tankard of lemonade to wave it over the water bowl, “when a toast to the king is made, those who are loyal to the Stuart cause will be sure to drink to the king…over the water.” He smiled.
She laughed, the sound like the chiming of silver bells. He laughed, too, more from delight in her pretty laughter than for his own small joke.
“And you drink to the king over the water?”
“Always.” He looked at her, puzzled. Surely Kate MacCarran would know where Connor MacPherson stood on that issue. “Duncrieff may have told you of my staunch Jacobite leanings, madam.”
“He has never mentioned you to me, Mr. MacPherson.”
“Never? Odd,” he murmured. “I thought he would have said something.”
“Not that I recall.” She stood, draping her cloak on the chair, her gown shimmering like flame as she moved.
Connor noted her lush shape, her breasts full above the smoothly contoured bodice that tapered to her small waist. Her graceful fingers brushed sensually over the billows of her gown.
God, he thought, she was a vision, brilliant amber and gold, a dazzling jewel dropped into his life. His body surged, demanding that he take her, match her fire to his own. His nostrils flared. The heat in his blood went beyond whiskey, beyond intense physical lust, toward a less definable urge, as if he starved for something he could not name.
She crossed her arms and shivered. “It’s chill in here. Are you not cold, Mr. MacPherson?”
He shook his head, not about to mention the degree of intimate heat he was feeling. “Cold rarely bothers me. I am accustomed to it in the way of a Highlander, I suppose. Plaids are reliably warm most of the time, and a dram or two of whiskey always helps. But if you are uncomfortable, we can build up the fire. And I’ll go down to the kitchen and see if there’s a tin of tea. I promised you that, after all.” He stepped away.
She whirled. “Don’t leave me. Please.”
Her plaintive tone tugged at his heartstrings. “The ghosts will not come knocking while I’m gone,” he said. “I promise. You’re protected here.”
Her quick blush was rosy in the low light. “Perhaps a bit more whiskey will do to warm me for now,” she nodded toward the crystal decanter. “Just a bit.”
He hesitated, certain she had taken enough already. But he poured a little golden whiskey into each of two glasses beside the decanter and handed one to her.
Swirling the liquid in his own glass, he frowned as he thought of the deed yet to be faced. His bride did not love him, nor he her. A consummation would be awkward at best, yet the marriage must be indisputably sealed. There was only one way to ensure that.
He downed another long gulp, the liquid burn sliding down his throat, and set down the glass. He did not seek false courage so much as a blunting of thought and reason.
His bride sipped demurely, coughed, sipped again, coughed so hard that Connor tapped her on the back. He understood how she felt—both of them were girding themselves, he realized.
“Highland whiskey must be approached with respect, madam,” he murmured.
She wrinkled her nose. “It’s quite wretched at first, isn’t it. But then it gives a most lovely warmth.”
“Aye. This is Mrs. Murray’s Highland brew. She cannot make it fast enough to meet the demand in England and France. Her kinsmen smuggle it out as fast as they can manage.”
“You’re a free trader as well as a brigand?”
“No, Mary’s kinsmen are involved in the trading business. Neill Murray, whom you met tonight, is her husband, but he takes no hand in the whiskey trade.” Rebellion, but not smuggling, he almost said.
She sipped, coughed again, and sat so abruptly that Connor moved forward to shove the chair securely beneath her bottom, swathed in yards of gleaming satin.
“Oh!” She fanned herself. “I do feel much warmer.”
He removed the glass. “Any more of that, lass, and you’ll go down like an oak.”
She shook her head. “I’m
She laughed, the sound like the chiming of silver bells. He laughed, too, more from delight in her pretty laughter than for his own small joke.
“And you drink to the king over the water?”
“Always.” He looked at her, puzzled. Surely Kate MacCarran would know where Connor MacPherson stood on that issue. “Duncrieff may have told you of my staunch Jacobite leanings, madam.”
“He has never mentioned you to me, Mr. MacPherson.”
“Never? Odd,” he murmured. “I thought he would have said something.”
“Not that I recall.” She stood, draping her cloak on the chair, her gown shimmering like flame as she moved.
Connor noted her lush shape, her breasts full above the smoothly contoured bodice that tapered to her small waist. Her graceful fingers brushed sensually over the billows of her gown.
God, he thought, she was a vision, brilliant amber and gold, a dazzling jewel dropped into his life. His body surged, demanding that he take her, match her fire to his own. His nostrils flared. The heat in his blood went beyond whiskey, beyond intense physical lust, toward a less definable urge, as if he starved for something he could not name.
She crossed her arms and shivered. “It’s chill in here. Are you not cold, Mr. MacPherson?”
He shook his head, not about to mention the degree of intimate heat he was feeling. “Cold rarely bothers me. I am accustomed to it in the way of a Highlander, I suppose. Plaids are reliably warm most of the time, and a dram or two of whiskey always helps. But if you are uncomfortable, we can build up the fire. And I’ll go down to the kitchen and see if there’s a tin of tea. I promised you that, after all.” He stepped away.
She whirled. “Don’t leave me. Please.”
Her plaintive tone tugged at his heartstrings. “The ghosts will not come knocking while I’m gone,” he said. “I promise. You’re protected here.”
Her quick blush was rosy in the low light. “Perhaps a bit more whiskey will do to warm me for now,” she nodded toward the crystal decanter. “Just a bit.”
He hesitated, certain she had taken enough already. But he poured a little golden whiskey into each of two glasses beside the decanter and handed one to her.
Swirling the liquid in his own glass, he frowned as he thought of the deed yet to be faced. His bride did not love him, nor he her. A consummation would be awkward at best, yet the marriage must be indisputably sealed. There was only one way to ensure that.
He downed another long gulp, the liquid burn sliding down his throat, and set down the glass. He did not seek false courage so much as a blunting of thought and reason.
His bride sipped demurely, coughed, sipped again, coughed so hard that Connor tapped her on the back. He understood how she felt—both of them were girding themselves, he realized.
“Highland whiskey must be approached with respect, madam,” he murmured.
She wrinkled her nose. “It’s quite wretched at first, isn’t it. But then it gives a most lovely warmth.”
“Aye. This is Mrs. Murray’s Highland brew. She cannot make it fast enough to meet the demand in England and France. Her kinsmen smuggle it out as fast as they can manage.”
“You’re a free trader as well as a brigand?”
“No, Mary’s kinsmen are involved in the trading business. Neill Murray, whom you met tonight, is her husband, but he takes no hand in the whiskey trade.” Rebellion, but not smuggling, he almost said.
She sipped, coughed again, and sat so abruptly that Connor moved forward to shove the chair securely beneath her bottom, swathed in yards of gleaming satin.
“Oh!” She fanned herself. “I do feel much warmer.”
He removed the glass. “Any more of that, lass, and you’ll go down like an oak.”
She shook her head. “I’m
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