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"And this wind makes sailing dangerous."

"Aye, it does."

She looked at him curiously, and he waited for her to ask his purpose in wanting to travel. But for once, she followed the dictates of good manners and left it to him to choose whether he confided about his destination. He chose to remain silent on the subject.

"Ye must be dead tired after last night. Would it no’ be more sensible to rest and repair your boat and restore yourself before ye voyage on? Only a madman would risk his life setting sail today."

"The wind might drop."

"Trust me. The gale will blow at least until tomorrow night."

Dougal was used to Hebridean weather. He couldn’t argue with her conclusions, much as he wished he could.

Impatience gnawed at him. Ever since he’d heard of Fair Ellen’s troubles, he’d been in a lather to rescue her. It was as if fate itself whipped him on to find the girl and release her from captivity. He wasn’t by nature a superstitious man, but this last week, there had seemed a higher purpose at work in his life.

"I hate to inconvenience ye and your father."

By now, he should be used to the flashing charm in her smile, but the sight still sent a shock through him. "Mr. Drummond, my father will beg ye to stay past Twelfth Night. Mark my words."

And so it proved.

Augustus Macbain, Laird of Askaval, was big and bluff and fair as a Norseman. His glee at having someone new to talk to was undisguised. He didn’t look anything like his small, dark-haired daughter, although the affection between the two Macbains was easy to see.

The laird greeted Dougal like a long-lost son and while he demolished an enormous breakfast, he hung on every word of Dougal’s tale of his trials with the storm. Finally the laird scooped up one last forkful of eggs and sat back in his chair, patting his stomach. "Och, laddie, what adventures ye had on your way to us. Thanks be to the good Lord ye made it safely to Askaval Harbor."

Dougal laid down his cutlery and smiled at his host. He’d done a fair job of matching Augustus’s appetite and felt better for it. "I was lucky. This is a small island, and if I’d missed landfall here, there’s a devil of a lot of sea to drown in. By then, I wasnae doing much navigating. With the mast and the rudder gone, the best I could do was stay afloat."

"It was still a remarkable example of seamanship," Miss Macbain said from where she sat drinking coffee across the table from him.

"Och, I’ve spent my life around boats."

"Is Bruard on the coast?"

"No. Well inland, but I grew up playing with my Mackinnon cousins. They live across the channel from the Isle of Skye, so we were always in the water. Sometimes literally!"

When she smiled, his heart performed its accustomed flip. He almost became inured to it. She looked older in her girl’s clothes than she had dressed as a boy. Older and strangely mysterious. She’d arranged her pretty dark air in a knot away from her face, and the sophisticated style added elegance to her features.

She must be close to twenty. He wondered why she wasn’t yet married. She was undoubtedly on the headstrong side, but not every laddie wanted a doormat for a helpmeet. His mother may have promised to obey his father when she married him, but from day to day, he saw little evidence of that. His cousin Mhairi was more than capable of standing up to her doughty husband Callum, the Laird of Achnasheen.

"And the waters around the Hebrides are cold."

He gave a theatrical shudder. "Aye, mistress. A few times last night, I was on the verge of turning into a wee icicle."

"Not a wee icicle!"

"A large icicle, then!" He smiled back, appreciating her teasing. "Thank ye for taking me in. I already feel halfway back to being human."

"I hope you’ll stay for Christmas," Augustus said. "It’s only a few days away, and we have a big party here at the house. A few Highland reels will warm up the blood nicely, laddie, and banish the memories of fighting the wind and the waves."

Dougal had more difficulty than he’d expected shifting his attention from Kirsty Macbain’s shining gray eyes so he could answer the laird. "That’s very kind of ye, Mr. Macbain."

Augustus chuckled. "There’s nae need for such formality, my boy. Call me Gus. We dinnae stand on ceremony here at Askaval."

Out of the corner of his eye, Dougal caught Miss Macbain hiding a smile as she raised her napkin to her lips.

"That’s what I’ve been told, sir." So often, he began to suspect it was the Macbain family motto.

"So will ye stay? The weather is likely to continue changeable, and we always welcome a fresh face at our revels."


Tags: Anna Campbell The Lairds Most Likely Historical