Chapter 19

CHAPTER 19

I cannae believe she gave in.

Grant could not stop thinking about the stubborn woman facing off against him in the stable yard, refusing to even look at Mor. And now, she’d walked with him to the pastures by the loch, agreeing to ride.

He’d been prepared to go back inside, to spend their hour in the library. What had changed her mind?

He gave her a sidelong glance. As much as he should be grateful and not ask, he could not stop wondering.

“What made ye give in?” he asked as he opened the gate and the horses trotted out, then began to gallop and frolic.

Emma shot him an incredulous look. “You make it sound like I had a choice, Sir.”

Call me Grant, he found himself thinking yet again.

“That’s true,” he murmured, even though he wanted to say, Ye ken ye had a choice in the end, Emma. Ye agreed to this.

He smiled to himself as he closed the gate again.

Ah, I see.

Emma couldn’t admit that he’d been right—deep down, she wanted to learn how to ride.

Well, he’d take his victory once she could handle Mor, the gentlest and smartest of his horses.

He gave a sharp whistle, and Mor turned and trotted up to them.

Emma backed up. “So big,” she muttered nervously.

“The perfect size for ye,” Grant said, even though he knew he could’ve chosen a smaller horse. But he needed a horse that could carry two riders. “Come here so I can lift ye up.”

With a sigh, Emma stepped up to him, and Mor sniffed the air. Grant went to lift her up but then paused.

“What now?”

“Ye should ken how to mount a horse,” he said. “It could save yer life someday. And ye willnae do this alone, I promise.”

Grant dropped his shoulders, as though sensing a chill. Meanwhile, Emma scoffed and shook her head, but she listened as he hastened to explain. She closed her eyes and shook her head several times, but she did not interrupt, only gave the horse a despondent look at the end.

“What did this poor beast do to deserve a rider like me?” she murmured.

“Try,” Grant urged. “Come on.”

Emma hemmed and hawed, approaching Mor, then skipping back. It took a lot of coaxing and promising to catch her before she fell on her arse before she’d even attempted to swing herself up.

Thankfully, Mor, as though sensing she needed to be calm and patient, stayed still as she tried and failed to mount.

Her dark hair was coming loose, and the color was rising in her face. Grant half-expected her to demand that they stop when she suddenly surged up, made a clumsy grab at Mor’s mane, and swung her leg over the mare’s back with precision.

He made a hoarse sound of approval. “I kenned ye had it in ye.”

Emma let out a harsh breath, and she looked down then up, and then at Grant. “I… I don’t like this.”

“Easy, easy,” he soothed and mounted behind her in one smooth motion. She stiffened against him. “I’ve got ye,” he whispered in her ear. “I promised ye that ye wouldnae do this alone.”

Every color around Emma, from the green of the fields and the trees to the arch of blue overhead and the cluster of wildflowers along the fence, seemed brighter. Never had she been so aware of her own body, from her breath to the weight of her hair to the pounding of her heart.

All her senses had been focused on the great white horse below her, Mor. But now they were attuned to the Laird behind her, his hard and muscular chest hot against her back, his arms cradling her, and his lips at her ear.

What happened to never letting this happen again? asked a wry voice in her head.

“What—what are you doing?”

“Teachin’ ye how to ride,” the Laird murmured as he caught her hands and pried them off the pommel. “First lesson, reins.”

What transpired next was a blur of words, the feel of his hot body and the animal moving beneath them. Mor—a gentle and easy- going horse, Emma began to realize—never went faster than a trot.

After a few turns about the pasture, with Laird Ronson explaining things that Emma valiantly tried to remember, he dismounted. Her whole body seemed to ache for him, lean toward him, and she looked down as her hands tightened on the reins.

A smile played on his lips as he nodded at her. “Try and ride the length of the pasture and back. I’ll wait here.”

“What if I fall?” she blurted out.

“Ye havenae yet,” he said and rested his hand on her knee, causing her to suck in a breath. Desire flooded her.

Keep it there, oh please, whispered a wicked voice in her heart.

