Chapter Four
“You didn’t tell me why your hair is unbound.” The Highlander’s smile didn’t falter. “No’ that I’m complaining.”
Melissa glanced again at the cloakroom door. She didn’t really mind being in here alone with him. In truth, she cared little for society’s rules, preferring straightforward honesty to false airs and silly propriety.
A trait she’d inherited from her mother, as Lady Clarice and her stepsisters were fond of claiming.
So she wasn’t concerned by the breach of manners in whiling here with the Black Lyon of Lyongate Hall. Indeed, if they were honest, she suspected every female present would envy her, including her hostess, Mrs. Merrivale, who was eighty years old, if she was a day.
No, all that worried her was being disturbed.
How often did she spend time with a dashing Scot?
Especially one so magnificently garbed in full take-her-breath-away Highland finery. He was sheer perfection, from his blue-and-green kilt to his snowy white Jacobite shirt and formal black jacket, not overlooking his tasseled sporran. She knew from seeing him earlier in the ballroom that he also stood head and shoulders over the other men in attendance. And his towering maleness only proved what her mother had always told her, naturally out of her father’s earshot…
Good, brisk Highland air grows bigger and better men than anywhere else on earth.
She believed it.
The proof stood before her. His broad shoulders made her pulse quicken. His smile stole her breath. And the way his black hair and sky-blue eyes glinted in the moonlight convinced her a more handsome man couldn’t possibly exist.
Indeed…
She had the most ridiculous urge to fling herself into his arms, grab his beautiful face and kiss him. Perhaps she was as wild and reckless as Lady Clarice and her daughters claimed? Not caring, she let her gaze flick over him, finding wickedness a wonderful state.
“Well, Lady Melissa?” He arched one eyebrow at her.
“My family calls me Mellie.”
“Mellie or Melissa…”He said the names slowly, the delicious Scottish lilt in his voice making her heart flutter. “Which do you prefer?”
“I rather like Melissa.”
“Then Melissa it is,” he said, his smile deepening. “Now tell me about your hair. Or did you not know that Highlanders aren’t known for patience?”
“I do know.” She returned his smile, a whirl of images flashing across her mind – him as an ancient warrior, rushing down a hillside, his broadsword raised as he roared at his enemies. Then, likewise tartan-clad, but with moonlight silvering a heather-kissed moor as he whipped off his plaid and spread it on the ground, his lustful intent more than obvious.
As if he knew, he leaned back against a table, folded his arms and looked at her.
“Your hair, lass...” His smile turned devilish. “Dinnae keep me in suspense.”
“It’s quite an improper style, I know,” she admitted. “Even so, I found it necessary.”
He raised an eyebrow again, waiting.
She felt her face warm. “I wanted to appear less than ladylike,” she said. “It was my hope that doing so would chill Sir Hartle’s interest in me.”
“Sir Hartle Hutsby?”
“Is there any other?” She shuddered.
“I should hope not. The man might have deep pockets and a magnificent estate, from what I hear, but he’s old enough to be fossilized.”
“Exactly,” Melissa agreed. “The latter observation is the sole reason my stepmother wants me to marry him. As well, to have me gone from Cranleigh Manor, my home.”
He studied her for a long moment, his frown reminding her more than ever of his fierce Highland forebears.
“Though, really, Cranleigh is already hers,” she added. “My father left the estate to her.”
