the time to speak to him at all."
Her vehemence didn't surprise Malcolm. The implication in her voice did, for when it came to Alpin, Charles had surely been a paragon of charity. "I suppose you'll tell me you worked harder there than here?"
She whirled. "I worked as hard as anyone. I had no…" She clamped her lips together.
"You had no what?"
"Nothing."
"I can't believe Alpin MacKay is afraid to speak her mind."
She toyed with her bracelet. "I'm not afraid."
"Then finish what you were going to say."
"It's unimportant."
He found himself softening toward her. "We're friends, remember?"
She sighed. "I worked hard because I had no choice."
Believing her tale of woe could lead to an understanding between them and perhaps something more. Seeing her now, shimmering with dignity, he felt a grudging respect and a sudden craving to know just what the "something more" might be.
He immediately shied away from the thought of sharing intimacies with Alpin MacKay. "I hope you'll show me the same loyalty. You can start by educating me on the operation of a sugar plantation."
She smiled a little too brightly. "You can be sure I'll be loyal, my lord. I'll care for your property as if it were my own."
And he was a Welshman with a name as long as winter. Rising, he picked up the wayward linen and tossed it with the others. The laundry smelled of sweaty men and long hours of labor in the tiltyard. She'd soil her dress if she carried the dirty linens. Bothered that he even cared and still miffed that she'd pranced into his home and charmed his soldiers and his staff, Malcolm suspected she was up to no good. "Someone worked hard at Paradise, and it showed in the plantation's profits."
She mumbled what sounded like "You should know," then snatched up the last dirty sheet and walked to the pile. "Speaking of work… If you'll excuse me, I'd like to finish here so I can ride later today. Have you a request for dinner?"
He put his boot on the sheets. "Tell me why the mention of Paradise Plantation makes you so angry that you throw things. Did you hate it there?"
The stormy violet of her eyes reminded him of the sky just before sunrise. "I'm not angry. And no, I didn't actually hate it there." She dropped to her knees and slid her hands under the pile. When he didn't move his foot, she stared at the hem of his kilt. "I'm just busy and eager for a ride on that dappled gray. You're getting manure on these sheets."
He'd come here to exercise his right as lord and master of his domain. Alpin might have a quick wit, but she'd still do as he said. From his vantage point he could see the deep indentation of her cleavage. His plan to make her life miserable took a different turn. He became aware of his own nakedness beneath his tartan. His skin prickled with sensual awareness. "You still haven't told me the real reason you don't want Emily cleaning the barracks."
Alpin sat back on her heels, tried patience smoothing out her features. "It's for her own good. She could get into… trouble. She also sets a bad example for the other maids. If she gets away with improper behavior, they'll think they can too."
Improper behavior turned to a lurid picture in Malcolm's mind, with Alpin as the object of his desire. "There's nothing wrong with courting," he said, unable to squelch the odd yearning for that elusive "something more."
"Oh, yes, there is. Fathers send their daughters here to work, and it's up to you, as laird, to see to their welfare, both physical and moral. The same principle applies to the lord who fosters his kinsman's son."
She had a point, but he'd be damned if he'd let her enjoy it. He also realized he wasn't quite ready for the conversation to end. " You were here with the men."
She chuckled. "I'm hardly a temptation."
Was she fishing for compliments? What the devil, he'd offer her one. "Then you spent too much time on that tropical island, Alpin. Any of those men would have traded his best mount for the chance to play
Her vehemence didn't surprise Malcolm. The implication in her voice did, for when it came to Alpin, Charles had surely been a paragon of charity. "I suppose you'll tell me you worked harder there than here?"
She whirled. "I worked as hard as anyone. I had no…" She clamped her lips together.
"You had no what?"
"Nothing."
"I can't believe Alpin MacKay is afraid to speak her mind."
She toyed with her bracelet. "I'm not afraid."
"Then finish what you were going to say."
"It's unimportant."
He found himself softening toward her. "We're friends, remember?"
She sighed. "I worked hard because I had no choice."
Believing her tale of woe could lead to an understanding between them and perhaps something more. Seeing her now, shimmering with dignity, he felt a grudging respect and a sudden craving to know just what the "something more" might be.
He immediately shied away from the thought of sharing intimacies with Alpin MacKay. "I hope you'll show me the same loyalty. You can start by educating me on the operation of a sugar plantation."
She smiled a little too brightly. "You can be sure I'll be loyal, my lord. I'll care for your property as if it were my own."
And he was a Welshman with a name as long as winter. Rising, he picked up the wayward linen and tossed it with the others. The laundry smelled of sweaty men and long hours of labor in the tiltyard. She'd soil her dress if she carried the dirty linens. Bothered that he even cared and still miffed that she'd pranced into his home and charmed his soldiers and his staff, Malcolm suspected she was up to no good. "Someone worked hard at Paradise, and it showed in the plantation's profits."
She mumbled what sounded like "You should know," then snatched up the last dirty sheet and walked to the pile. "Speaking of work… If you'll excuse me, I'd like to finish here so I can ride later today. Have you a request for dinner?"
He put his boot on the sheets. "Tell me why the mention of Paradise Plantation makes you so angry that you throw things. Did you hate it there?"
The stormy violet of her eyes reminded him of the sky just before sunrise. "I'm not angry. And no, I didn't actually hate it there." She dropped to her knees and slid her hands under the pile. When he didn't move his foot, she stared at the hem of his kilt. "I'm just busy and eager for a ride on that dappled gray. You're getting manure on these sheets."
He'd come here to exercise his right as lord and master of his domain. Alpin might have a quick wit, but she'd still do as he said. From his vantage point he could see the deep indentation of her cleavage. His plan to make her life miserable took a different turn. He became aware of his own nakedness beneath his tartan. His skin prickled with sensual awareness. "You still haven't told me the real reason you don't want Emily cleaning the barracks."
Alpin sat back on her heels, tried patience smoothing out her features. "It's for her own good. She could get into… trouble. She also sets a bad example for the other maids. If she gets away with improper behavior, they'll think they can too."
Improper behavior turned to a lurid picture in Malcolm's mind, with Alpin as the object of his desire. "There's nothing wrong with courting," he said, unable to squelch the odd yearning for that elusive "something more."
"Oh, yes, there is. Fathers send their daughters here to work, and it's up to you, as laird, to see to their welfare, both physical and moral. The same principle applies to the lord who fosters his kinsman's son."
She had a point, but he'd be damned if he'd let her enjoy it. He also realized he wasn't quite ready for the conversation to end. " You were here with the men."
She chuckled. "I'm hardly a temptation."
Was she fishing for compliments? What the devil, he'd offer her one. "Then you spent too much time on that tropical island, Alpin. Any of those men would have traded his best mount for the chance to play
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