“Trust yerself and Mor. Ye can do this, Emma.” He winked and stepped back.

Pulling in a slow breath, trying to push away those thoughts and terrible yearnings, Emma focused on Mor. She squeezed her legs lightly and leaned forward, and Mor began to walk. A thrill of fear—and joy—coursed through her.

I am doing it.

With each step, her fear ebbed and her joy increased. This was not so bad, nor so hard. When they got closer to the fence, Emma managed to turn Mor and guide her back to the Laird, who whistled and clapped.

Trembling all over, she held out a hand. “Alright, you were right, Sir.” He laughed softly, and she couldn’t help but smile. “Now, please get me down.”

“Alright, alright,” he said and reached up, catching her around the waist and lowering her to her feet. “Next time, ye’ll learn how to dismount.”

“Next time?” Emma asked.

We only have five more days.

“Och, aye, I have more to teach ye,” he said. “But now, I think ye deserve a reward.”

Emma felt her heart skip a beat. Even though her upbringing, her common sense, and everything else screamed at her to decline, she merely gave the Laird a slow smile and said, “I agree.”

They left the horses grazing in the pasture and took a narrow, winding path through the wild fields beyond. It twisted through small groves and along the ridges of hills, offering breathtaking views of the loch.

Emma did not ask any questions, only watching Laird Ronson stride ahead, a pack that he’d taken from Balfire’s saddle slung over his shoulder, his steps sure and steady.

Out here, he belonged to the land. The wilderness called to him, and something in him called back. And as Emma walked along, an English lady hundreds of miles away from her home as well as everything she’d ever known, something stirred deep within her.

Perhaps I could hear it too if I stopped and listened.

She tucked that thought deep into her heart as they continued on.

Her eyes seemed to seek out every last detail. Greedily, she memorized the landscape, the slant of light, the scents, and the strong form of the man in front of her.

This , Emma decided, I shall keep for myself.

It wasn’t until they reached a hidden stretch of sandy shore, after clambering through a tree line, that Emma realized she should’ve asked where they were going. She should’ve suggested taking a chaperone with them, too, even though they’d been alone together countless times.

Only, those suggestions fell to the wayside as she walked to the edge of the water and gazed out at the loch. The evening was breaking, and the loch shimmered with hues of amber and gold, while the scent of brine rode in from the west.

When she turned around, Emma saw that Laird Ronson had laid out a large blanket and was setting out dinner. Her heart leaped even as she glanced to the west, where she knew the castle was hidden beyond the vale and trees.

“Come eat,” the Laird called with a wave of his hand.

Emma felt a flutter in her stomach, the sense that she should turn and flee, not walk toward him. But when he looked over at her, shaking back his wild dark hair, his green eyes lit with a sparkle of mischief that he wanted her to share, she could not resist.

Joining him on the blanket, they had a small snack, but mostly, they talked. Emma spoke about Mor, then the castle gardens she’d explored only this morning—which had felt like days ago—and then the loch, and so on. Her chatter felt like nervous rambling.

Eventually, she paused and peered at the Laird, who was watching her, the corners of his mouth curling up, as though he did not realize he was smiling.

“What?” Emma asked.

“I like the way ye see the world, Me Lady,” he said slowly. “And I never thought I’d say such to a Sassenach , much less a noble one.”

Emma flushed. “I’m no different than any other lady.”

“Maybe. But I think I’d still prefer yer keen and lively mind.” He paused. “I didnae realize how much ye cared for growin’ things and herbs. I’d gladly ask Kyla?—”

“I’m leaving,” she blurted out and then looked down as he stirred. “I-I wouldn’t want you to trouble yourself.”

“It’s nay trouble,” he said softly. “I like seein’ ye happy, Emma.”

She twisted around to face him and realized he’d leaned in closer, studying her. “ Lady Emma.”

A smile touched his lips, and he seemed to tower over her, all restless storm and untouched mountain made into a man.

