Highlander Mine. Juliette Miller

giving her so much as a glance, Knox Mackenzie replied, “Call for one of the servants to bring it. Amelia, this way, if you will.”

      Christie patted my arm and turned her attention to Katriona, placating an apparent uprising of distress in her that I appeared to have a knack for inspiring.

      I followed Laird Mackenzie through a door and down a candlelit corridor.

      We entered a large, low-ceilinged chamber that was opulently decorated with well-crafted yet comfortable-looking furniture, woven rugs and a large circular table. Several shuttered windows were open and looked out upon the orchards. A servant came immediately to the door, and Laird Mackenzie asked her to bring us some food and ale.

      I stood by the window, feeling increasingly on edge about the inquiry that was about to begin. Perhaps sensing my unease, the laird invited me to sit in one of two stuffed leather chairs that had been situated to enjoy the view. I was glad he hadn’t asked me to take a seat at the meeting table. This cozy corner seemed more conducive to a casual, informal chat than a full-blown interrogation. The servant returned, placing a large plate of assorted meats, cheeses and breads and a pitcher of ale on a small table between us. Then she took her leave, closing the door with a heavy thud.

      Laird Mackenzie poured ale into two goblets and handed one to me. I accepted the drink, even though I knew he was likely just trying to loosen my tongue, hoping to get me tipsy so I’d spill all my secrets. Wise to his ploys, I would humor him but I would not fall into his traps. I would drink. Very, very slowly.

      But when I tasted the ale, it was so delicious, lightly bubbling with a hint of malty sweetness, and I was so thirsty that I ended up drinking half the goblet in one go. Even as I silently cursed myself for what would certainly be unwise, I couldn’t resist just one more sip. A large one. I had never tasted anything so refreshing in all my life.

      Knox Mackenzie watched me and it was the very first time I saw a hint of humor in him; his mouth skewed just slightly to the side. Not a smile, as such. But a sign that he was at least human. “You were thirsty,” he commented.

      I took one more sip, nodding.

      He handed me a plate with some bread and slices of meat and cheese. “In case you didn’t get enough in the hall.” His gaze dropped to the rounded pockets of my dress, where I’d stashed the food for Hamish, then rose slowly upward until he was once again contemplating my face and my hair with lingering interest, a pastime that appeared to be one of his new favorites.

      My stomach, in my mild anxiousness, suddenly didn’t feel particularly hungry, but when I took a small bite of the offering, the flavors of it were so tasty that I decided I was in fact still quite famished.

      The laird allowed me to eat for several minutes. But he had questions on his mind that he was clearly eager to ask. “Amelia,” he began. Then he paused, looking measuredly into my eyes. “That is your real name, is it not?”

      Already he was accusing me of lying and we hadn’t even begun. This riled me. He hadn’t even heard my story yet and already he was distrusting it. It occurred to me, aye, that my indignance was maybe, just barely, the tiniest bit absurd. After all, I was about to spin a partly fictional tale. But still.

      “I heard your brother call you something else,” he said. This eased my irritation by a degree. So he hadn’t distrusted me—yet. He’d only heard Hamish’s nickname for me.

      “He calls me Ami. It means—”

      “Friend,” he finished for me. Something about the tone of his voice, so deep and impressive, touched me in a very strange place. A glowing burn settled below my rib cage, extending in seeping, brazen directions; this burn felt remarkably, and intensely, like longing. His eyes were fixed on mine, only compounding the effect. I was glad I was sitting down, and I took another cool sip of the ale.

      “Aye,” I replied softly. “Friend.” Of course he spoke French, and probably twelve other languages besides. No doubt he’d traveled the world and read every book, too.

      “You’ve come from Edinburgh. ’Tis a long journey.”

      “Aye,” I agreed. “We traveled for six days.”

      “Tell me about it.”

      His soft command was patient and, even worse, kind. As though he was reading the difficulties of our journey and all that had come before it in the expression on my face. It was this note of compassion that found me uncharacteristically remorseful that I had need to lie to him. I knew with certainty that if he discovered the truth he would likely banish me from the grounds of his keep before I could even finish my drink. In a daft act of defiance, I took another sip of my ale, finishing it. And now I had two things to feel remorseful about. He’d tricked me! By serving me a drink so delicious there was no way I could resist it.

      All right, so he’d won that hand. But I had no intention of giving away any secrets, ale or no ale. I knew I could handle my drink better than most. Ale and whiskey were plentiful at my family’s gaming club, and although I rarely imbibed, I had once taken a game, and lost, against a regular client named Burns, a devilish brute who seduced rich women for a living and would frequent our club when he was between heiresses. He’d placed a handful of shillings on my table for a single roll of the dice, mine against his. It was enough money to keep our creditors at bay for at least a week, so I’d taken him on. He’d bet me I couldn’t match him drink for drink and continue to resist his charms. I wasn’t an heiress, I’d argued. For me, he’d said, he would let that small detail slide, just this once. His roll—two sixes—had been unbeatable. I’d taken the drinks, poured by Nora, one of the club’s hostesses. It had helped that Burns had already been well into his cups when the challenge began. I’d taken four shots of whiskey before he’d passed out cold. Well played, lassie, Nora had laughed. You’ve a hollow leg. At the time I’d taken the praise to heart: it took a lot to impress Nora.

      To my dismay, I realized that while Burns had merely become blurrier, Knox Mackenzie now had only become more...beautiful with the light effects of the ale. He was too masculine to be called beautiful, but it was a word that came to mind. His black hair framed his face, all thick and glinting. I’d never seen hair that richly black. The gold of the chain at his neck and the thick cuff bracelet he wore only added to his aura of nobility and sovereignty. Damn him. Now he’s trying to undermine my control with his regal allure.

      “Why are you traveling north and where were you headed when you were intercepted by my sisters?” he asked.

      And so I began, offering as little information as possible, resolved to embellish and rearrange when the story required. I kept Hamish in mind, too, making sure to keep true to our plan as we’d made it, in the woods behind the tavern. “Our parents have passed,” I said, with genuine feeling. This was, after all, true; at least in my case, it was a certainty. I didn’t allow myself, in that moment, to even think about Hamish’s parents. I tried to keep my voice steady as I continued. It was all becoming a bit more difficult than I’d imagined, this ruse, but I had no choice now but to follow through with it. “We were told by our father, in his final hour, that we have relatives in the Highlands, but we know none of the details of their identity or their whereabouts. So we set out to search for them.”

      “Until you were attacked,” he continued, not sounding as concerned by the detail as he perhaps should have, “by masked bandits dressed in black and wielding silver-hilted swords.”

      I felt my eyes narrow just slightly. “It sounds like you already know all the finer details of the story, Laird Mackenzie,” I said, vexed not only by the light dismissal in his tone but also by this ridiculous situation I’d landed myself in. How on earth had I managed to find myself on the run and at the mercy of this admittedly dashing laird in his admittedly idyllic empire, attempting to convince him that I’d been robbed by a gang of fictional thieves? “There’s not much point in me repeating it to you if you’ve already been told, in intricate, itemized flourish, of our plight.”

      He ignored this completely. “Tell me more about these bandits. From which direction did they ride? Describe to me their features, their clothing, their weapons,