Mena leaped to her feet, almost upsetting the piano bench, and whirled to face him.
He stood with his wide shoulder resting against the arched entry. There was a Sisyphean quality to his stature that suggested it was the laird who supported the weight of the castle stones, rather than the other way around.
Lord, but he was handsome. There was no denying it, not to herself or anyone. He’d again donned the garb of the clannish rebel warrior. The cotton of his thin shirt molded against the swells of his chest. The rolled cuffs exposed tanned forearms that flexed beneath her stupefied gaze. He’d left his hair loose, and a few strands of silver gleamed in the rays of sun piercing the solarium with warmth. This was a laird she hadn’t yet encountered. His expression as casual as the low sling of the Mackenzie kilt on his hips, he sauntered toward them.
Mena fought with a heavy, dry tongue to form a proper greeting as she inched away from Rhianna, trying to put space between her and the approaching marquess. Why, oh why, did he insist on saying things to which there was no proper response?
And why did every nerve in her body seem to stand at attention at his nearness?
“Ye are such a brute, Father,” Rhianna teased, rising on her tiptoes to plant a kiss on his stubbled cheek. “But that doesna mean ye arena the most handsomest man in Wester Ross. Or perhaps all of Scotland. Every lass says so.”
“Most handsome,” Mena corrected instinctively over the piano she’d placed in between them.
Ravencroft’s eyes sharpened, his features tightened, and Mena met a look so searing, she thought her clothing might catch flame if he did not glance away.
Realizing what her correction had insinuated, she hurried to cover the mistake. “Not most handsomest,” she elaborated. “But handsomest is also correct.”
Rhianna’s giggle did little to help the situation.
“That is, most handsomest is incorrect … in that sentence, not that you’re not … most…” Burning with mortification, Mena puffed out a beleaguered breath.
Though he didn’t smile, a dangerous heat lurked beneath the amusement dancing in the laird’s eyes.
The longer he stared at her, the tighter her corset became. Mena’s hands flew to the lace cravat at her bodice. She thought it had given her an air of professional respectability, but now it just seemed to strangle her over the high neck of her russet gown.
“Andrew refused to dance with Miss Lockhart, Father,” Rhianna tattled, ignoring the sharp look from Mena. “He was unaccountably rude.”
The merriment in his eyes died. “What? How?” the laird demanded.
Mena took a step forward. “It really wasn’t as bad as all that.”
“He said that Miss Lockhart was built like a man.”
Ravencroft’s eyes touched on all the abundant curves that distinctly established Mena as a woman.
“My. Son. Said. What?” The careful enunciation of each low word as darkness gathered on the laird’s features filled Mena with no small sense of alarm for Andrew.
Gorging on the drama of it all, Rhianna became even more animated, though Mena had previously thought it impossible. “Yes! And Miss Lockhart made him apologize to Jani and excuse himself before he left. Ye should have seen how angry he was.”
“Rhianna!” Mena reproached.
“Did she, indeed?” The laird’s brows lifted and some of his wrath seemed to flicker and melt away.
“Please.” Mena inched around the piano toward the towering Scot and his daughter. “I was going to let this incident pass quietly. Andrew and I have yet to bond … and sometimes, I think, boys at that age have difficulty adjusting to such situations…” She paused, her guilt at her lack of true experience with such things making it difficult to meet the sardonic eyes of her employer. “It—it really is quite normal,” she lied as she ran a restless hand over the gleaming polished wood of the instrument, following the delicate grain with the sensitive pads of her fingertips in rhythmic strokes.
When she gathered the courage to glance up, she found Ravencroft’s eyes also focused on her stroking fingers with an alarming intensity. Curling her fingers, she quickly hid her hand behind her back.
“All right, Miss Lockhart. Ye’re the expert.” He didn’t look entirely convinced. “But I’ll not have my son behaving like a barbarian.”
“I understand,” Mena murmured, thinking that the distinction was strange coming from such a man as him.
Kissing his daughter on the forehead, he finally allowed his hard mouth to curve slightly. “There is only room for one at a time in this keep, eh, nighean?”
“Aye, Father,” Rhianna replied warmly.
Something tight and fearful unfurled from inside Mena and dissipated as she observed a tender moment bloom between father and daughter. Liam Mackenzie might be the Demon Highlander, but he loved his children. So why, she wondered, had he spent so much time away from them? Surely he could have retired his commission any time over the last several years and returned to Ravencroft Keep to raise his family. Their mother had been gone for nearly a decade, so why pick now to come home?
With one last fond pat of his daughter’s arm, he strode to the doorway. “I’ll be in the distillery this week,” he said, and disappeared around the stone arch.
Mena had barely remembered to breathe again when he reappeared, a devilish gleam in his eye. “Excuse me, ladies.” He executed a perfect bow, his eyes never leaving Mena’s, holding her captive with his indefinable intensity.
“There is no excuse for ye, Father.” Rhianna giggled again, shooing him away.
“But ye ken, even a barbarian can learn the ways of a gentleman if he has the right tutor.” With a lingering look that weakened Mena’s knees, and a quick wink at his daughter, he quit their company.
To Mena it seemed that every time she chanced to meet the marquess, she was introduced to someone new. The Demon Highlander, the barbaric clan chieftain, the regimented nobleman, and now, the fond and affectionate father. Each incarnation of Ravencroft, however, stared at her in the most disquieting manner. As if she were a mystery he planned to solve, or a secret he intended to uncover.
She’d rather be anything to him than that, for her secrets were too dangerous.
Heaving a deep sigh, Mena turned to Rhianna, who slid a knowing look in her direction.
“What did he call you just then … nighean?” Mena queried.
“It’s a Gaelic endearment for daughter.”
“Oh.” It had been lovely. Mena decided whilst she lived among the Highland people, she’d do well to learn some of their language.
“Well, let’s do see where your brother has run off to.” What she needed was a diversion from the unwelcome intrusion of the laird Mackenzie into almost every waking thought.
“Must we?” Rhianna whined. “He’s so dreary all the time.”
Mena slid her arm through the girl’s and they strolled over the lush carpets of the solarium. “You were very wicked today, tattling on him so,” she scolded gently.
“I know.” Rhianna shrugged and smirked. “I must get it from my father. He’s a brollachan, ye know.”
“A what?”
“A demon. Hadn’t ye heard?”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?” Mena scoffed, though a little thrill of anxiety touched the base of her neck. “That your father is a demon?”