Page 6 of A Virgin for the Icy Highlander
He couldn’t have her pleading, pushing the fraying limits of his discipline and control.
“Ye’re in nay trouble,” he said gruffly, folding his arms across his chest so they wouldn’t be tempted. “I brought ye up here so I could hear meself think.”
The curvy young lady drew in a shaky breath, her hand resting on her chest in relief, though anxiety lingered in the tense expression on her face. “You might have said so, to put me at ease. I thought you meant to…” Her rosy cheeks turned a shade redder. “I… I don’t know what I thought.”
Ye saw a Scotsman and imagined the worst.
He kept the accusation to himself, studying her more closely.
She was pretty for aSassenach. Her accent gave her away. Uncommonly pretty, in truth.
Hooded green eyes peered up at him through long, dark lashes. Her heart-shaped face featured a dainty chin and plump, pink cheeks. Her dark hair, the exact hue of a raven’s wings, was fashioned into an elaborate bun that made him want to pull out the hair slides and watch those glossy locks tumble down. And her lips, small in width but full and red, like the curving petals of a rose, were somewhat diverting.
When ye get back to yer castle, ye can send for a lass,he told himself sternly, for his impulses wouldn’t help his situation, nor would they encourage the lass here to do what he wanted.
“If I am not in trouble, why am I here?” she asked, her voice a little stronger now.
Hunter focused on her green eyes. “Me daughter has been isolated for several years, with nay one for company but a nursemaid.” He paused, his heart sore. “That’s the most I’ve seen her interact with someone since we returned a few days ago. The nursemaid told me before I brought her back that it’s how she is, speakin’ rarely, smilin’ even less—a somber, silent bairn.”
“A childneedsmorecompany than that!” the woman urged, aghast. “The poor thing.”
Suddenly, she looked shamefaced, dropping her gaze, no doubt realizing she was insulting the girl’s father to his face. As if Hunter didn’t already know that he was partially to blame for his daughter’s distant behavior, though it hadn’t been his choice.
“She was at her grandfaither’s castle these past years, away from me. He didnae like me much, and I’d wager that dislike is in her blood somewhere.” He shook his head slowly. “Me own daughter is afraid of me.”
The woman arched an eyebrow, muttering, “I can’t see why.” She hesitated. “Although, if I may, I don’t think it is a matter of inherited dislike, because that is utter nonsense.”
“I beg yer pardon?” he asked coolly, his eyes narrowing on her.
She cleared her throat, pulling her shoulders back in defiance, though it had the troubling effect of pushing out her bosom. “I think it is a matter of loneliness, of that isolation you spoke of, and of not knowing any different. If she has only known her nursemaid for several years, and you haven’t been in her life, then she is likely treatingyouas if you are a stranger, because you are.”
He had suspected as much, but he didn’t like to have it tossed at him so plainly. Yet, her observation about Ellie steeled his certainty that this young woman was the ideal candidate, regardless of her thinly veiled disrespect.
“What is yer name?” he asked, having neglected to inquire sooner.
The woman frowned. “Grace.”
“Grace what?”
“Grace Bolton,” she replied, though she couldn’t look him in the eyes, as if there was more to her name than she was letting on.
Considering why a refined young Englishwoman might find herself in the Scottish borders, he walked to the nearby table and poured himself a cup of weak ale from a pewter pitcher.
Bringing the cup to his lips, he met her nervous gaze. “Since me daughter has taken a liking to ye, I’ll keep ye. Me castle isnae far. An hour or two from Lockton. Ye’ll stay there.”
“Excuse me?” Grace croaked, blinking quickly. “I don’t think so, Sir.”
“M’Laird,” he corrected. “That’s the proper way to address me.”
Her throat bobbed, her green eyes widening. “I… can’t do that, M’Laird.”
“Of course, ye can,” he replied, sipping his ale, eyeing her closely. “Tell me, what brings a young lass like ye here? Ye’re well attired, so ye’re nae poor. Ye speak well and with confidence, so ye’re nae lowborn. Ye were starin’ at thecèilidhlike ye’d never seen anythin’ like it, so ye’re nae local. And ye’re clearly sheltered. I merely wonder what’s caused ye to wash up here—rather, who set ye afloat?”
She stared at him, her lips parted in disbelief, her bosom stilling as though she’d forgotten to breathe. At that moment, he knew he’d struck close enough to the facts that she would easily and willingly fill in the gaps.
It was the greatest lesson a warrior could learn—reading people and knowing how to coax out information.
“I came here to… escape an unfortunate situation,” she said haltingly, peering at him as if he’d grown an extra head. “I attend Horndean School for Ladies.”