“Lady Emma.” His breath fanned her lips. “Why must ye fight me every damn step of the way?” He lowered his voice, almost as though he was speaking to himself. “And why do I like it so much?”

“Because you are too used to getting your way, Sir,” Emma said flatly. “And you would have us walk a dangerous path that can end nowhere good.”

He cocked his head. “Are ye so sure?”

“Am I—?” Emma growled. “You?—”

Her words were cut off, for a big hand caught the back of her head and pulled her in, lips slanting over hers.

Emma sagged against Laird Ronson for a moment, her entire being lighting up with relief and need—a clash that made her dizzy—and then she reared back.

Holding him at arm’s length, breathing hard, she trembled. “No, no. We cannot do this.”

I vowed that I would not betray Helena any further.

The Laird snagged her wrist and pulled her hand up, then pressed a kiss to her palm. Emma gasped and nearly swooned. It was—why did he insist on pretending to court her?

“Why can’t you leave me be?” she whispered as their eyes met.

“I dinnae ken,” he murmured, and a smile spread across his face as he kissed her knuckles. “But it seems a sin nae to kiss ye.”

“Do you not see that you are leading us to ruin?” she pleaded. “Let me go, My Laird. I beg of you.”

“Nay,” he growled and tightened his grip on her hand.

Emma tried to pull free and instead fell forward, their lips inches apart. She turned her face as he went to kiss her, so his lips landed on her cheekbone instead.

“You would condemn us both for a kiss?” she snarled, glaring at him as tears pricked her eyes.

“Och, aye, lass,” he said. “That and more. I am the Devil of Banrose, after all.” His hand trembled as he cradled her face, and she made to turn away. “Nay, Emma, look at me. Ye compel me. Perhaps?—”

“Stop,” she begged. “Please. You forget that you are my best friend’s fiancé. That the Queen holds your fate in her hands—both our fates. We are not free. And this is not what gentlemen do.”

“And I already told ye, Emma, that I ken ye have nay need or desire for a gentleman.” He leaned in. “I kissed ye, I tasted yer sweetness, and felt yer body beg for more. Ye need a devil, lass.”

“No, My Laird,” Emma countered. To her surprise, she traced her fingers over his cheekbone, and his eyes went wide. “I think you seek a distraction.”

Anger flared in his eyes, and he jerked back. “A distraction? Is that what ye think this is?” he sneered. “Right, right, I forget meself, Lady Emma. Ye fear the rapacious beasts ye think all Scots are—and yet ye willingly spread yer legs for me last night?—”

Emma raised her hand to slap him, but he caught her wrist.

For a moment, they stared at each other, breathing hard, and he shook his head.

“I apologize,” he muttered. “Christ. I do forget meself.” He stroked her face. “I have never wanted to forget meself more. I have never wished that I was free more.” He paused.

Emma’s heart leaped. “What—what do you mean?”

His forehead pressed against hers. “I want ye, Emma. Yer laugh, yer smile, yer kisses—the way ye glance back over yer shoulder, the way ye walk down the stairs, and the way ye… are.”

Any protests died on her lips, and she curled her fingers into his shirt as she shook her head. “But it cannot be, My Laird.”

“Grant,” he said, and her heart throbbed. “Me name is Grant, call me that. Please. For whatever time we have left, Emma.”

“This is a bad idea.”

“It doesnae feel that way,” he said. “But the opposite. And I felt yer face flush. I ken that ye adored all those compliments, me lovely Outlander. Christ, but yer beauty undoes me. I have never seen a woman so lovely.” He swallowed hard. “I dinnae believe we can find redemption or salvation in others, but Emma—Lord, ye would be mine if we could.”

Hands shaking, Emma meant to push him away, but instead, she pulled him closer and kissed him.

The Laird went rigid, and she pulled back, wide-eyed and stammering out apologies. Her hands fell to her lap and twitched, and he reached up and touched his lips.

“Grant, I?—”

The green of his eyes flashed as he looked at her, and he slowly leaned in, before placing his hands on either side of her knees. “I think ye should do that again, Emma.”