Elaine Coffman - [MacKinnon 04] (12 page)

“Leave it be,” he said sharply. “We might do worse the
second time.”

She laughed. He had a nice, masculine voice, but the tone
was one to make a banshee shudder. She wasn’t daunted, however. To a
Highlander, time took care of all things, and by tomorrow this first meeting,
unpleasant as it might be, would become another matter entirely.

“Aye,” she said, smiling in spite of herself, “I ken we
might at that.” His nearness, and the knowledge that he had been watching her,
made Maggie’s heartbeat flutter with an oddly unsteady beat.

She watched the way his deep-set eyes moved over her,
missing nothing.

“Do I pass muster?” she asked quite frankly, not hatefully,
not with spite, but simply as one would ask a straightforward question.

“Does it matter what I think?” He watched her closely, as if
looking for a look of contempt, but she gazed at him with gentleness.

“Aye, it might,” she said, feeling the spread of something
warm and distracting, something she could only akin to pity—not so much pity
for him, for a man of his looks and wealth deserved none, but pity for the
loneliness she sensed inside of him, the things that were missing in his life
that left him cynical and hard and unfulfilled. But most of all, pity for the
thing in him that drove him to fill his life with wealth and possessions, not
knowing these things never made their way into a human heart.

“Are you fishing for a compliment?”

“Would I get one, if I was?”

He laughed. “Probably not. What is beauty anyway? I always
heard a little powder and a little paint made a woman what she ain’t.”

This man might have never set foot on Scottish soil, but it
was apparent he had a Scot’s fine sense of the value of provocation and the
overwhelming tendency to proceed to the logical extreme and then take a stand.
Too bad he didn’t understand what she had been through, her very fight for
existence, her ability to survive on precious little and be glad of it without
expecting more. Self-sufficiency and independence were bred into her. And to
top that off, she had never thought of herself as beautiful, so his similar
feelings were neither surprising nor shocking.

She could tell it surprised him when she laughed.

“Aye, I ken I’m no beauty, as you said. But that could work
to your good. Beauty in a wife, I’m told, terrifies a husband. At least I
willna be in danger of being stolen away.” Then, with abject honesty, she said,
“I’m sorry if you’re so verra disappointed.”

Maggie took advantage of his bewildered pause, using the
time to study him as critically as he had been observing her. He was taller
than his brother Ross, and more slender. She saw none of Ross Mackinnon’s glossy
black hair and pale eyes, but a thick head of golden-brown hair and the darkest
blue eyes she had ever seen.

From the moment she had first looked at him, she had known
him as stubborn, obdurate, and staunch and sturdy as the ancient redwoods that
lay beyond them. He struck her as remarkable, and quite unlike any man she had
ever met. He was hard as Grampian stone and brooding as a Scottish mist.

She liked him immediately.

She was wise enough to not let him know that. She was also
wise enough to know it would not be easy for her. She willed herself to be
calm, to hold back her anger over his churlish disregard for her by not coming
sooner, for there was no doubt that his two-week delay had been intentional.
Like the wind, he threatened, hoping to buffet her and send her scampering on
her way like a leaf driven. She tilted her face into the breeze and inhaled,
feeling the wind’s strength in her lungs. Then, turning, she faced him
squarely, as her ancestors had faced peril countless times in the past—steady,
decided, unswayable, unwilling to concede defeat, impervious to wind, the angry
battering of the sea, the gloom of mist, the loneliness of the moors, the
cunning of the English, and the ravages of time.

Maggie regarded him in confused silence. Never would she
have pictured the man who wrote those letters to be so ruggedly male, so
powerfully built. Such sensitivity belonged to a smaller man, a man of more
meager looks. How could a man write such sensitive, caring letters and then
appear so hard and callous?

She eyed him critically. There was nothing, absolutely
nothing, either gentle or caring about this blue-eyed brute. By the wife of
Job, she had never seen a more cynical man. His mouth was tight and aggressive.
His look was one that could freeze a boiling pot. From where she stood, he
seemed hard, arrogant, conceited, self-sufficient, and bossy. She sighed. It
was too much. She had had too much to do, of late, with brokers, bankers,
advocates, and the Presbyterian aristocracy, and now she was having to deal
with this sour-faced American. It was just too much.

