperoned female.

She had every confidence that if she found the right gentleman, she would want to try other things as well, things she heretofore had only read about in books.

And heaven help her, William MacKenzie made her feel . . . curious.

In Brighton, this sort of invitation could mean only one thing. Not that she had ever received such an invitation herself, mind you, but even a spinster deserved a first real kiss. So she rose, shoving her notebook and pencil in her reticule and gathering up her bonnet and gloves.