Page 3 of An English Rose for the Highlander
But she would never do that.
The pressure on her shoulders was one she was familiar with, and there was little to be done. If her parents had not seen the error of their ways now, if they did not see how they relinquished too much of their responsibility to their child, then the thought would never occur to them.
“We never gave our poor girl the opportunity for a love match.” Horatia peered over at Baldwin, her face still stained with tears, before she looked back to Rose. “If we had, perhaps this would not have happened.”
“It is all well and good, Mother. I do not require a love match or affection from my husband to be satisfied. I only wish to know that our family is secure. Stable. That is all I can and will hope for. If this arrangement with the Laird is successful, we will not have to worry over all this business again. And when our troubles are behind usthatwill be a fine day indeed.”
Both her parents nodded and went on with their words of gratitude. It said something about them that they knew to be thankful for Rose’s work, her effort to rectify the situation. But it did not change the fact that Rose was yet again upholding this family because her parents lacked the ability to do so themselves.
“It will be a fine match, Rose.” Her mother smiled, her round cheeks squeezing. “I am sure of it.”
2
The boom of the door opening loudly in the front hall cut through the quiet in the parlor. Rose instinctively straightened in her seat, perched on the edge of the slim, pale wood chair with rosy fabric covered in white blossoms. Her spine was as stiff as ever, and she shot a glance at her parents, arranged just how she’d told them to be on the pastel green sofa across from her.
Remain calm, Rose. Remain calm.
Still, she clutched her hands together too tightly in her lap, her knuckles aching against the pressure as their long-awaited visitor finally arrived.
The Laird.
Whispers from the household staff around them immediately began to titter about the room, carried from the long hallway beyond the parlor like a leaf in the wind. Baldwin and Horatiawere exceedingly stiff on the sofa, exchanging glances with each other as their furrowed brows gave away their nervousness.
Then Rose’s ears perked up to the sound of a deep voice rumbling through the house, this whisky bite of a voice that thrummed with notes of heady sherry. She did not know what to make of it.
But as soon as she heard it, the area outside the parlor burst with scandalized gasps that echoed through the hallways.
“A henhouse full of clucking English.” Rose finally heard, the voice now closer. “Never seen a man in a kilt before, eh?”
Her lips fell apart in a subtle gasp, her mind feverishly wandering and swirling as she imagined the Scot who would soon descend on the room. He was apparently wearing a kilt, and though that was common dress for a Highlander, no doubt, it was hardly the typical attire here in England.
The sense of confusion, mortification, and even indignation, both heard through the continued gasps and hurried footsteps over the wood floors, rippled through the estate, landing firmly on her parents, who darted their stares to her apprehensively. Rose watched as a furious scarlet blush powered through her mother’s cheeks, her father clearing his throat as if he might shove the memory of those words from his mind.
A ludicrous idea, of course.
At once, the door to the parlor swung open with a flourish, and then a man the size of a mountain filled the door frame from top to bottom.
Oh.
Rose’s breath caught in her chest as she took in the sight before her. The man—undoubtedly the Laird—was enormous, a thick beast of a man who would put any English Lord to shame. His broad shoulders took up every inch of the narrow doorframe, powerful, strong legs beneath him bare, utterly exposed to the open air because of that kilt he had gone on about.
The kilt, which Rose recalled was often called a plaid by the Scots, was of a thick woolen material, a pattern of stripes woven into it, and the Laird wore it with such pride that suddenly she felt underdressed. But that was absurd. The man before her was the one who’d come into her home with his legs bared for everyone to see.
So odd to be filled with such easy confidence when he is practically naked.
All Rose could think was that this man, the Laird of MacKay, had clearly never once questioned his place in the world and his gravitas as the leader of his Scottish castle and clan. Just behind the gargantuan man, who calmly stepped further into the parlor with his hand resting easily on the hilt of his sword, was another figure.
This one was slightly less imposing than the Laird, and Rose assumed it was his man-at-arms, whom the Laird had informed her would be traveling with him. His eyes flickered with unmistakable mischief, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk as he followed his master into the space, as if he enjoyed the way the entire room was set askew by this scandalous entrance.
“Oh, my word,” her mother mumbled, staring resolutely at the corner of the floor as she fanned herself.
Baldwin was a mirror of his wife, doing his best to avoid looking at the exposed limbs of the Laird. It was clear that both were properly horrified by the man’s attire, but Rose found herself unable to pull her eyes away from the somewhat stark white flesh dusted with brown hair.
He saunters in wearing that kilt. His legs are just so…muscular and bare.
Heat rushed up Rose’s neck, settling in her cheeks as she fought against this moment of weakness, seeking out her better self so that she might at last pull her eyes away from the Laird and stop gawking.
Just as she managed to recollect her senses, looking up at the tall man to see his face, she found the Laird’s eyes already pinned to her. Something about them drilled through her to the back buttons of her dress, eyes so dark, assessing, and entirely too perceptive.
