Page 4 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

He chuckled and tucked two long fingers under her chin and gently closed it. Then he hooked her arm in his and led her farther along the track, where Lord Willouby’s stallion stood alongside the road ripping out tufts of grass. “There,” he said, waving at a stone bridge just beyond the hill, arching over the river.

Isobel yanked her arm away. “There, what?”

“Go look.”

He followed her as she made her way to the bridge and then stood next to her, rocking back on his heels, as she studied the structure. Or what remained of it.

The stone pilings were all in place, as were the abutments on either end, but as for the rest of it . . .

“The flood last month took out all the timbers,” he said in a far-too-smug tone.

She crossed her arms and studied the distance from one bank to the other. “No doubt we could have made the jump.”

He turned to stare at her for a long moment, and then he laughed again.

She was becoming quite tired of his laugh, and at the same time craving it. That was probably why—though she would deny it until the day she died—her lips quirked. Just a tad, but it was enough encouragement for him, apparently.

“I believe you owe me,” he said with a wicked smile.

“I owe you?” She turned and tipped up her chin and stared into his eyes—really stared into them—for the first time. They were a lovely warm brown with flecks of gold, and they were amused. There was something else in there, a certain heat, that she preferred to ignore.

“I did save your life.”

“I believe I made it clear, I could have made the jump.”

“I don’t doubt that for a moment, but your stallion?” He glanced at the steed, who was trying to lip an apple from the tree. “That is questionable.”

“Perhaps.” She sighed. “So what reward would you ask?”

“First, that you put away your blade.”

“First? How many rewards are you asking for?” Was she enjoying this . . . sparring? Why yes. She was.

He was terribly handsome, and not a highwayman after all. Probably, judging from his clothes, a stable lad. Or a farmer’s son.

He shrugged. “How much do you value your life?”

“What kind of question is that?”

“Just as it is. I would like to ask for a kiss . . .” Her heart skipped. “But to be frank, I prefer not to kiss lasses with knives in their fists. You know, just in case.”

She straightened up and peered down her nose at him—no easy feat, as he was much taller than she. “I doona kiss just anyone.”

He splayed his hand over his heart. “I am gratified to hear it.”

“Certainly not . . .” She waved at his person. “Stable hands.”

He grinned. “Is that what I am then?”

She pointed to his boots. “Do tell me that is mud.”

“What else could it be?” His playful tone made clear it might well be something else one might find in a stable.

“And look at your hands.”

He did. She did, too. They were large, well made, with long fingers. There was mud there, too, beneath his fingernails. One would hope.

“I can wash them in the river, if you like.” Again, that charming smile.