Her Highland Fling by Jennifer McQuiston

Author:Jennifer McQuiston
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins

CHAPTER EIGHT

“MacKenzie,” Pen hissed. She fumbled for his hand, and as his palm met hers, she tightened her fingers over it. Given the steep, downward descent of the path, she could only guess they were aiming for Loch Moraig again. “I d-do not wish to see the crodh mara tonight.”

And the dance she’d had in mind would benefit from a bed.

“Trust me, lass,” was all he said, giving her hand an encouraging squeeze.

So she followed him, her hand clasped tight in his, turning herself over to whatever he had in mind. He’d not failed her yet in that regard. Indeed, he’d proven himself capable of delivering some astonishing surprises. Perhaps there was even a symmetry here, a return to the place where this connection between them had started.

Or had that place been the posting house, when she’d first seen him standing at attention, sweat dripping down his face?

At last the trees thinned out, letting the moon shine down. They emerged at the edge of the loch, and Pen drew in a sharp breath at the sheer beauty of it. The water glittered in the moonlight, ripples of light that seemed to grow and spread like a living thing. She could hear the bellow of cattle, but it seemed a distant sound, perhaps a half mile or more away.

As her eyes adjusted to the change in light, she realized they were not standing in the cow field, as she’d expected, but at the base of some ancient ruins. The tumbled stone walls were around chest height, and whatever roof had once graced the structure had long since fallen to the ravages of time and climate.

“Are these the ruins of the original c-castle?” she asked in wonder, reaching out a tentative hand to touch the stones. They were cool beneath her fingers and slick with moss.

“No, this was once a Roman outpost.” He tugged her hand, pulling her deeper into the maze of tumbled rocks. “My father is a scholar of Caledonian history, and we’ve dug for artifacts here on several occasions.”

“I thought your f-father was the Earl of Kilmartie,” Pen said in confusion.

He dropped her hand and moved away in the moonlight. “He was a scholar first. I suppose, in a way, he’s a scholar still. I studied history myself at Cambridge. Visitors interested in history will find a rich heritage in these hills. I thought you might wish to write about it.”

“Oh,” Pen said, her head spinning at yet another facet to the man who was William MacKenzie. Heir. Benefactor. Son of a scholar.

She exhaled, wondering which part she was coming to love.

All of them, she suspected.

“Is this where the artifacts in my room came from?” she said, remembering the beautiful pieces on display in her room at the Gander.

“Aye. I dug those myself.”

She bit her lip, knowing what she was about to say sounded selfish. “This is lovely, t-truly.” She squinted, trying to see what he was doing in the meager light. “But I’ve only a few hours left. Surely you didn’t bring me down here to d-dig for artifacts.

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