Page 18 of Never a Duchess
Buchanan took a moment to appreciate the sight, too. “Aye, when ye gaze upon the heavens in all their glory, it steals the air from yer lungs. Some nights, from the coast of West Kintyre, the sky sparkles like polished amethyst. Now that’s a wonder to behold.”
“I’m afraid I lack the sturdy constitution needed to brave the wild Highland weather.” It was far from the truth, but she refused to let her heart yearn for the impossible.
The middle-aged Scot cast her a sidelong glance. “Aye, yer nose is as red as a berry. The mistress has a glass of punch waiting, with just a wee drop of rum to heat the blood.”
They mounted the sweeping staircase and approached the front door, but the thunder of horse’s hooves pounding the ground stole their attention.
A figure on horseback charged out of the darkness, the muscular black mount galloping along the gravel drive like the devil chased its tail. The wind whipped at the gentleman’s brown hair and tartan kilt. Breathing heavily, both man and beast left a trail of white mist in the chill night air.
Lillian’s mouth dropped open.
The Duke of Dounreay cut an elegant figure in gentlemen’s attire. In the garb of a Highlander, he appeared a specimen of rugged male perfection.
Agreeing to meet here was a mistake. There should be a law against virile men riding whilst in a state of dishabille.
“Ah, Dounreay has arrived,” Buchanan said cheerfully.
Yes, with his bare knees visible beneath the hem of his kilt. Knees weren’t the only part of his anatomy on show. Solid thighs gripped the horse’s flank, though Lillian daren’t let her gaze or imagination roam higher.
“You know the duke?” she said as a distraction.
“Every man born north of the border knows Dounreay.”
Every woman south of the border wished to know him better, too.
“I’ll let the duke escort ye into the house while I take his horse to the stable.” Buchanan descended the steps before she could object.
Like old friends, the men conversed in their mother tongue. The words and gestures were foreign, but mutual respect was a universal language, and their esteem was as tangible as the stars.
Dounreay dismounted and brushed creases from his kilt. As Buchanan took hold of the horse’s reins, the duke thanked him and slapped him playfully on the back. Then his gaze found hers, and her heart almost stopped beating when he smiled.
Mother Mary!
Nerves swirled in her stomach.
A wise woman would feign illness.
She would make an excuse to keep the man at bay.
But her feet were rooted to the spot as Dounreay mounted the steps, closing the gap between them. His approach was that of a man in lust, his gaze ravaging her body like wildfire.
Lillian swallowed hard. “I thought you always wear trousers when south of the border.” He’d worn a kilt the first night she danced with him, but that had been at a ball full of Scots.
Dounreay brushed road dust off his coat sleeves. “I wear trousers when I’m in London playing the duke. Tonight, I’m here as a Highlander, keen to keep a lady out of trouble.”
Trouble?
She was in more danger of being ravished by a duke than being attacked by the mystery abductor.
You’ll marry a man who bears his knees in public.
The fortune-teller’s words invaded her mind.
Lillian quickly dismissed the notion as folly.
Firstly, mystics were frauds. It was mere coincidence that two of the seer’s premonitions had come true. And Lillian had no intention of marrying, so what did it matter what the duke wore?
“Are you not cold?”
