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Various tangled corridors lay between her chambers and the dining room. She walked them without certain aim, asking here and there for the right direction. A brightly illuminated spot guided her in the final yards. Fine taste and traditional furniture offered the enormous place a mixture of quiet elegance and comfort.
Inside, father and son talked on one corner, the laird’s large back to her. Sam exhibited the same green eyes of his father without the dictatorial expression. And displayed a contemplative disposition highlighted by his circular glasses, too big for his young face. That the ignominious laird would force such a sweet boy into marriage with a woman seven years his elder caused her loath.
Sam’s attention found her and an adolescent enthusiasm lit him. “Lady Aileen.” Not even excusing himself—something she would have to point out later—he approached her.
Point out later? She did not come to this madhouse to be the boy’s governess. By the way, she wanted out of here as soon as she could find a way.
The father gyrated to witness his son offering one arm to her as he must have been taught by a tutor. Thick brows creased in a faintly irritated expression.
The sight of the mad giant made her insides coil tight, followed by an inconvenient flush of her skin and a galloping heart for absurdly unfathomable reasons. It must be that he infuriated her to the point of physical manifestations.
“Mr McDougal.” She replied in kind, with a polite smile, as her hand rested on the boy’s thin arm. The youngster was obviously trying hard to meet his father’s expectations.
“Your presence makes all the light in this precinct unnecessary.” A practise of his gallantry on her, for sure.
The creases on the father’s brow deepened.
“Why, thank you.” He guided her to her chair on the left of the head one, belonging to that man.
CHAPTER THREE
Taran should be happy that his son made an effort to be pleasant to the little dragon. It showed his compliance with the clan’s needs. Why this irritation at the boy’s attempt at—bad—poetry he did not understand. Worse still. Said irritation sky-rocketed at her lady-like pleasant response. This near maddening impulse to punch the sturdy dining table to release some of this pent-up energy invaded him. Tomorrow, he promised himself, he would throw himself in hard physical exerti
on to wear out these nameless… occurrences.
And would visit Shannon in the village. It would put everything in perspective.
The thought of the visit disgusted him.
Bluidy hell!
Sam helped Aileen to her chair. She dressed her female version of her clan’s plaid. A white underdress with a spencer of green and black plaid. The demure round neckline framed by lace hugged round breasts, flaring from a tiny waist to shapely hips which hinted on even more shapely legs. A flash in his mind, unbidden and uncalled for of how these legs might lace him and—
Damnation! Stop it!
He sat quickly, for his tartan would denounce him all too promptly.
Which put his eyes on level with her fairy face. When those big luminous eyes fell on him, a blazing canon-ball punched him directly on his guts. And deflagrated raving damage.
Ifrinn! Hell!
The servants brought the hearty fare of roast meat and potatoes and retired.
“We will set the date to Friday.” He dropped as a means of much-needed distraction.
“Friday?” Sam and Aileen in unison.
It was to the later he directed his wolfish green gaze, and got dished with an avalanche of loath, anger. And a look that told him he was out of his mind.
Possibly.
The pair exchanged a glance of mute communication. This sign of complicity put him in an even fowler mood.
“Father, I believe we would have a couple of weeks to be better acquainted with each other.”
In those weeks, he would be in rags. Ravening. Deranged. Because of her.
His son had eighteen years of experience with dealing with his father’s short temper and emitted this with a reasonable tone.
