Page 9 of Highland Renegade
“I dinna get rejected!” Rory defended himself. “I dinnaaskto escort that redheaded harpy.”
“But ye wanted to.”
“I dinna—”
“Enough.” Ian glared at them both. “Ye are nae bairns. And apart from what either of ye think about the Caldwell ladies, we have the dowager countess to contend with. ’Tis what’s important.”
“I agree,” Carr said. “The sooner ye talk to her, the sooner we ken where we stand and…” He glanced at his other brothers. “…the sooner we can plan a real strategy.”
Ian sighed inwardly. Carr was right. He was going to have to talk with Emily Woodhaven and, to alleviate the prickling of his conscience, he would offer better rooms. Mayhap, he would even let her have her choice, now that Fiona had shown her the castle. That might make her more amenable to his plan—suggestion—about keeping the deed’s existence private for now.
Alasdair was right. Give a woman something she wants. In return, she will be more pliable. That strategy had worked well enough on previous conquests. Not that he saw Emily—the Lady Woodhaven, he mentally corrected—as aconquest. In a sense, she was the “enemy” or an “obstacle” at best. Certainly not someone to lust after. He needed to put that idea out of his head and concentrate on what really mattered. Holding the land, not holdingher.
But his traitorous body was already looking forward to seeing her again.
Chapter Four
As it turned out, Ian didn’t have to go looking for her. She came looking for him. His brothers had left the library only moments earlier when he, having finished the single dram he allowed himself and was putting the bottle away, heard a light tap on the closed door.
“Enter!” he’d called. He’d asked Maggie earlier to give him a full report on how the day had gone with the Sassenachs, so he supposed it was she. Instead, when he looked up, it was Emily who stood in the doorway.
He blinked, hardly recognizing her. Yesterday, when she’d arrived, she’d been wearing a pelisse and last evening at dinner—no doubt because her trunks hadn’t been taken up to her room—she’d worn her traveling dress, which had buttoned up the front with a high neck, long sleeves, and loose fit, to accommodate the lengthy time spent in a carriage. Her hair had also been pulled back in a tight chignon.
The woman who just entered truly could have been an angel descended from heaven, although Rory probably would have said she was sent from hell to bedevil them. Her golden hair was gathered loosely at the base of her neck, tendrils escaping and framing her face which, after a night’s rest, glowed with health. For the first time, he understood why the English popinjays waxed poetically about a “peaches and cream” complexion. Her eyes were even bluer, near violet, but perhaps that was because of the lavender dress she wore. He remembered that lavender was the color of half mourning that widows wore and wondered if she truly mourned her husband. The man had been decades older than she. From the cut of the dress—just low enough, in spite of its fichu, to offer a suggestion of breast swells—and its much more formfitting design that accentuated a small waist and just the right amount of hip flare, it appeared she was observing proprieties with only the color.
“Please come in. Have a seat.” He gestured to one of the chairs by the hearth. “Can I help ye with something?”
“Actually, yes.” Emily eyed the whisky bottle still in his hand as she sat. “I could use a drink, if you do not mind.”
He blinked again. “I’ll see if I can find some sherry.”
“I would rather have the whisky, if you please.”
He glanced down at the bottle, then back at her. “This is calleduisge-beatha, the ‘breath of life.’ ’Tis quite strong.”
“For a woman, you mean?” She arched one brow. “Or do you caution men not to drink it as well?”
“Nae. Aye. Nae…”Why am I stumbling over words?“I mean, it takes a wee bit of getting used to.”
“Then as soon as you pour it, I can start becoming acquainted.”
“I…” Ian clamped his mouth shut, reached for a whisky glass, and poured a dram into it. He was tempted to pour more, just to prove his point when she sputtered and spit it out, but that would be a waste of good whisky. He handed her the glass, his fingers brushing hers.
“Thank you.” She took a healthy sip—near half the dram—closed her eyes while rolling the liquid in her mouth, then swallowed and looked up at him without so much as a twinge. “Excellent.”
He blinked once more, vaguely aware he might be taking on owlish tendencies, and watched as she drained the rest.
“Would ye like some more?”
“No, thank you.” She handed the glass back. “That suited me nicely.”
“Do ye drink often?”
She gave him a sharp look. “Are you asking if I have a problem with spirits?”
“Nae…” Damnation. That wasn’t what he meant at all. “I…just have never seen a woman…enjoy…a dram so quickly.”
“I find, at times, that whisky puts things to rights.” She pointed to the bottle. “Is that distilled here?”
