Angel of Skye by May McGoldrick Page B

ringlets about her face and flamed in the light of the candle sputtering on the table. Her perfectly sculpted features—her nose, her mouth—were too real to be the work of any artist. The warlord’s breath caught in his chest as she raised her eyes to him. She was even more beautiful than he remembered.
    But then Alec’s eyes narrowed as a flicker of recognition passed through his brain. Something in the way she looked, in the way her eyes brilliantly reflected the glow of a thousand lights. A sense of warmth swept over him as a question formed somewhere within him. His dream. She had the face of the angel who haunted him. The one that he could never reach. The one beyond the king…brilliant, beautiful, and unattainable.
    When Fiona looked up at Lord Macpherson, something ignited within her. His blue eyes seemed to penetrate her flesh, searing her soul with an intensity she had never before experienced. Uncontrollably, her eyes swept over the magnificent man filling the doorway. His blond hair hung in loose waves across his shoulders. Her eyes lingered on the strands that dangled over his chiseled features, around the strong line of his jaw.
    Fiona’s eyes took in every bit of him. His perfectly white shirt, pulling across broad shoulders, highlighted the sun-kissed skin of his neck and exposed forearms. The Macpherson tartan that was draped over one shoulder and cinched at his narrow waist with a belt drew her eyes downward. Her gaze followed the curve of his kilted hips to the exposed tan of his legs to the knee-high boots and all the way back up again. They halted at his face, arrested now by his smiling azure eyes.
    She blushed uncontrollably and hid her face in Malcolm’s mass of curls, now resting on her shoulder.
    “Fiona, I am glad you are back. You’ve been away so long. I missed you,” the young boy said, his voice muffled as he hugged her fiercely.
    “It hasn’t been so long, Malcolm.”
    “It’s been four long days,” he exclaimed. “I’ve been counting.”
    Fiona laughed, ruffling his hair. “So I can see. And I’ve missed you, too!”
    “Is Walter feeling better?”
    Fiona nodded and opened her mouth to answer, but Malcolm’s enthusiasm got the best of him.
    “Oh, Fiona, we had the best day!”
    She could still feel the heat of Lord Alec’s gaze. She dared not look up. She had been caught doing something she had never dreamed of doing before.
    “Alec made me king for the day,” the youngster blurted with excitement. “I could command whatever I wished.”
    “Lord Alec, Malcolm,” Fiona corrected gently. “So tell me, what was it that you wished?”
    Malcolm squirmed out of Fiona’s lap and scampered to the laird in the doorway, taking hold of the giant’s hand. “My first wish was for you to be there...with us at Dunvegan. That was Alec’s wish, too. He told me so. But my second wish...You tell her, Alec. Ple-e-ease!”
    Fiona raised her eyes to the courtly nobleman. Flattery, she thought. Lord Alec has taught Malcolm flattery. The laird stood where he was, smiling. And then she looked at the excited and expectant Malcolm.
    “Would you like to come in, m’lord?” she whispered, standing up. Even to her own ear, her voice had a strange quality.
    Alec entered the workroom, his hand on Malcolm’s shoulder as they crossed the room. Glancing about, the warlord noted the orderliness of the workplace. An open cabinet, with a crisscross of pigeonholes holding hundreds of scrolls lined one wall, rising to the unpainted wood ceiling. Two tables and two chairs were the only other furnishings. There was no sign of any adornment present in the room, and Alec was mildly surprised at the efficiency evident in the chamber.
    “Would you care to sit, m’lord?” she asked, indicating the chair by the table across the room.
    “Is the chair safe?”
    She smiled and nodded.
    “I thank you,” Alec said. “This little kelpie has worn me out today.”
    Malcolm skipped ahead of the laird and