Her Highland Rogue: A Wild Highland Guardian Novel by Violetta Rand

delivered to her room along with the tub. Wearing the dress Sgùrr had given her, with her hair braided on the sides, the rest hanging loose down her back, she dared to believe she might make a suitable lady. Until she lifted the hem of the gown and stared down at her well-worn, leather boots. A bitter reminder of her place in this household. Only noblewomen wore silk slippers. She sighed and turned away from her reflection.
    Someone knocked on the door.
    “Come in.”
    Aileana once again found herself alone with Errol. His mouth dropped open, and her body prickled with awareness. She tried to ignore his shameless gaze by focusing on his clothes. His trews clung to his muscular legs, his linen shirt hung just below his hips, a leather belt pulled tight showed off his narrow waist, and his plaid was draped neatly over his left shoulder, pinned in place by a silver bodkin with a square-cut ruby. He’d dressed as his father would, the ancient MacRae claymore with the jeweled handle sheathed at his side.
    Nervous he’d catch her staring, she jerked her head upward. “Is your father well?”
    He rubbed his chin, slowly meeting her gaze. “Aye. I apologize for not coming to you sooner, I’ve been with him all this time. It took holy orders from the Pope himself to keep the man abed.”
    Aileana laughed gently behind her raised hand.
    “Why did you do that, lass?” He captured her hand and massaged her knuckles.
    “What, milord?”
    “Never deprive me of that beautiful smile.”
    His praise made breathing difficult. Everything about him provoked her, challenged her to deeply consider what path she’d choose for her life. Countless times she’d hoped as a girl he’d take notice of her. Now that he had, Aileana feared she’d say or do something wrong. Though she’d observed the polished manners of noblewomen over the years, emanating that kind of grace seemed hopeless. Her hands were meant for the kitchens, meant to pound and knead dough, meant to refill the laird’s cup, not to take repast at the high table.
    “Word about the laird reached me by way of the boys who brought the tub abovestairs,” she explained. “I didn’t know what to do.”
    “You did right by waiting here,” he assured her. “Did Margot and Edme wish you a happy life with me?”
    “I only spoke with Margot.” She averted her eyes. “She thinks well of you, especially after saving me from Broc.”
    “Do
you
think well of me, Aileana?” His brilliant smile bathed her in warmth. And when he reached for a strand of her hair, she stepped closer.
    “I think ye do,” he continued, twirling her hair around his finger. “But are too proud to admit it.”
    She closed her eyes for a moment, once again trying to picture herself as Lady MacRae. Errol could have chosen anyone. All her life she’d craved answers and never got them. She wanted warmth. Happiness. A family. A clan. She sucked in a breath and opened her eyes. The man before her offered all those things. They weren’t strangers. Surely she could consent to the marriage and try her hardest to be a good wife. Then if it didn’t suit, she’d leave.
    “Aileana?”
    “Pride is the only thing I have,” she said. “Look about this small space. What do you see?”
    His gaze swept the room. “A bed, chairs, dressing table, and a trunk. Everything is orderly and clean. Even that fur…” He gestured at the cover on her bed. “ ’Tis not a wrinkle in it. So I see many things beyond the physical objects that occupy this space. Much can be learned from the way a man or woman lives.”
    She considered his words for a long moment. “So what does your father’s cluttered desk suggest?”
    He chuckled. “Clever, lass,” he said. “The man is as wild and chaotic as a winter storm, I admit. But underneath, he’s as loveable as I am.”
    “Loveable?” she repeated; it was the last quality she’d associate with the laird or his incredibly handsome son.
    “Do you not find me so?”
    Now