Page 32 of The Highlander's Temporary Bride
He took a moment to smile to himself, enjoying the merriment of Banrose from a distance, as he often did. Their peace had been so hard-won, and they enjoyed every moment of it.
However, he had to keep looking forward to their future, to ensure it was secure. And that meant his English bride needed to feel safe here—safe enough to protect and raise their children to be as strong, just, and wise as Brenda.
And as joyous, I hope.
He adjusted his shirt and kilt, then reached up to check his hair tie. However, when he made to step forward, he glanced behind him again, wishing he could’ve taken a longer walk.
He had stolen down to the shore of the loch, walking among the trees and breathing in the fresh air, before stopping to check on Balfire and speaking with the stablehands. All was quiet and well, the hour nearly seven o’clock.
Tugging at his collar, he forced himself to start walking, telling himself that such resistance was fine. He could not anticipate Emma’s mood or whether she’d be of any help, and this would be the first time they’d ever dine together. It could be tense.
Stepping into the Tarry Hall, he wondered if perhaps he should have instructed the servants to go elsewhere. Once, as a small boy, this had been his favorite room. It had arched windows overlooking the loch, a wide fireplace on the opposite wall, and wooden beams arching into the high stone ceiling. It seemed that the same fanciful ancestor who’d created the gardens and the gallery of the old Healing Sanctuary had also built this room. It was lovely and grand for a smaller room, but it was also inviting.
It was even more so with the sun setting in the west and casting light over the loch like a horse might dash and jump across a field. All fire and quick bursts of color across a serene backdrop. The mountains faded into green shadows, and there was a sense of peace that even the Devil of Banrose could almost grasp.
A table had been set, and Grant strode toward it, intent on pouring himself a drink, when the door opened behind him. He turned around, noting that the light outside had grown rosier, and then put a hand to his heart.
“Sin thu fhèin,” he breathed.
He knew he should step forward and greet the beauty coming toward him, but all he could do was watch.
Emma’s dark hair had been swept up and pinned to her head, with a few small white flowers here and there. She wore a crimson gown and a sash made of Ronson tartan. The blue crisscrossed with red against the warm brown seemed to accentuate the color of her eyes. Eyes brighter and bluer than any jewel. Even the sun itself seemed to reach for her as she stepped up to Grant.
“I suppose I should thank you,” she said. “But I won’t.”
Ye dinnae have to. The sight of yer beauty in me clan colors is thanks enough.
“My Laird?”
Grant executed a deep bow and then straightened, offering her his arm, “Lady Emma. Good evenin’.” He cleared his throat, wishing his voice did not sound so hoarse, but it had been a long day of speaking. “How bonny ye look in Ronson tartan, too.”
“Bonny?” Emma asked as she took his proffered arm.
Grant smirked and leaned in. “Beautiful beyond words,” he whispered.
A flush rose in her face, and she dropped her eyes, looking away. “Oh, thank you.”
He led her to the table and then released her. To his surprise, she curtseyed before she took her seat with a smile.
Grant poured her a cup of ale, then one of wine, and raised an eyebrow when he noticed her watching him avidly. “Aye?”
“I—nothing,” she said and reached for the ale, taking a sip.
“Ye are surprised I poured ye a glass and nae a servant,” Grant guessed as he sat down. “I am capable of it, Laird or nae.”
Emma laughed—a bright sound that burrowed into Grant’s heart and made it swell. He clenched his hands beneath the table, wondering if he’d gone mad by proposing that they dine together. Again, he recalled their first meeting and how he’d longed to taste her full lips.
Now, he watched her laugh and smile at him in the Tarry Hall, on Banrose lands, and knew he’d never forget such a sight.
They tucked into the first course, and then, when the servants came in, Grant bid them in Gaelic to have Kyla send the medicine for his throat now, rather than later.
He noted Emma’s curious look, but she did not ask. Nor did she speak much—at first.
“I must admit,” she said as they finished the second course, “you keep a fine table. Your cook is wonderful.”
“Aye,” Grant said and tried not to clear his throat, but he sounded hoarser than usual. “Nae bad for barbarians, eh?”
Emma gave him a look, even though she reddened a bit, and he let out a hoarse chuckle.
