Page 13 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

Was she in trouble?

He was just about to pack it all up and ride to the Willoubys’ in a froth when he heard the sounds of hooves pounding on the dirt track.

His heart pounded in tandem and he stood.

So she would see him, perhaps.

Or so he could see her.

Whatever.

He never expected the hit to his solar plexus when she rounded the curve in the road. It strangled his breath and made his stomach churn. His pulse thrummed.

She was magnificent. Her hair streamed out behind her like gossamer, a shimmering white-blond, a color he’d never seen before. And then she saw him.

Had he thought her beautiful before?

Her expression, when she smiled at him, eclipsed anything he’d ever seen.

It was glorious.

She was glorious.

She slowed as she neared and slung herself from the saddle. Her steps were hesitant as she came toward him, leading the stallion by the reins. He imagined she looked . . . shy.

Could she?

But when he grinned at her, she grinned back.

“Good morning,” he said, taking the reins and tying her beast up next to his.

“Good morning,” she said, not meeting his eyes.

Shy it was, then.

Or was she playing a game?

“I brought breakfast for you.” He gestured to the blanket.

She laughed. “I ate before.”

Really? Why did he feel put out? He’d gone to great trouble. “There are scones.”

“I see that. And where did you find scones, pray tell?”

“I bribed the cook.”

She flashed a look at him from beneath her lashes. “Is the cook from Scotland?”

“All the best ones are.”

“I may have to try those scones then.”

“There’s clotted cream as well.” Not that he’d had thoughts of other uses for that cream. But he had.

“Lovely.” She turned a smile at him, and conversation evaporated as they stared at each other.

“I was worried you weren’t coming,” he said, nearly a whisper.