“Och, that I can indeed,” Lucian lied. “But I will allow the entire matter to rest if you agree to leave this property and sign over all rights to it, to Lady Melissa.”
She folded her arms. “If I refuse?”
“Then you shall bring out the worst in me,” he warned her, patting his sword hilt. “You dinnae want to see a riled Highlander. The blood of my ancestors runs thick in my veins. I’d make short work of this problem, no’ caring for the aftermath.
“Only that wrongs are righted.” He gripped his sword, lifting it a few inches from the scabbard. “Have I made myself clear?”
“You have.” Once again, she looked at him with pure disdain. “My daughters and I accept your offer.”
~*~
He’d said he was going to kiss her.
He hadn’t.
Melissa frowned, wondering what did it said about her that such a thought even crossed her mind now, after Lucian’s kilt-clad, sword-carrying arrival at Cranleigh?
Not to mention the revelations he’d brought with him.
She glanced at him, here at the edge of the estate’s empty grazing pasture, with the rolling hills and woods beyond, sweeping down to the gorge and the now-infamous footbridge.
Not surprisingly, her pulse quickened, her heart thumped, and she again wished he’d kissed her.
She was doomed.
“I’m sorry she called your kilt a skirt.” It was all she could think to say that didn’t come anywhere near to asking why he hadn’t made good his vow to greet her with a kiss. “She doesn’t know anything about Scotland.”
He chuckled. “I have been called worse than a man in a skirt, lass.”
Melissa smiled. “You do take one’s breath away.”
“Is that so?” He lifted a brow, looking pleased.
“It is.”
His own smile flashed, revealing a dimple. “Then I shall wear my kilt more often.”
“I would like that.” She nodded, her gaze flicking over him.
He’d traded his plaid and sword for a sturdy tweed jacket, but he still wore his kilt and sporran, and as he walked along the low stone wall that bordered the pasture, his kilt swung smartly in stride.
He had the most fetching knees. And not far above them, swinging as well…
She felt a blush warming her cheeks. “Some say a kilted man is a god. Seeing you in yours, I do agree.”
“Aye, well.” He stopped, his smile broadening. “I say the finest sight hereabouts is thon deserted pasture. I didn’t expect Steckles to gather his lads so quickly, nor to arrange shipping for the horses with such a swift departure.
“Helping round up the poor beasts and get them on their way is what made me so late.” He strode over to her, set his hands on her shoulders. “Can you forgive me?”
Melissa glanced aside, guilt pinching her. “I have every reason and more to be ever so grateful to you,” she said, her heart swelling as she stared at the pasture’s empty grass, so thankful that her carriage horses were now safe.
All of them, and for all time.
She lifted a hand, dashed at her eyes. “I do not know how to ever thank you.”
“For what?” He captured her chin and turned her face back to his. “For rescuing your horses or ridding you and Cranleigh of the worst conniver in all England?”
“For everything,” Melissa spoke past the thickness in her throat. Blinking, she peered up at him. “How did you know?”
