Curious, Mena asked, “How well do you know Laird Ravencroft?”
The question produced another lift of his muscular shoulder. “It’s been decades since he’s settled here for more than a few weeks at a time. I doona think anyone truly knows him, as he’s not an easy man to be acquainted with. And it’s hard to trust a man who was raised by the hand of Hamish Mackenzie. Who looks so much like him, and shares his apparent gift for … brutality.”
It was that penchant for violence that caused Mena the most concern in regard to her life here at Ravencroft.
She’d seen enough of it to fill her lifetime. Though, she supposed, thinking of Dorian Blackwell and his cohorts, of Ravencroft himself, and the many men sent off to war … She’d been exposed to less than others.
Mena spent a great deal of time not thinking about what kind of brutality might be visited upon her should her deception be exposed.
“Even still…” she murmured, more to herself than the man next to her. “He tries very hard to be a good father.”
“Aye,” Gavin agreed with a noncommittal shrug. “He does love those bairns.” With a wave of his hand, the Highlander dispelled the sense of sobriety that threatened their conversation. “It seems to me that people either adore or despise the laird, though all his clan must agree that he’s brought fairness and prosperity back to Wester Ross in the short time he’s been home.”
Adore him or despise him? “Am I to assume you are in the latter camp?”
They broke the tree line and the Highlander expelled a sigh. “I doona despise the laird. Though our interactions have been … complicated,” he said cryptically.
“Yes, well, he’s a complicated man.” Mena contemplated the keep and its mysterious laird for a moment until she found her hand captured in a warm grip. The heat of Gavin’s skin reminded her of how wet her skirts were, and how chillier every moment became.
“Thank you for the escort.” She curtsied to him, her features relaxing into a genuine smile. “I should proceed from here alone.”
“Aye,” he agreed, his emerald eyes becoming heady and dark. “Ye’re shivering, lass, and yer lips are a wee bit blue. May I give ye a kiss to keep ye warm and turn them rosy?”
Flustered, Mena squirmed away, pulling her hand from his. “Certainly not.” She’d meant to sound stern, but her smile ruined the effect. “What kind of woman do you take me for?”
He twinkled eyes full of insinuation at her, and Mena did, in fact, feel a little warmth creep from beneath the collar of her dress. “Other than an intelligent lass and a selfless savior of wee beasties, I doona ken what kind of woman ye are, only what kind of woman I was hoping ye’d be.”
His smile was devilish and handsome.
“Well.” Mena laughed a little breathlessly. “I do hate to dash your hopes, but I am a respectable lady, and do not grant my favors lightly, if at all. Now I must bid you a good afternoon and return to the keep.”
He bowed over her hand and pressed a lingering kiss there, the loose collar of his shirt exposing the impressive swells of his chest. “Good evening, then, lass.” He gestured to where the sun began to dip below the trees.
Mena turned away and wandered into the gardens, though she smiled when he called after her. “I’ll be seeing ye again, English, of that ye can be certain.”
Shaking her head at his behavior, she found it impossible to repress a smile. She pressed her nose to her bouquet again and inhaled the loamy scent of the heather, mixed with the pleasant, camphorlike smell of the lavender blossoms.
The probability of another such encounter with Gavin was not just unlikely, it was imprudent. Not only was she still a married woman hiding from the high court of the queen, she was not at all looking to become embroiled with another charming, if devastatingly handsome, man.
She’d learned her lesson the first time.
Though, she had to admit, it had been rather nice to enjoy the attentions of a handsome Highlander. During the years she’d spent as a married woman, her sense of self-worth had been stripped away by means of underhanded jibes and blatant humiliation. Sometimes, the wounds produced thusly were slower to heal than bruised flesh.
It seemed to Mena that the standard of beauty up here in the verdant north was a great deal different than in London. Petite, thin, and delicate ladies had always been the draper’s favorite. And though men had tended to pay Mena their more vulgar attentions, they’d always remarked unfavorably on her uncommon height … or her weight.
Gordon had been lusty and voracious at first. But that hadn’t at all been pleasant. Quite the opposite, in fact. Then, as his mother and sister had done their best to craft her into the woman they wanted her to be, he’d turned into a cold and cruel beast.
Other men had approached her. Desired her. Her father-in-law for one, then Dr. Rosenblatt, and the late Mr. Burns. But she’d been nothing but an object to them. A pair of uncommonly large breasts with a few warm orifices attached, to use for their pleasure.
But these Highlanders … they roamed their untamed land like giants, and among them she felt like … well … like more of a woman than an object. A feminine creature.
She’d be lying to herself if she couldn’t admit that she liked it. The afternoon’s flirtation with Gavin St. James somehow felt as rare and warm as the disappearing rays of the sun. Full of impossibility, but lovely nonetheless.
Reaching the edge of the garden, she circumnavigated a thorny everblooming rosebush, and a few fading pink and burgundy blooms caught her eye. The frost was coming and these were, no doubt, the last roses she’d see this season, as Ravencroft had no hothouse.