To Catch a Highlander (5 page)

Flattery was something she knew how to deal with, and it was much better than this odd heat that simmered between them. "What a pretty compliment, Lord MacLean. I don't know what to say."

He bowed. "I merely speak the truth. I daresay you've heard such before."

"And I'm certain you've spoken such before."

Amusement twitched his lips, though he said gravely, "I am sorry if you were left waiting on my arrival. I hope you were not bored."

"Oh, I managed to keep busy."

"I'm certain you did," he replied, almost under his breath.

Sophia cast a sharp glance at MacLean. Something about his manner made her wonder if he knew of her efforts to disguise the value of her house. The thought was completely ridiculous, of course; there was simply no way he could know.

He smiled blandly, came forward, and took her hand in his. His fingers closed over hers in a firm clasp. "I apologize that some important business held me in
Stirling
longer than I anticipated." His gaze glinted almost challengingly. "I own quite a bit of property in that area. I would be remiss if I did not tend to it whenever I was in town."

Perhaps he hadn't been carousing, after all. Not that it mattered. What did matter was the way her skin tingled at his touch, as if the casual contact were something for more intimate. "I hope your business was profitable."

He bowed. "More than you know."

His voice was low, wickedly so. Sophia realized that her heart was thudding against her chest, her hands damp, an odd quiver in her knees. So this was what Red had meant when he'd warned her that MacLean was dangerous. Good God.

Enough of this! She freed her hand with a light laugh. "I am sorry Red is not here to welcome you."

He raised his brows. "You call your father by his given name?"

"I was raised on the Continent, so I daresay my manners are somewhat different from those of the average
London
miss's. My mother and I accompanied my father from game to game. There are times when I miss traveling."

"You don't travel now?"

"Not often enough." Funny, she hadn't really allowed herself to think about it since Mama's death. But sometimes a picture in a newspaper or the mention of a far-away place would set her imagination flying, and an unfamiliar longing would engulf her. Red called it wanderlust. She called it silliness.

"Red should arrive in time for dinner." She sent MacLean a flirtatious glance from beneath her lashes. "You
are
staying for dinner, aren't you?"

MacLean's gaze narrowed with a considering look-before he bowed. "Of course. I couldn't imagine doing else."

"Wonderful! Then you must also spend the night. We are miles from an inn, and I can promise that the sheets are fresh and clean."
And the beds lumpier than those at any posting house
.

She gestured toward the library. "Would you like some refreshment? There is sherry in the library."

He stepped beside her and captured her hand, tucking it into the crook of his arm.

His fingers tightened on hers ever so slightly, and a jolt of awareness blazed through her. She caught her breath and glanced up at him, wondering if he felt the same.

His dark gaze flickered over her face, lingering on her mouth, before he smiled and increased the pressure a bit more. "I must thank you for being here. It would have been a cold welcome to arrive to an empty house."

She couldn't imagine MacLean being disturbed by anything, much less an empty house. She was going to have to rethink her plans a bit. Worse, she had to rethink her own reactions.

She was cold and hot at the same time, her stomach knotted, her heart pounding in the most curious fashion. She'd been prepared for a handsome man but not for such a
physical
one.

The lace and ruffles at his wrist and throat merely emphasized his bold masculinity. No fop had ever moved with MacLean's lithe animal grace, and certainly no wastrel had ever looked at her with eyes that burned with such promise.

He might be more than she'd expected, but she was certain she could handle him. She removed her hand from his arm and entered the library. "Here we are." She glanced around the almost bare room, noting with pleasure that it was chilly and rather damp.

She and Angus had dulled the paneled walls with a coating of wax and soot, removed the welcoming rugs and replaced them with torn and threadbare one from the older parts of the house, taken all of the lovely furnishings to the attic and replaced them with bits and pieces from other rooms, none of which matched and which lamentably failed to fill the huge space.

She hadn't removed the books, fearing they might get moldy if she packed them away. Instead, she'd reorganized them, putting the odder, less readable ones at eye level and hiding the better, leather-bound tomes on the top shelves where they could be viewed only with a ladder. Or could have been, if she hadn't sent the ladder to the attic, leaving half the shelves out of reach.

She glanced at her guest, wondering what he thought of the dreary surroundings.

MacLean's gaze slowly encompassed the room, yet no expression crossed his face. Obviously, the poor man was trying to be polite.

She hid a smile as she walked to the sideboard. "I don't know why Red kept this old house. I daresay it was sentiment. Mother always wanted to make it into a home, but she grew ill, and…" Sophia waved a hand. "As you can see, it would require a monumental effort just to make it livable."

MacLean turned his gaze her way. "Is the rest of the residence in such ill condition?"

"Some of it's worse." She turned up two sherry glasses and removed the glass top from the decanter. "I suppose you are disappointed in the house."

"It's not what I was led to believe. Your father described it quite differently when we were playing cards. He implied that the house was in impeccable shape."

Sophia gave a merry peal of laughter. "He didn't!"

"Yes, he did."

"I'm so sorry he misled you. Red can be quite… enthusiastic when gambling."

"I've since been told that he is one of the most notorious gamblers in
Scotland
. Had I known that, I would never have allowed him into the game."

"You outwitted him," she pointed out, pouring a good measure of sherry into each glass.

"
Luck
outwitted him. I had nothing to do with it."

"He hasn't played seriously since my mother's death and isn't as adept as he once was."

