Page 27 of The Scot Beds His Wife
“Ah, bonny,” he greeted with the warmth he’d afford his cherished niece or beloved mother, knowing it would irk her beyond her apparently limited capacity for self-containment. “Still pleasant as a cornered hedgehog, and as well mannered as a badger, I see.”
“I’ve told you not to call me that,” she hissed. “My name is—is—” Her voice died away as he rose from his desk chair.
Gavin knew the moment the glacial ice of her eyes became liquid pools of azure heat…
That she wanted to fuck him, too.
He read desire in her body’s every slight reaction to him before she violently rejected it. Her pupils darkened and dilated before she slammed her lids shut. Her lush lips parted and her jaw slackened before she clacked her teeth together and pressed her mouth into a furious hyphen.
Good. He’d begun to fear he was losing his touch.
Her delicate nose flared but, come to think of it, that could be as much irritation as arousal.
With bonny wee Alison Ross, it seemed the two went hand in hand.
“Did ye forget yer own name, bonny?” he rumbled. “Doona fash yerself, happens more often than not when aforeign lass first sets eyes on a Highlander in his native garb.” He gestured to his sporran, kilt, and tunic. “Do ye recognize the plaid, lass? Ye should.”
He’d expected a reaction of fury in response to his brandishing her Ross colors. Instead, she glanced away. “I—I thought I’d be appearing in front of the magistrate in court—with witnesses—not in his—your—office.”
Gavin’s eyes narrowed. Was the lass truly so Americanized that she’d not even recognized her own clan colors?
That couldn’t be so. Though his cynical mind whispered ’twas more likely the canny lass was less easily manipulated than he thought. Did she want him to underestimate her? Was she hiding her true intentions behind a veneer of artless vehemence?
“I thought it would serve us both better if we were to meet in private to discuss this new… evidence I’ve uncovered.” He didn’t miss her retreat as he stepped around the desk, splaying his hand on the documents she’d thrown down like the proverbial gauntlet.
“It seems there is some dispute to the claim that yer great-grandfather Sir James Ross bought Erradale. These papers maintain that he leased it from the Mackenzie clan for ninety and nine years. Come January 1, 1881, yer payment of a thousand pounds is due if ye want to keep the land out of Mackenzie hands for another century.”
“And if I don’t pay?” she demanded, her shoulders squaring beneath the puffed sleeves of her handsome pelisse.
“If payment isna received, ye’ll forfeit Erradale to Laird Mackenzie.”
“Fuck. Fuck.Fuck.” Vibrations of her muttered expletives shimmered over his skin until his cock twitched in response.
“Are all American women so vulgar, or is it just ye?”he queried shortly, bemoaning the husky note that crept into his sleek voice.
She ignored the question. “But that doesn’t help you at all,” she reasoned aloud. “You said yourself that you’re no longer a Mackenzie, and so the land will not be forfeit to you, but your brother.”
Gavin leaned on the front of his desk, studying the delicate woman as she stood against him. He’d dubbed her a shrew. Perhapsshrewdwas the more appropriate word.
She might not be a lady, but neither was she a fool.
“The emancipation proceedings will take a great deal longer than these.” He shrugged. “So technically, I’m still part of the Mackenzie clan. Despite our differences, Liam has no use for, or interest in, the upkeep of Erradale, nor will he want to pay the estate taxes owed on the land. He’ll be happy to accept my offer to surrender my shares in his distillery. He’d be rid of two millstones from his neck for the price of one.”
An unwanted parcel of land, and an unwanted brother,he thought bitterly.
“I have a bill of sale that directly disputes this so-called lease.” She brandished it at him, but snatched it away from his hand when he reached for it. “I’ll fight you in court, tell me when and where.”
His smile felt as sweet as warm honey and spread just as easily. “Ye produce all evidence to the contrary, and plead yer case to the Bench of the Magistrate.”
Her brows slammed together in a rather adorable show of bedevilment. “But… but you’re the magistrate.”
“Och,” he said in mock surprise. “So I am.”
As he watched color rise from beneath her collar, Gavin wondered just how far down her lithe body the delightful pink spread.
“You dirty, low-life crook!” she huffed, the papers inher grasp loudly protesting her fingers’ propensity to curl when angry.
“I am a servant of the law, not its master.” He bowed for effect.
