Chapter 7
Ophelia pausedoutside the drawing room door and allowed herself a long, strength-bringing breath. Above all, she hoped the household staff had been right about a splendidly kilted man with dark good looks having been ushered into her uncle’s hallowedsanctum.
The Highlander could only behim.
Mr. GreysonMerrick.
The devilishly dashing blackguard with his crooked smile and dark, wind-ruffled hair. What a shame he was also a teller of tales. Such a scoundrel shouldn’t make her heartpound.
She, of all women, should know better. Yet she would love to kiss him again. Plunge headlong into the hopelessly romantic abyss, all caution cast to the wind. How could she feel otherwise when she couldn’t forget the smolder in his eyes, the knee-weakening way he’d looked at her? How thrilling it’d been to have him crush her against him, his strong arms so tight aroundher.
She’d nearly melted when he’d cupped her chin on the beach at StonyBay.
She could feel his touch even now, as if he’d branded her, leaving her with the memory. She struggled against the sensation, felt a surge of sympathy for every woman who’d ever lost her heart to a rogue. The price was too high, the women always thelosers.
Greyson Merrick was worse than most suchscoundrels.
What kind of man called his vitals, hiswiggle?
Sure, he’d caught his own mistake, changing his story on the beach, blaming a squirrel-in-his-sporran.
That ruined it for her and now she’d wash him from her thoughts by telling himso.
If the truth then came out and her uncle punished her, so beit.
She would suffer any consequences. So she put back her shoulders, lifted her chin, and burst into the room, not caring when the door swung a bit too hard on the white-washedwall.
“Uncle Irwin, Aunt Sarah.” She almost skidded to a halt, way toobreathless.
Turning to their visitor, she felt as if a great iron-shod fist punchedher.
She’d been right – it washim.
The master of all kisses – a title she was sure he deserved – stood in the center of the room. He was even more roguishly dashing than she remembered. Or perhaps it was the chamber’s soft lamplight that gave him anadvantage?
Either way, seeing him before her made her heart race. Tall, dark, and handsome as every fairytale prince, he was also kilted. And that, to her oh-so-Scottish heart, made him even more magnificent. He’d donned full Highland regalia, his blue-and-green kilt all the more splendid by the snowy whiteness of his shirt and his black jacket. His cloak was equally black and that he hadn’t removed it indicated he wouldn’t be stayinglong.
The heated recognition in his eyes, and what that smolder did toher,
Or itshould.
Too bad she felt a pinch ofannoyance.
And so she put back her shoulders, inhaled deeply, and greeted him as wasfitting…
“How lovely to see you,” she said, smiling. “Mr. Wiggle, Ibelieve?”
Her aunt gasped. “Ophelia-”
The handsome fiend’s laughter cut her off. “Nae worries, Mrs. Russell,” he assured her aunt before turning back to Ophelia. “Miss Raines, your wit delights me, but you err. You also ken my name. But if you’ve forgotten, I am Greyson Merrick and though your charm indeed captivated me when we met, you mistook mywords.”
“I did no such thing.” Ophelia frowned, not about to say why she knew she was right. “You saidwiggle.”
“So I did.” He smiled, not denying it. “I shall say it again now.Wiggle.”
Ophelia and the Russells stared at him as he repeated the word, this time a bit louder. Odder still, he reached for his sporran and gave it a lightshake.
“Oh, no!” Ophelia threw a glance at Aunt Sarah. “Stop him! He’s aboutto-”
