Amanda Scott by Highland Secrets Read Free Book Online Page A

the water. She could not afford such questions.
    “MacKissock is a common enough name in Perthshire,” he said suddenly, “but I do not know any MacKissocks in Argyll. Who is your father?”
    If she never heard the name MacKissock again, she decided, it would be too soon. Still clutching the flagon, thinking rapidly, she said, “My father is dead, sir. Most of the men in my family are dead.” That was certainly true, and her eyes welled with unexpected tears at the thought.
    “Don’t weep,” he said, reaching for her. “Have a sip of my brandy instead. It will calm you. Truly, I did not mean to make you sad.”
    Involuntarily, she stepped back until the warmth of the fire behind her warned her that she could go no farther. “Ye are kind, sir,” she said, “but I mustna ha’ any. If they smell it on my breath, I’ll be in a peck of trouble.”
    “Not if I compel you to drink it.” With his hand open but still outstretched, he took a step toward her.
    Afraid a spark might set her skirt afire if she got any closer to the hearth, she skipped sideways, forgetting the long handle of the bed warmer until she kicked it. The pan tilted, its lid flipped up, and hot coals spilled to the hearthstones, scattering.
    Calder, still moving toward her, jumped back again with a yell and an oath, hopping on one foot in obvious pain. He wore only stockings on his feet.
    Appalled, she cried, “Och, ye’ve burnt yourself!”
    “Aye, and you spilled those coals on purpose!” Still hopping, he held the sore foot now with both hands, and she could see smoldering wool.
    With presence of mind, she doused it with the remains of the brandy.
    “Good God, what are you doing now? That’s damned expensive brandy!”
    “Would you rather have a charred foot?”
    “You might have set my whole leg afire, wench! Have you never seen a flaming pudding at Christmas? What do you think makes the flames?”
    “Brandy does, of course,” she said tartly, “but not when it’s poured over the pudding in a veritable waterfall.” When he glanced at her in surprise, she realized she had forgotten her accent and added hastily, “I dinna ken why that, is, sir, but ’tis quite true, I promise ye.”
    “True enough, I expect,” he said, putting his brandy-soaked foot to the floor in a hesitant way at first, then more firmly. Taking the flagon from her, he put it back on the window bench. “Now I shall have to send for more brandy.”
    “Your stocking is all wet,” she said.
    “Aye, it is.” The look he gave her boded no good.
    “I … I’ll fetch more brandy.”
    “You’ll stay where you are. I have not finished with you yet.”
    “Please, sir,” she said, feeling more desperate by the minute. “’Tis sorry I am that ye burnt your foot, and sorry about the brandy, but I dinna want tae lie wi’ ye, and I dinna want tae drink spirits. ’Tis wicked, the devil’s ain brew, that. Ye can force me tae do your bidding, but I beg ye will not. Our minister says—”
    “Spare me what your minister says,” he said. “I’ve no wish for an unwilling bed partner. I just thought you might enjoy discovering what you have missed.”
    She held her tongue. She had thought him angry, but he did not seem so now, and the feeling of being trapped was dissipating in the face of his calm. He could still complain of her to Patrick, but she began to think he would not, and from that it was no great step to wonder if she could somehow exploit his evident attraction to her. She had dissuaded him rather easily from his intent to ravish her. Perhaps she could influence him just as easily to help her.
    When he sat down on the window bench and pulled off his wet stocking, she took courage in hand and said, “Please, my lord, I didna mean tae offend ye. I ha’ been affrighted the whole day long, since they learned of that rebel’s escape. I ha’ been here less than a sennight, ye see. I feared they would think I had helped him.”
    “As I thought,” he