Page 72 of A Rogue in Moonlight
“Lady Rankin, aye. She is a dear, though can be stiff in her attitudes. She prefers that I behave primly and properly, but sometimes—” She stopped.
“You want a little more freedom?” he asked quietly.
She shrugged. “I suppose that is why I accept teaching assignments in the Highlands, to get away from city life, and away from my aunt’s very proper social circles.” Fiona lifted her head. “My lady aunt is not happy about what I do, but it is charity work, after all, so she can say little against it. And I rather like the adventure. I am not quite as dull as people think,” she added defensively.
“I do not think you are dull at all. Serene, I would say. Calm and capable. But never dull, Miss MacCarran.” He regarded her with a relaxed, amused expression.
“I fear everyone thinks me the capable one.” She frowned.
“And that is not what you prefer?”
Impulsively, she flung a hand outward. “I prefer a wee bit of wildness.”
He laughed outright. “You have found a wee bit here.”
“But I do not have a truly wild nature,” she said. Her cheeks were heating up, her breath expanding. She felt open and expressive, and a little tipsy. “Oh, dear Fiona MacCarran, so capable, so calm, always does what she should and what she must. Though dear Fiona longs to be more adventurous. To be a more interesting person. Well,” she said, “here she sits in a man’s dressing gown, alone with the man who owns it. I suppose that is adventurous.”
He quirked a smile. “Dear Fiona. I would not change a thing about her.”
She felt her heart thumping hard. She sipped whisky, licked her lips, sipped again. “This is sweet,” she said. “Light. It’s very good.”
“I am glad you like our Glen Kinloch brew.” He came closer, leaned against the library table, crossing his feet as he rested there. The kilt he wore was in the MacGregor pattern, and he had added a darkjacket over it when he had returned. But the shirt beneath it was open at the throat, without the fussiness of a knotted neckcloth. Fiona admired the strong column of his throat, and liked, too, the breadth of his shoulders in jacket and shirt, and the sight of his long muscled legs, strong, flat knees, taut calves covered by the woven patterned socks. She liked every aspect of his earthy strength. It was reassuring. Warm. Protective.
“The Highland costume gives a man an air of masculinity that is very solid. Like a warrior of old. Very attractive,” she said, speaking her thoughts before she could stop them as they tumbled forth. “The muscular limbs and the hard beauty of the male form is so enjoyable to see. Strong and elegant. The kilt shows the confidence and ease of its wearer. The natural attractive character of a strong male—is quite—oh, do forgive me!” She felt embarrassed—and yet a bit wanton. She was talking too much. And oh, how her head spun.
“Forgiven,” he acknowledged. “And thank you, Miss MacCarran.”
“Fiona,” she corrected. “Feeeeeona.”
“Fionn,” he said softly in Gaelic. “Pale, fair one.” A shiver went through her at his low, breathy words. He inclined his head. “And no more of this Kinloch and Mr. MacGregor. I am Dougal.”
“Dubhgall,” she whispered the Gaelic. “Dark stranger.”
“Strangers no more,” he murmured, lifting his glass slightly. “May I say you look fetching tonight. That rich wine color suits your dark hair and the blush in your fair cheek. Very bonny.”
“Thank you,” she said, tilting her head. Were her cheeks so hot, or was it the whisky? “So you prefer the plaid? My brothers wear it sometimes, particularly when in the Highlands and going hunting and hiking. Though Patrick prefers the more modern Southern fashion and usually wears trousers and coat.”
“The plaid is a point of pride for many, especially in these times. And it is an easy thing to wear, well suited to Highland life.” He took another swallow from the glass and set it down. Then he looked at herfor a moment, tilting his head, folding his hands. “I think you have had enough, my lass,” he commented.
Fiona sipped once more. Just once more. “I suppose I have. It is a lovely whisky.Uisge-beatha an ceann loch,” she murmured in Gaelic. “Oh dear,” she said then, setting a hand to her head. She felt dizzy and flushed, her face burning with a blush that spread to her throat and chest. “It is strong. But I like it.”
“A wee bit is more than enough,” he said. “This batch is nicely mellow, with a bit of spice from the flowers that grew by the burn that year.” He looked at her and frowned. “How much have you had?”
“I had some earlier with honey and hot water. And about half this glass now. My cough seems to be gone now. But I feel, uh, lightheaded.” She blinked.
“Aye, enough, lass. An Edinburgh lady will not have the head for Highland drink. I apologize. I should not have suggested another dram for you after Maisie’s dose. May I?” He stretched his hand out for her glass.
“I am fine,” she insisted, and set the glass on the small table. A strange sense of well-being, even joyfulness, filled her in tandem with the heated flush in her face and chest. She smiled, feeling content. Then she stood, wobbling a little, grabbing the chair for support. Looking up, she saw tiny lights flitting high up in the room. Reflections of the lamplight, she thought. Her head felt very spinny now.
“How do you feel?” Dougal asked. He was standing beside her chair. When had he stepped so close?
She smiled up at him. “Marvelously well.”
“Indeed,” he drawled. “So along with us being improperly alone here, and you in a state of undress, I am now responsible for your becoming fou.”
“I am not fou,” she said. “And if I am, I did that myself. And willingly.”
“‘We are nae fou, well, nae that fou,’” he quoted softly.
