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she said, struggling to conceal the instant sympathy she felt. To that same end, she added
hastily, “For years now, ever since the Crown took unto itself the Lordship of the Isles, the Macdonalds have had to fight
to keep what they hold. Other clans, clans the King chooses to set against them, have taken their land by trickery. Indeed,
I believe the Mackenzies…”
“Aye, we had Lewis from them.”
“Well, if your father—”
“You know not of such matters,” he snapped. “Hold your tongue.”
Fearing that he might become violent if she pressed him too hard, Molly fell silent, although she burned to inform him that
she knew a great deal about the history of the Isles. But if Donald was responsible for the death of Kintail’s father, she
was sure Kintail would not willingly discuss that with her. Objectivity in such a discussion would be difficult for him if
not impossible.
He waited, as if to be certain that she would not compound her impertinence, and then said quietly, “My father was leading
men to Kinlochewe, to help fight off an attack there, when men told him a boat was foundering on the north shore of the loch.
When he and his men ran to assist the boatmen, the Macdonalds ambushed them. Sleat is a scoundrel without honor, and he wants
to rule the Isles as his ancestors did. Indeed, he would be King of Scots if he could.”
She could think of nothing to say. She did not like Donald the Grim. The only thing that had made his guardianship acceptable
to her was his continued absence, for the few times she had met him he had both irritated and frightened her with his fierce
looks and abrupt manners.
“Go inside now,” Kintail said curtly. “You will want to change your dress for dinner, and it cannot be long now before we
dine.”
“That is true,” she said, wishing she could think of something to say that would bring a smile to his face. Glancing at the
bright, cloudless sky to find the sun directly overhead, she said only, “Someone will be ringing the bell shortly.”
“Go then,” he said again. “And, lass…”
She had turned away—gratefully—but at these words, she glanced back over her shoulder at him. “Aye, sir?”
“Wear a blue dress. I would see how well blue becomes you.”
All desire to cheer him vanished.
“Arrogant knave,” she muttered under her breath as she turned away again. Despite the undeniable attractiveness of his person
and the irritatingly seductive quality of his voice, his forcefulness annoyed her. She immediately began a mental survey of
her wardrobe, trying to decide which of her dresses would declare most loudly to him that she refused to obey his absurd,
arbitrary commands.
Fin drew a deep, steadying breath as he watched her walk away, her round little backside twitching in such a way that he wanted
to run after her and either paddle her or make love to her until she agreed to submit to his will or he surrendered to hers.
The unexpected rider to his thought made him want to smile, but he did not, fearing she might look back and see it and think
she had already vanquished him.
For the past fifteen hours or so, he had felt disoriented. Doubtless much of that was due to the swiftness with which he had
acted after receiving the King’s messenger, and then his fall from the horse, but for that fall and for much of the rest he
had no hesitation in blaming Mistress Gordon. The exasperating fact was that the lass did not know her place. She behaved
more like a spoiled princess than the foster daughter of a Highland chieftain.
He had not behaved well either, though, and admitted as much to himself as he walked toward the keep’s postern door, where
a narrow service stairway led to the chamber allotted to him. It irked him that the lass could throw his own behavior in his
face if he found cause—as he was sure he would—to take her to task again. He had never known anyone so impertinent, or so
tauntingly
hastily, “For years now, ever since the Crown took unto itself the Lordship of the Isles, the Macdonalds have had to fight
to keep what they hold. Other clans, clans the King chooses to set against them, have taken their land by trickery. Indeed,
I believe the Mackenzies…”
“Aye, we had Lewis from them.”
“Well, if your father—”
“You know not of such matters,” he snapped. “Hold your tongue.”
Fearing that he might become violent if she pressed him too hard, Molly fell silent, although she burned to inform him that
she knew a great deal about the history of the Isles. But if Donald was responsible for the death of Kintail’s father, she
was sure Kintail would not willingly discuss that with her. Objectivity in such a discussion would be difficult for him if
not impossible.
He waited, as if to be certain that she would not compound her impertinence, and then said quietly, “My father was leading
men to Kinlochewe, to help fight off an attack there, when men told him a boat was foundering on the north shore of the loch.
When he and his men ran to assist the boatmen, the Macdonalds ambushed them. Sleat is a scoundrel without honor, and he wants
to rule the Isles as his ancestors did. Indeed, he would be King of Scots if he could.”
She could think of nothing to say. She did not like Donald the Grim. The only thing that had made his guardianship acceptable
to her was his continued absence, for the few times she had met him he had both irritated and frightened her with his fierce
looks and abrupt manners.
“Go inside now,” Kintail said curtly. “You will want to change your dress for dinner, and it cannot be long now before we
dine.”
“That is true,” she said, wishing she could think of something to say that would bring a smile to his face. Glancing at the
bright, cloudless sky to find the sun directly overhead, she said only, “Someone will be ringing the bell shortly.”
“Go then,” he said again. “And, lass…”
She had turned away—gratefully—but at these words, she glanced back over her shoulder at him. “Aye, sir?”
“Wear a blue dress. I would see how well blue becomes you.”
All desire to cheer him vanished.
“Arrogant knave,” she muttered under her breath as she turned away again. Despite the undeniable attractiveness of his person
and the irritatingly seductive quality of his voice, his forcefulness annoyed her. She immediately began a mental survey of
her wardrobe, trying to decide which of her dresses would declare most loudly to him that she refused to obey his absurd,
arbitrary commands.
Fin drew a deep, steadying breath as he watched her walk away, her round little backside twitching in such a way that he wanted
to run after her and either paddle her or make love to her until she agreed to submit to his will or he surrendered to hers.
The unexpected rider to his thought made him want to smile, but he did not, fearing she might look back and see it and think
she had already vanquished him.
For the past fifteen hours or so, he had felt disoriented. Doubtless much of that was due to the swiftness with which he had
acted after receiving the King’s messenger, and then his fall from the horse, but for that fall and for much of the rest he
had no hesitation in blaming Mistress Gordon. The exasperating fact was that the lass did not know her place. She behaved
more like a spoiled princess than the foster daughter of a Highland chieftain.
He had not behaved well either, though, and admitted as much to himself as he walked toward the keep’s postern door, where
a narrow service stairway led to the chamber allotted to him. It irked him that the lass could throw his own behavior in his
face if he found cause—as he was sure he would—to take her to task again. He had never known anyone so impertinent, or so
tauntingly
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