Page 31 of The Highlander's Temporary Bride
Again, Grant was torn between laughter and confusion, frustration and anger. “What are ye on about, lass?”
“Excuse me?” Emma drew herself up to her full height and clenched her fists. “The gowns, of course.”
Now, Grant truly had no ken or kingdom what the lass was spitting fire about. “Am I dreamin’?”
Emma’s eyes flashed, and she stepped around his desk, slamming a fist on it and leaning down to look into his eyes.
Grant couldn’t help it—he grinned and leaned into the rising heat in his blood. Oh, but he liked the challenge, no doubt about it. There was something about her fire and insouciance that stirred his desire.
“Do not insult me by feigning ignorance, Sir. You know that giving me those dresses is naught but an attempt at manipulation. A clumsy one, at that.”
“Christ in Heaven, woman,” Grant breathed as he realized what she meant.
He wished she’d lean down more, for he liked the way she hovered over him, her hair almost tickling his arms.
“Are ye truly so bloodthirsty that ye think a kindly gesture has some subterfuge behind it, some bloody political pivot? Ye need clothes, Emma. ‘Tis naught else, I promise ye that.”
“Oh, but it is,” Emma insisted. She threw her hands up and backed away. “I already must stay for seven nights to do your bidding, to show my gratitude?—”
“For savin’ yer life,” Grant cut in as he stood up and stretched his limbs.
Emma rounded on him. “I am no man’s puppet, Laird Ronson,” she hissed, like a cat. “I will not have you dressing me in Scottish gowns and colors.” She lifted her chin. “No, thank you, but I shall wear my own gowns.”
“How?”
Emma faltered then. “I…”
“Exactly, lass,” Grant said in a soft voice and prowled forward. “There is nay modiste hereabouts that isnae Scottish, and the English border is a bit too far to go in yer nightclothes.”
She flushed and wrapped her arms around herself. “There must?—”
“There isnae,” Grant cut her off, resisting the urge to grip her chin. It was a bad habit of his with this woman, a gesture that bordered on impropriety but could be written off as the barbaric nature of a laird. “And even if there was, Emma, I wouldnae allow it. D’ye ken why?”
The fire in her eyes and the set of her lips said that she did know, but she did not speak.
“Because nowhere in our deal did we agree that ye’d defy me,” he said as he leaned down. “Dinnae cross me again, ye cheeky minx, for I shall enjoy meetin’ yer fire with me own a mite too much.”
“Fine,” Emma huffed. “I suppose I may have been atadhasty.”
“Only a tad,” Grant said as he stepped back and pinched his fingers in the air. “Besides, even though summer is almost here, we are in the mountains and on a loch carved by the sea. ‘Tis nae the weather of the English countryside. Ye need different clothes.”
With that, he walked to the door and executed an exaggerated half-bow. He leaned against the wall as she stalked over to him, her color still high—perhaps because she realized her mistake.
As Emma walked out, Grant could not help himself—he leaned down, causing her to stop in her tracks.
Slowly, carefully, he brushed an errant curl from her neck, making her shiver. Then, he lowered his lips to her ear and murmured, “I’ll see ye at seven o’clock. And I look forward to seein’ what ye will wear.”
Emma shot him a scathing glare, tossed her hair, and marched out.
But Grant did not miss the fact that she looked back, nor the unsteady rise and fall of her chest.
As he closed the door, he noted the bright sunshine beating down on the colorful rugs in his study, and groaned.
Never has a day passed so slowly.
CHAPTER 14
Stepping back insidefrom the chill of the evening, Grant paused in an empty hall. Elsewhere, he could hear soft chatter, and even more distant, the strains of music. His family and staff were enjoying the end of the day.
