And yet...
Her gaze snagged on his features, her indignation faltering. Dark hair curled just enough at his temples to soften the sharp angles of his jaw. Tall and broad-shouldered, he had the physique of a warrior from one of Sir Walter Scott’s novels.
Still, she had imagined Highlanders wild and untamed, their kilts swaying in the wind, their faces rugged from battle and weather. But here sat Mr. Sandeman—impeccably groomed. No kilt. No tartan. His tailored black frock coat and precisely tied silver cravat spoke of wealth. New money, certainly. He didn’t look the romantic Highlander—he looked a modern, calculating businessman.
But what of the man beneath the polished surface? Could he be as loyal and tender-hearted as Scott’s heroes—the kind who lived and died by their clans? She doubted it. From what she’d heard of Boyd Sandeman’s ruthless deals and amorous conquests, he was more rogue than gallant. Yet here she was, about to propose an impossible arrangement.
A brisk ocean breeze carried the briny scent of the sea, pushing the unruly feather of her toque into her eyes. Beth had been satisfied with her choice of attire: the rich forest-green gown hugged her figure with a perfect balance of elegance and modesty.
The toque, however—heaven help her. Why had she chosen such a fanciful thing? It had seemed like a whimsical additionto her winter wardrobe, something to set her apart. Now, as the feather arched precariously over her brow, tickling her forehead, she regretted the impulsive purchase.
Just as she blew the plume away, Mr. Sandeman finally lifted his head, his blue eyes piercing through her.
“What do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Miss Croft?” His voice was deep and smoky, yet shockingly refined—not a trace of a Scottish brogue.
Her brow shot up. Now he decided to acknowledge her? Beth pressed her lips into a firm line, forcing her indignation under control. A lady’s virtue lay in mastering her temper. Calm composure, after all, was true strength. Besides, she had promised her father she would try her best. She should do this quickly, like drinking foul medicine, and then he could say no. She would return to her house and pretend this had never happened.
“I came in the name of my father, Mr. Sandeman. I have a business proposition to make.”
“I don’t have deals with Croft.”
Of course, they didn’t. Her father despised the ‘Uncouth Scotsman’, and by Mr. Sandeman’s expression, the feeling was mutual.
“I’m aware of that, yes. But conditions change, don’t they?”
This felt wrong to her in so many ways, but a lady’s first loyalty was to her family, was it not? What of her own sense of pride? Nonsense. Pride was a sin. Hubris. People had burned at the stake for less.
Mr. Sandeman leaned back in his chair, one hand slipping into his coat pocket. His tanned complexion was a disconcerting detail in winter. Portugal’s sun was merciless, true, but his bronzed skin seemed an effrontery.
“What could your father possibly offer me, Miss Croft? I already own vineyards here and in Spain. I dominate the port wine and cherry market, while Croft & Associates flounders.”
The disdain in his voice pierced her chest, but she maintained her calm facade. A lady might feel as fragile as crystal, but she kept her cracks well hidden.
“My father’s health is failing,” she said carefully. “He needs someone to assume control of the company.”
His expression iced over, his stare unrelenting.
“Is he offering me a job? Tell him he is sixteen years too late—”
“He is offering my hand, Mr. Sandeman. In marriage.”
The moment the words left her mouth, she had to use all her composure to keep from cringing. This was a mistake. Even if her father required it, if their future required it. Gripping her muff, her eyes darted to the door. If she crawled out now, would he forget all about this mortifying situation?
The silence was deafening. He stared at her, a muscle ticking in his jaw. If he could just please say no and relieve her misery.
He rose from his chair. Beth held her breath, dreading the moment she would glimpse naked knees. But alas, he wore no kilt. His perfectly tailored frock coat marked him as a modern businessman, devoid of the romantic wildness she’d imagined. Instead of Laird Mac Ivor from Waverly, he was a slick tycoon—the type who stuttered along the street, pockets loaded with new money and self-importance.
Sans a kilt and long legs encased in fitted black trousers, he left his trench. There had to be a finishing school for Highlanders. In the absence of manners, it taught them how to lift their weight to a standing position and stride toward a woman with an intensity designed to make her stomach flutter.
When he stopped before her, far too close, she swallowed hard.
His arresting blue eyes burned bright against his sun-darkened skin. If she were feeling fanciful, she might compare them to a Highland loch—clear, yet hiding untold mysteries. But fanciful, she was not. His eyes were sardonic at best, cruel at worst, and they were fixed on her as he circled her slowly.
Her breath hitched as his fingers grazed the edge of her sleeve. The touch was fleeting yet deliberate, and her skin prickled where it had been.
“Do you have what it takes to be a winemaker’s wife, Miss Croft?” His beard, neatly trimmed, framed full lips that quirked as though savoring some private amusement.
Beth lifted her chin, merely to avoid speaking to his buttons, not to look down at him. No, that would’ve been an impossibility because he towered over her.