From out of nowhere sprung her father’s voice, the memory of
something he said coming to her so vividly, she could have sworn he was
standing beside her. “We Scots can be a cantankerous race. Our intellectual
pleasure seems to lie in disagreement.”

If that was true, then here truly was a man who, although he
had never set foot on Scottish soil, was Scot to the core in personality and
attitude. If this man wanted to hold to his own loyalties of the past, then she
wasn’t one to stand in the way. He wasn’t the first to draw attention to his
divided self, and how could she chastise or condemn a man for exhibiting
myriad-mindedness and being essentially Scottish?

She turned away from him and began gathering up her paint
pots.

“Where are you going?”

She turned back toward him, her hands busily screwing the
lid on a pot of carmine red. She wondered if she should tell him she was merely
exercising another Scottish trait, practical judgment. “I believe I was ordered
back to the house a few minutes ago.”

That drew him up short. He glanced around, taking in all the
paints, the canvas, the easel, her discarded parasol. “You came out here
alone?”

“No,” she said, sweeping an errant strand of hair from her
face. “I had that faithless dog, Israel, with me.”

Adrian surveyed the area. Israel was nowhere in sight.

“He’s a fickle one,” she said, closing the lid on her paint
box, “abandoning me for the first rabbit he saw.”

He smiled, and she suddenly saw why he didn’t do it too
often. Women wouldn’t be able to stand it if he did. He had a smile that would
melt butter, a smile women would fight over. Suddenly she felt warm all over.
The blood drummed in her veins. Tension crept into her muscles. At first she
thought it to be anger, but some tingling sense of awareness reminded her that
the irregular fluttering of her heart, the slight tremor in her hand, was not
due to her irritation, but to his nearness.

He stood towering over her, his dark blue eyes alert and
watching. The collar of his shirt was open, the skin beneath lightly tanned.
And
probably warm.
The hot glare of afternoon caught glints of gold and red in
the soft layers of his hair, now ruffled by the wind. He looked composed and in
control, but there was something about him that called out to her, something
that told her he wasn’t as he would have her believe, something that she called
sad, and, too, perhaps, lonely. Maggie looked quickly down, rubbing at a smudge
of paint on her hand, all too aware that she had been looking at him quite
frankly, knowing he had not missed the hot flush of color that rose to her
face.

Her husband had a manner that was rough, even caustic, but
he was strong and vital and virile, and all warm, living man. She felt a wave
of loneliness that left her almost dizzy. His presence reminded her of too many
things she had been without. She missed the closeness of marriage. She missed
the warm contentment that comes with living with a man, of sleeping with him.
She missed the intimacy, the soft looks, the gentle caresses. She missed the
sleepy, sated feeling that comes after making love.

She almost missed his next comment.

“Israel has never been trained for obedience. He doesn’t
know the first thing about what’s expected of him,” he said.

A lot like his master…
She was positive there was
never a man to douse the ardor of a woman quite so completely as this man had
just done. Here she had her thoughts on intimate things, and he was talking
about a dog.
If
she and this man were to ever understand each other, the
first thing they had to do was find a way to have their minds in the same pony
cart. As things stood now, they were miles and miles apart. “Then Israel and I
have a great deal in common,” she said.

His mouth tightened, growing white at the corners. “Do you
always say exactly what you think?”

“Aye. Does it bother you?”

“Frankness isn’t something I can say I’ve exactly admired in
a woman.”

“From what I’ve seen, you don’t admire much of anything.”

“Oh, I have an eye for beauty,” he said, turning slightly.
“Take this horse here. Now, that’s beauty.”

