Free His Lass Wears Tartan by Kathleen Shaputis Page A

and the breeze caught the flowing curls, flicking them behind his shoulders in a dramatic cinema fashion.
    How does he do that? Usually my hair ends up in my face, nicking me in the eye a time or two when there’s a breeze.

“I’m afraid I dinna have anything more formal set up. Would you like a table?”
    “Yes, I assure you I will be much better company if we are sitting like civilized people during our meal.”
    Rogue scrambled for words. Civilized? She’d offered the man a picnic, not a fancy
taigh-bìdhe.
“Please excuse me, I’ll have the staff prepare a setting for us.” Before she’d completed her sentence, the man tucked a Bluetooth piece in his ear, dismissing her, and began a phone conversation.
    In minutes, a handful of young men brought out a portable table, chairs, and a linen tablecloth. Another man carried a silver tray with matching salt and pepper shakers plus a petite vase of white heather and ivy.
    “This will do.” Jonathan pulled out her chair and whispered in her ear, “Think of ourselves at a Parisan café watching the many peasants walk by. I shall try to control myself under the table, but you are most tempting, my dear.”
    Goose bumps spread down her arms from the heat of his words. She could smell a floral wave, almost overwhelming her senses as he lingered at her bare neck.
He reeks.

He must have bathed in cologne while she’d packed their lunch. Gillian would be rolling his eyes at this faux pas.
    While Rogue set out the china plates and cutlery, Jonathan snatched the bottle of wine from the basket.
    “If I may.” He pulled an opener from his jacket pocket. “Something I obtained during one of my many travels. Paris, I believe. See, you must let me take to you the fabulous places I know. We could summer on an island in Greece.”
    The wine flowed freely and mainly into Jonathan’s glass as his trifling portion of food remained untouched. He kept up a running dialogue about himself, which she supposed was for her entertainment, but the more he rambled, the more her romantic spirits melted away.
He’s no more than a pompous, self-centered ego hidden inside a gorgeous shell.
Not unlike most of the male celebrities and royalty she’d met during various events at the castle. Her heart sank.
    “I have become well acquainted with the vicissitudes of life, but I find the aura, the enchantment, of your home enticing.” His voice droned on.
    Rogue repacked the basket and leaned in toward him. “I hate to interrupt your engaging story, but I am needed elsewhere. I have a sweet mare in labor and need to head for the stables.”
    His face flinched with a flash of disgust, quickly replaced by a more appealing grin. “How will I endure without your company at my side this afternoon? I thought we’d have the rest of the day to spend together.”
    “You’re welcome to come out to the stables with me.”
Please, please say no.
    He broke into a hearty laugh. “No, my dear princess, I don’t ‘do’ horses.” He wiped a finger beneath the corner of his eye from the sudden merriment. “Where is your stable manager? Shouldn’t he be in charge of the birthing?”
    She tried not to grind her teeth.
    “You have the wealth, indeed. Why would you dirty those delicious hands in the filth of a barn?”
    Rogue stood suddenly, throwing her napkin on the table and biting her tongue, holding back a rage of fury against his snobbishness. Jonathan took his time unfolding from his chair and drained his wine glass.
    “Far be it from me to stand in the way of what you deem to be of the utmost importance. I am at your service ... for any indoor activities.” A Cheshire cat grin filled his face.
    She froze, her hands still clenched at her sides. His smile made her breath catch, but his words had more of an impact. Indoor activities sent a slight shiver down her spine, slowly melting her rigid stance. A merriment twinkled in his eyes, captivating her in a tingling heat, and she carefully grasped the