The Highlander And The Governess. Michelle Willingham
gleam caught her eye. ‘I believe I’ve changed my mind. Thank you.’ He handed her the plate, and she stuffed the entire sandwich in her mouth, puffing out her cheeks as she did.
An unexpected burst of laughter caught him, but he suppressed it, coughing instead. His governess was shaking with her own mirth as she tried to chew. When she finally swallowed, she was still beaming. ‘That’s what you looked like, Locharr. Trust me when I say it would not be attractive to Lady Regina.’
When she stopped laughing, he offered her a napkin, and their fingers brushed together.
She froze instantly at his touch. The look on her face was of a woman caught in an illicit embrace, and she took the napkin before she jerked her hand back. Her cheeks flushed, and Lachlan wondered if she had ever had a suitor. Had a man ever kissed those full lips, tangling his hands in her curls?
For a moment, he found himself wanting to push back her boundaries and discover if there was any wildness beneath the propriety of his governess. He gritted his teeth to force back the flare of unexpected need.
‘Please don’t touch me,’ she whispered, her face flaming.
He shrugged and lied. ‘You had a few crumbs on your face. I didna think you’d want to be walking about with them.’
Her shoulders lowered in relief. ‘Oh. Well, if that happens again, simply tell me and I’ll get my own napkin.’
Miss Goodson dabbed at her mouth and cheeks. He noticed that she was staring at him, and he couldn’t think why.
‘Have I crumbs on my face, then?’ he asked.
She shook her head. Her gaze passed over his clothing, and she winced slightly. He saw naught wrong with his tartan, but it bothered her in some way. For a moment, he saw her pondering him, her eyes studying him as if she didn’t quite know how to broach the subject troubling her.
Then at last, Miss Goodson asked, ‘When was the last time you were in London, Locharr?’ She reached for another sheet of paper under her chair and read aloud, ‘1807.’
He took the paper and filed it with the others. ‘It’s been nearly four years since I’ve travelled there. I had no wish to go.’
‘Are you not required to take your seat in Parliament?’
‘My father was no’ one of the landowners who had a seat, by the grace of God.’ He was thankful for that, for he had no wish to be part of government.
Lachlan sat back for a moment, still aware that she was stealing glances at him while pretending to search for more papers. Was she concerned about his scar? After the fire, he rarely looked at himself any more. He knew it could frighten Lady Regina, but there was naught he could do about it. Or was there another reason Miss Goodson was staring?
She handed him two more papers. ‘These are 1804.’ Then she bit her lip and blurted out, ‘Whether or not you allow me to stay, there is one thing you ought to consider.’
He waited for her to finish, and she added, ‘Before you travel to London, we should have you fitted for new clothing. Do you have a tailor you prefer?’
Lachlan frowned at that. He had no need of new clothes. What he had suited him well enough. ‘Nay, I am fine as I am.’
‘You cannot wear such clothing in London.’
‘Why not?’ He needed to save his coins, not spend them on wasteful attire.
‘Because it will draw too much attention to you. It’s quite different from what the other gentlemen wear.’
He knew that, but he hardly cared about what anyone else thought. The last time he’d been in London, he had remained out of the public eye, as a guest in the Worthingstone household. They hadn’t cared what he wore, and it bothered him to think that he would be judged on his attire.
The truth was, he saw no reason to spend money on himself. He had no right to worry about clothes—not when his people could go hungry this winter because of his father’s debts. And it wasn’t as if he intended to hide his Scottish heritage. What did it matter if he wore a tartan to a gathering?
Miss Goodson’s expression turned soft with sympathy. ‘Some of the men will be unkind to you, because you are courting Lady Regina. They will look for any excuse to make you into a laughingstock. I don’t want that to happen.’
Lachlan shrugged. He squeezed his fists together and said, ‘Then I’ll be having words with them. What I wear is my business.’
‘You’re wrong.’ She stiffened and lifted her chin. ‘In Scotland, I suppose your tartan is common enough. But for a shy lady such as Regina, you must try to blend in among the other gentlemen.’
Why should he care about that? Lachlan crossed his arms and glared at her. ‘I’m no’ going to blend in. I am a Scot, and there’s nae need for me to pretend to be anything else.’ He was already taller and stronger than most men. Blending in was impossible, given his size—or even the vicious scar on his cheek.
Miss Goodson’s face softened with sympathy. ‘Forgive me. I was not implying that you should try to be someone you’re not. It’s only that, Lady Regina is very shy, and she may feel uncomfortable if everyone is…staring at you.’
He shielded his thoughts, for her opinion was clear. She did not like his clothing at all, and it irritated him to think that he would have to be fitted for attire he wouldn’t need. He had better ways of spending that money.
Miss Goodson offered, ‘I can send for a tailor to take your measurements. It shouldn’t take more than a week or two to have an appropriate wardrobe.’
‘I see no reason for spending good coins when I already own clothes.’ He set down another paper and leaned back. ‘It seems you’re wanting me to spend money I canna spare in order to wear what the other gentlemen do.’
‘As you’ve said, there are twenty thousand pounds at stake. Is that not worth a new jacket and breeches, if it means winning Lady Regina’s hand in marriage?’
He hesitated, pondering the matter. She did have a good point that there was a great deal to consider. It wasn’t worth the risk of displeasing Lady Regina over something as trivial as clothing.
‘Try it,’ she insisted. ‘I will hire a tailor, and you need only buy one set of clothes. Consider it an investment.’
He set down the papers and regarded Miss Goodson with all seriousness. ‘It may be an investment, but once I have wedded Lady Regina, she must accept my family’s traditions. I wear the tartan to show my clan that I will support them until the day I die. She must ken that and accept it.’
Miss Goodson smiled. ‘Of course. But know that when you go to London, you are also supporting your clan. You are winning a wealthy heiress as your wife and bringing back twenty thousand pounds to them.’ She took a step closer and pleaded, ‘Set aside your pride for a few weeks, and Lady Regina will not mind if you wear the tartan when you return home.’
The laird drew closer, and Frances tried to calm the stutter of her heartbeat. His masculine scent reminded her of pine trees and rain. Careful, she warned herself. She was on borrowed time as the laird’s governess, and she could not let her admiration lead her down the wrong path. Even so, her heartbeat only quickened at his nearness.
‘Was there something else you wanted, Locharr?’
‘Aye.’ He took another step closer, causing her to lean back to look at him. ‘There was indeed something I wanted.’
Her brain turned into cotton while her pulse pounded beneath her skin. ‘W-what was it?’ Her face was burning as her imagination conjured up the vision of him pressing her against the bookshelves, kissing her until she could no longer stand. And she had no doubt that his husky innuendo had been spoken on purpose, simply to ruffle