Free Lucy and Her Scottish Laird by Margo Maguire Page A

to assist their sister, since their mother was
    still not strong enough to travel, much less help to care for a newborn. Jessamine was in the midst of courting season, and Emily was only thirteen –
    too young, and a bit too wild, to be of much help to anyone.
    Lucy did not know how she would bear being away another four months.
    She tucked her skirts around her knees and let the cool current rush over her feet. Her spot on the fallen log was dappled with warm sunlight, so the cool
    water felt refreshing. She closed her eyes and swung her feet back and forth, and did not hear the quiet footsteps moving through the grass toward her.
    * * *
    Ian stopped just before he got to the clearing, to the best fishing spot near the castle. He willed his horse to be silent as he gawked at Lucy Stillwater
    – or rather, at her bare legs. At her slender feet gliding through the water. At her posture of pleasurable abandon. She was unaware of his presence,
    obviously. And as soon as she became aware that he was there, she would likely squeal and throw down her skirts that would become soaked in the process.
    She might even fall.
    He backed his horse away from the river until they were out of sight. Then he started whistling loudly, crashing through the grass, returning to the spot
    he’d claimed as his own when he was a child, years ago. When he returned, Lucy was standing, her skirts in place, and she was walking across the log
    to the riverbank.
    She glanced at him with annoyance.
    “I see you found my favorite fishing pool,” he said. He took his fishing gear from his pack, put up his horse’s reins and let him wander.
    He wouldn’t go far.
    “This is your—? Yes, it is rather perfect,” she said, looking back at the water, “isn’t it?”
    “Aye.”
    She jumped down from the log into the sand before he had a chance to offer his hand. Ian appreciated that she did not become distraught at his arrival, but
    calmly retrieved her shoes, sat down, and brushed off her feet. “If you would not mind turning around, my lord?”
    Ian did so, suppressing a small smile. She was nothing like the other young Englishwomen he’d met, and certainly not the stiff, unyielding woman
    he’d seen getting out of her uncle’s carriage at Glencory Castle. She was anything but unyielding.
    She’d actually sighed and curled into him when he’d carried her to her bed the night before. She’d fit him perfectly.
    He cleared his suddenly dry throat. “I thought you would walk down to the village.”
    “There is a village?”
    “Well, more of a wee hamlet than a village. We call it Craigmuir Way,” he replied. “’Tis where the Craigmuir tiles and bricks are
    made.”
    “Do you mean we could have—”
    “If you’re thinking you might have taken shelter there during the storm, you’d be wrong.”
    “Why would I be wrong?”
    “It’s quite small, and too far off the road for your driver to have found it.” He turned to face her and saw her fastening up her half
    boots. “Besides, the castle was closer.”
    It was incredibly intimate, even with his back to her, while she innocently pulled on her stockings and tied them above her knees. It was painfully
    arousing, too, especially after seeing the pale, delicate limbs she was now covering.
    “I did not take you for a fisherman, my lord,” she said.
    “What
did
you take me for?”
    She paused long enough for him to wonder whether she would be honest. “A horseman.”
    He suppressed a smile at her disdainful tone. “Ah. A horseman. I take it you are not fond of—”
    “Ugh. They are a necessary evil.”
    If he was not mistaken, she actually shuddered. For some reason, he could not help but enjoy her discomfiture. Her little scowl was adorable.
    “Horsemen?” he asked. “Or horses?”
    “I have no interest in the animals, and have little patience for the men who race them.”
    “What is so bad about horses, Sassenach?”
    “Naught, my lord, since they must be used to deliver one