She smiled. She wouldn’t fash herself, or draw her claymore
over that comment. She was too smart to be lured into something as obvious as
that. Her father had always taught her not to show all her troops, to keep some
in reserve. “Like we decided earlier, we don’t seem to be doing very well. I
ken it’s time for me to go. Perhaps we can try again at dinner. I am invited to
dinner, aren’t I?”

He saw the humor dancing in her eyes. This woman was
irritating enough to throttle. Hell’s bells. She had him all fidgety. He stared
at her hard, as if by doing so, he could send her running, terrified and
screaming, back to the house. Then the strangest thing happened. As he stared,
he became distracted—something Adrian never did—by her eyes, of all things. A
moment ago he had called her eyes green. Now, her face turned toward the sun as
it was, they looked golden brown. She had to be a devil. No human could change
the color of her eyes. She tilted her head around, her face suddenly in shadow.
The eyes were green now.
Just what the hell color are they anyway?
Confused,
he said the first thing that popped into his head. “Humor in a woman isn’t a
virtue.”

“Neither is rudeness in a man.”

Thunderation
. Was she always so quick with back talk?
If she was, she wasn’t going to be as easy to live with as he’d hoped. He
hadn’t been with her more than a few minutes, and already he was questioning
his wisdom in taking a wife. He’d better say something to shock the ruffles off
her drawers, something to put her in her woman’s place, a place he called
submission. His eyes swept over her. “You aren’t what I expected.”

There, that ought to do it.

She laughed. “I must confess you are no what I expected
either.”

What kind of woman is this?
“Ross neglected to write
that you were so outspoken. I don’t—”

“Like outspoken women,” she finished for him. “Would you be
attracted more to a liar? A woman who practiced deceit? Do either of those hold
any appeal for you?”

He grinned slyly. He had her now. He would play with her a
little, the way he played with salmon before he brought them in. “Are you
asking me, or warning me?” he asked softly.

“Neither,” Maggie said, and turned away, folding up her
easel and tucking it under her arm, her canvas in her hand. “That’s the one
thing I canna do anything about.” She picked up her paint box just as he
reached for it.

“I’ll take that,” he said, his hand brushing against hers.
The contact startled them both. He jerked his hand back. She dropped the paint
box. They leaned over simultaneously. Their heads bumped. He straightened and
looked at her. She did the same.

He felt caught off guard. Adrian never liked for anyone to
best him, or have the advantage, not even by a slight edge. He was a wealthy,
powerful, and influential man who ruled his empire like a king. He never came
in second.

At least not anymore.

All his life he had taken a backseat to his brother. Alex
was born first, and somehow that one quirk of fate had set the pattern for the
rest of their lives. Alex was the stable one, the twin who always laughed. He
was the one who was noticed, the one who demanded respect and got it, the one
who had the even temper, the easygoing nature, the brand of looks that turned a
woman’s head. He was a looker and a teaser, and women adored him. He was a
charmer and a flirt, and women loved it. He had said he loved Karin Simon, and
yet he had married her sister Katherine.

And Adrian had sworn he would never come in second again.
From that moment on, he would be first. He would be the best, the richest, the
most powerful. Whatever he owned would be the finest, the most expensive, the
envy of all who came his way. Never again would he be given the scraps, the
leftovers. He had loved once, and loved powerfully, and losing her to his
brother had almost destroyed him. Even now, after so many years, the memory of
Katherine burned like a brand upon his mind; Katherine in her innocence, her
purity, the way she had been before Alex had taken her.

And that had been the way he had painted her.

Adrian lifted his head and gazed somberly at the sun
dropping slowly into the ocean. He continued to do so, even after he knew
Maggie had trained her gaze full upon him and now had her damned changeable
eyes locked on him.

“If you and I are going to get on and live together as man
and wife, we’re going to have to do better than we’re doing. Perhaps we might
talk again tonight, at dinner, after you’ve had a chance to rest and clean up.”

He looked down at his clothes, then turned on her. “Do you
detest the sight of honest labor, madam?”

“What I detest is the way this conversation is going. I
merely thought to suggest another time, hoping it might be more to your
liking.” She leaned forward and snatched up her paint box, turning to leave.