Page 208 of Wicked Highland Heroes

“Is something amiss, Lady Rhoslyn?”

Rhoslyn started at the sound of St. Claire’s voice. The baying of the dogs and murmur of conversation brought her back to the present and she looked at him. He stared, brows drawn in concern.

“Nay,” she said. “Should something be wrong?”

“You appeared deep in thought.”

She shrugged. His gaze sharpened and she felt certain he thought she was mimicking his annoying habit of shrugging when asked a question. Her mouth twitched with an unbidden smile, but she managed to restrain the impulse. He lifted a brow. Rhoslyn shrugged again, then returned her attention straight ahead. From the corner of her eye, she saw him study her for a moment before returning his attention to Lord Kinnon.

“I hear the rebellions in Wales are spreading, Lord Kinnon said. “Does Edward plan another campaign there?”

“Edward does not confide in me, but I doubt it,” St. Claire said. “The uprisings are not serious.”

Lord Kinnon grunted. “I suppose he is busy enough as arbiter and Sovereign of Scotland.”

“I imagine so,” St. Claire replied. “He has no easy task in that regard.”

“Edward knows what he is doing. He will choose wisely.”

Her grandfather snorted, but said nothing. Rhoslyn easily read his thoughts. By ‘choose wisely’ Lord Kinnon meant ‘John Balliol.’ Lord Kinnon was a supporter of Balliol, and she suspected he hoped to become one of St. Claire’s newest and closest friends in order to ingratiating himself into Edward—and Balliol’s—good graces.

“What think you of Edward as Sovereign of Scotland, Lady Rhoslyn?” St. Claire asked.

She jerked her head in his direction. He stared, eyes intense—as always—but she detected something in his expression. Rhoslyn blinked. Was that mischief? It was. What trouble did he intend to make? Then the truth dawned. He, too, suspected Lord Kinnon was a Balliol supporter, and he knew she wasn’t.

“I think Edward would be wise to stay in England and leave Scotland to sort out her own problems,” she said.

“A dream, Lady Rhoslyn,” Lord Kinnon interjected. “Our leaders quarrel amongst themselves to the point that we canna’ decide who will lead in a single battle.”

“I imagine Wallace or Bruce would decide that without hesitation,” she said. “And our squabbling doesna’ mean an English king should be dictating to us.”

“Have ye a better idea?” he asked.

“Anything would be better than English interference.” She thought of Duncan and was glad he wasn’t here to hear her echo his words.

“Anything?” St. Claire interjected.

She met his gaze squarely. “Aye.”

“I suppose, then, I should be thankful my mother was Scottish.”

Rhoslyn couldn’t believe her ears... Everyone knew he never spoke of his mother, and considered himself every inch an Englishman, not a Scot.

“No’ Scottish,” her grandfather corrected, “a Scot. Ye didna’ say anything about being a Scot when Edward gave ye Dunfrey Castle. You flew the English banner—even at the Highland Games.”

“Where I believe I won every match I competed in,” St. Claire replied mildly.

Rhoslyn hadn’t attended the games that year, for Andreana had been ill and Rhoslyn refused to leave her side. But for months afterward, stories were told of St. Claire’s prowess as a soldier and his loyalty to his king...and, she recalled, the fact that he didn’t dally with the Highland women.

Luck eluded them that morning, and St. Claire called a halt in a small clearing three hours later when they hadn’t sighted a single deer. He was at Rhoslyn’s side as she brought her horse to a stop. He startled her by grasping her waist and lifting her from the saddle. She braced her hands on his shoulders and his eyes locked with hers as he lowered her. Her knees felt as weak as apple pudding when her feet touched the ground.

His fingers flexed on her waist and she suddenly realized her waist wasn’t as trim as it had been when she’d been Andreana’s age. Birth and the passage of time had rounded her curves. St. Claire couldn’t miss the difference between Andreana’s youthful beauty and Rhoslyn’s fuller curves—especially given how dazzling Andreana looked today in her dark green linen dress.

Rhoslyn couldn’t halt the flush of embarrassment that warmed her cheeks. St. Claire’s gaze sharpened. He hadn’t released her, and her embarrassment grew more acute when she glimpsed Lady Isobel glancing their way. The kennel master knelt, tying the hounds to a tree near a large boulder to their left and the rest of the party had moved a discreet distance away.

“Seward insists there is game aplenty here in Buchan,” St. Claire said.

Rhoslyn nodded. “My grandfather always returns home with game.” Why didn’t he step away?