Page 21 of The Highland Laird’s Hellion Bride

He stared at her. “Official outings.”

“Aye.”

“We are already betrothed.”

“I am aware.”

“The purpose of outings is for what?”

“Ye figure that out. I shall lower me expectations and call them inspections instead,” she answered with icy dignity. “If that pleases ye.”

He considered her standing in his study with her arms folded, her chin tilted at that stubborn angle, and the late afternoon light streaming through the high window behind her, catching the vibrant copper strands in her dark hair, which had come loose at her temple yet again.

“Perhaps we could go on inspections,” he conceded softly.

The words sat heavily between them.

He watched her process the victory, the subtle recognition that she had won a concession from him.

He could smell her perfume. This was the distinct difficulty with her being in his study, trapped in the tight proximity the room’s small size and the desk’s placement created.

Winter roses and fresh linen.

It was the same scent that had plagued him on the horse, in the courtyard, and apparently anywhere she intended to stand. Including right here, directly in front of his ledgers, at a distance of approximately three feet. It was a completely insufficient distance for a person who exuded such a heady scent.

It was highly distracting. Magnus was not accustomed to being distracted from his work. He did not find the experience welcome in the slightest.

“That isnae a nay,” she said, a small smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

He exhaled heavily. “Lady Elspeth.” He kept his voice even, a cold wall of reality. “This marriage will be so that Ben Cruachan may have an heir.” He looked at her directly, unblinking, because indirection served nothing and she deserved absolute clarity. “The next weeks are for ye to learn the castle. The lands. The people. That is what the inspections will be for.”

He paused. She was still now, listening to his terms.

“After the handfasting, I will come to ye every night until ye conceive.” He watched a sharp wave of emotion shift her expression, but he kept his voice neutral, because this was vital information, not a negotiation. “Afterwards, ye willnae see much of me.”

He had not intended to step toward her. He became acutely aware, a fraction of a second later, that his boots had moved. Not much—a foot, perhaps less. Some minor physical adjustment his body had made completely independent of his will while he was focused on delivering clear information.

And now she was close enough that he could see the faint flush climbing her cheeks, the precise pink shade of it, and the slight parting of her lips as the breath she had quietly drawn did not quite make its way out again.

He was overwhelmingly aware of the warmth radiating off her.

He stepped back. It was a deliberate, forced step. He placed his boot carefully on the floorboards, turned to the window, and stared down at the courtyard below. He watched one of the stable lads cross the stones with a wooden bucket, and noted Morag investigating the kitchen wall for structural weaknesses.

“Ye should keep the brown dress,” he said to the glass, his eyes tracking the goat. His voice came out differently than he had intended. Quieter, rougher at the edges. He cleared his throat. “It brings out yer eyes.”

Silence fell over the study.

He turned back around. Elspeth was looking at him, startled, as if she did not hear him correctly. Her dark lashes dropped, then rose, and her chin resettled into its stubborn line.

“Thank ye,” she said, the words emerging carefully. “Me Laird.”

She gathered the heavy armful of brown and grey wool from his desk in one smooth, practiced movement. And then she was gone.

The heavy oak door closed quietly behind her, leaving his study containing nothing but the ledgers, the fading afternoon light, and the faint, unreasonable persistence of winter roses.

Magnus looked down at the accounts. The figures flatly declined to be interesting.

It brings out yer eyes? What was I thinking?