The Highlander's Touch

Page 60

“What do you expect me to do with myself, Circenn Brodie?” she asked irritably.
He was very still. “What did you call me?”
Lisa hesitated, wondering if the arrogant man could really expect her to call him “milord,” even after he’d offered himself to her a few nights ago. Fine. It would keep things impersonal. She rose and bowed sweepingly. “My lord,” she purred.
“Sarcasm does not become you. That is the first time I’ve heard my name on your lips. As we are to be wed, you must use it henceforth. You may call me Cin.”
Lisa blinked at him from her servile position. Sin. That he was. And that was the bulk of her problem. If he were not so irresistible, she wouldn’t feel so alive around him, ergo she wouldn’t constantly feel so guilty about her mom. Had he been an unattractive, spineless, stupid man, she would have felt miserable every minute of the day—and that would have been acceptable. She should be miserable. She had abandoned her own mother, for heaven’s sake. Her back stiffened and she stood up straight. “Perhaps I should preface each of our conversations as well, by reminding you that I won’t be marrying you. My lord.”
A corner of his mouth quirked. “You are truly possessed of a streak of defiance, aren’t you? What did the men in your time make of it?”
Before she could answer, Duncan came bounding into the hall, followed by Galan. “Morning all, and a fine day it is, eh?” Duncan said brightly.
Lisa snorted. Couldn’t the handsome Highlander be pessimistic just once?
“Circenn, Galan was down in the village early this morning, hearing some of the disputes that have backed up in the manor courts—”
“Isn’t the lord supposed to decide those?” Lisa asked acerbically.
Circenn’s gaze shot to her. “How would you know that? And what business of yours is it?”
Lisa blinked innocently. “I must have overheard it somewhere. And I was merely curious.”
“One would think you might learn to tame that curiosity, seeing where it has led you.”
“And while Galan was in the village,” Duncan forged on, “he realized the villagers are expecting to have a celebration.”
“I don’t understand why you don’t hear the cases. Aren’t you the laird?” Lisa pushed. “Or are you just too busy mucking up everyone else’s life and brooding all the time?” she added sweetly. Her inactivity was getting on her nerves, and if she didn’t start being mean to him, she’d end up being entirely too nice. Her resolve might not withstand another dessert with him.
Duncan’s laughter rang to the rafters.
“It’s none of your business why I doona hear them,” Circenn growled.
“Fine. Nothing’s any of my business, is it? What do you expect me to do? Just sit around, ask no questions, have no desires, and be a lump of spineless femininity?”
“You could not be spineless if you tried,” Circenn said with a long-suffering sigh.
“A celebration,” Duncan said loudly. “The villagers are planning for the feast—”
“What are you blathering about?” Circenn grudgingly rerouted his attention to Duncan.
“If you would permit me to complete an entire sentence, you might know,” Duncan said evenly.
“Well?” Circenn encouraged. “You have my full attention.”
“The villagers wish to celebrate your return and the upcoming wedding.”
“No celebration,” Lisa said immediately.
“The idea is appealing,” Circenn countered.
Lisa glared at him as if he’d lost his mind. “I am not marrying you, remember? I’m not going to be here.”
The three warriors turned to regard her as if she’d just informed them she would sprout wings and fly back to her time.
“I will not be party to this,” she snapped.
“A celebration might be just the thing for you, lass,” Duncan said. “And you will have the opportunity to meet your people.”
“They are not my people, nor will they ever be,” Lisa said stiffly. “I won’t be here.” With that she turned and fled up the stairs.
* * *
But she found she couldn’t stay away for long. Stealthily, she crept back to the top of the stairs, fascinated by the events ongoing below.
They were planning her wedding, and it was enough to boggle the mind.
There they were, sprawled around the table in the Greathall, and the overbearing but irresistibly sexy hunk of a Highland laird had his hands buried in fabric.