While she, on the other hand, was better than ever. To her surprise, she'd enjoyed the hours of practice immensely. There was something about the game, the feel of the crisp cards beneath her fingers, the flicker of candlelight, and the breathtaking challenge of attempting to read her opponent's expressions and guess the strength of his hand.

As if MacLean could read her thoughts, he crossed his arms over his chest and regarded her with a faint smile. "What about you, Miss MacFarlane? Do
you
play?"

"Sometimes." She brought him one of the glasses of sherry and handed it to him, smiling up at him. "And sometimes not."

"Do you win?" he asked, cupping the delicate glass in his large hand.

"I win more often than I lose."

"That's quite a feat."

"I'm quite a good player." She returned to the sideboard and retrieved her own glass.

"Considering the fact that your father made his way as a gambler—"

"Pardon me, but Red prefers to call himself an 'arbiter of good fortune.'"

"I'm sure he does." He swirled the sherry in his glass, his gaze considering. "Miss MacFarlane, pardon me for mentioning this, but you don't look like your father."

"I am said to favor my mother."

"She must be a beautiful woman."

"She was," Sophia replied coolly. "She died more than ten years ago."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said gravely, then tilted his head to one side. "I don't detect a Scottish accent, either. Your father's is quite strong at times."

"You have a bit of an accent yourself."

"My brothers and sister and I grew up here."

"Ah. I have no siblings."

"You're to be congratulated," MacLean replied dryly.

She smiled and drew one finger along the rim of her sherry glass, noting how MacLean's gaze followed the move intently. "Lord MacLean, you seem more interested in my history than in the house."

His brows rose. "You've been asking questions, as well."

So she had. Red always said an intelligent player knew his opponent's weaknesses. "I suppose I have been. Ask whatever you will; I have nothing to hide."

"We all have something to hide." He sent her a secretive smile and crossed to the small grouping of mismatched furniture before the fireplace. "Miss MacFarlane, you still haven't answered my question about your accent." He turned to face her. "You sound like every other
London
miss I've met, and yet you're here, in the middle of
Scotland
."

"My mother was English and quite well educated. She saw to it that I was, too."

"Mothers always worry about that, don't they?" He took a sip of sherry and grimaced.

Sophia did the same, wrinkling her nose. "It's atrocious, I know but that's all that's left in the cellar besides a bottle or two of weak port."

MacLean set his glass on a nearby table. It slowly rocked to one side as if to topple over, then stopped. Then the glass began to slide. It moved slowly to the edge, where it came to rest, precariously perched at an angle.

MacLean's glance was surprisingly filled with laughter. "I thought I'd have to ask for another glass."

Sophia's breath caught in her throat, and she found herself drawn by the warmth that lit his green eyes, by the way his well-cut mouth curled as if beckoning her forward. She caught herself leaning toward him—actually leaning—and hurried to turn away, her skirts swirling as she went. She went to a small, chipped Sheraton chair by the fire. "Pray have a seat. I daresay you're tired from traveling."

"A little, perhaps." He moved to the faded red chair she'd indicated. As he lowered himself into it, there was a loud crack. One of the wooden legs snapped and broke, just as Sophia and Angus had planned it when sawing it through.

A normal man would have been tossed to the floor, but with a lithe twist, MacLean shifted his weight forward and managed to remain upright, turning to regard the chair as it collapsed.

Sophia swept to her feet. "Goodness! How horrid!" Sophia narrowed her gaze accusingly at the chair. There was nothing like a little humiliation to set a man against a location, and it was a pity MacLean hadn't been thrown to the floor as she'd planned.

MacLean bent and picked up a piece of the broken chair, his expression unfathomable. "Horrid, indeed."

Her desire to smile fled. Did he suspect something? Could he see where Angus had cut the chair leg partway through?

MacLean hefted the leg in his hand, his mouth thinned.

Sophia cleared her throat. "I'll call the butler to remove that."

His gaze locked with hers. The chair leg still in his hand, he walked toward her.

Sophia licked her suddenly dry lips. She didn't know this man, not really. What was he going to do?

She gripped the arms of her chair. Should she run for help? Surely not. Nothing she'd heard had indicated MacLean was a man of violence. Of course, everything she knew of him was mere hearsay—

He stopped before her and stood looking down into her face with the faintest of smiles. He didn't look angry; he looked
knowing
. As if he understood exactly what she'd done and why.

A fear of another kind gripped her. Surely, he didn't. There was no way he could—

MacLean leaned forward. Sophia's heart jumped, her skin warming oddly when his arm brushed her shoulder as he leaned past her… and tossed the chair leg onto the unlit fireplace.

Sophia closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of his cologne, a subtle masculine mixture that sent a shiver up her spine. As her pulse eased, she slanted a look up at MacLean.

He smiled darkly. "It's a shame to waste good wood."

Sophia sent a resentful glare toward the broken chair leg. It was a shame to waste her and Angus's efforts, too.

She forced herself to shrug. "I'm sorry your chair collapsed, but the furnishings are in as poor repair as the roof."

He retrieved his abandoned glass of sherry.

"I assume the roof leaks."

"Only when it rains."

His eyes warmed with laughter as he watched her over the rim of his glass. "I'm surprised you countenance this place."

"I'm here for my father. Once he returns and you take the house, I will be on my way."

"May I ask where?"

"
Italy
, perhaps. Or
France
." She shrugged. "I haven't yet decided."

"I love
Italy
." His voice deepened the faintest bit. "I imagine
Italy
would love you, too."