“Liam, I told ye, and aye,” he said with a nod.
A crease appeared between her dark eyebrows. “It’s not proper for me to call you by your Christian name.”
“Do ye always do what’s proper?” he teased and then paused, shocked by himself. What had overcome him? He had teased this woman twice in a short span of time. But when she colored fiercely and her chest rose with a sharp breath, he found he was glad something strange had taken hold of him.
“Yes,” she growled as she quirked her head in thought. “Is it customary in the Highlands to call people by their Christian names?”
“Aye,” he answered, stealing a side glance as they walked so he could see her face again. The vehemence her tone had held seconds before surprised him, but she again spoke before he could question her about it.
“If we chance across each other and no one else is around, you may call me Cecelia,” she whispered, as if someone might overhear, “and I will call you Liam. Butplease, I beg of you, if you ever see me when someone else is near, you shall call me Miss Cartwright and I shall call you Lord MacLeod. Do we have an agreement?”
He didn’t hesitate to nod. He could sense how important this was to her.
This time the emotion that swept across her face—stark relief—made his chest squeeze. She was so worried over something that seemed so harmless to him. He was not even sure why it unsettled him, as he had only just met her.
“Liam, did you hear me?”
Chuckling, he slowed his step a bit, hoping to prolong their time together. “Nay. I was woolgathering. I beg yer pardon.”
She waved her hand airily and offered a genuine smile that was more glorious than any cloudless day in the Highlands. “Oh,” she said in an understanding voice, “it’s quite all right. I woolgather all the time!”
He never did. Ever. He was single-minded, purposeful, and driven in every action and thought. Always. As laird of the MacLeod clan, he had to be, which left him more than confused by how this woman he had just met had managed to make him act out of character. “What did ye ask me?”
Her smile turned thoughtful, causing two dimples to appear on her face. He wanted to run the pad of his finger over the indentations. “I asked what you thought of London,” she said. “Or have you been here before?”
He shook his head. “This is the first time, but so far, I must admit I don’t care for London.”
“I don’t care for it, either,” she replied, surprising him with her honest remark.
He ceased walking, though that meant they were now standing in front of the home with the red door. Facing her, he said, “Because of the insipid women of theton?”
She laughed, and every single thing about it beckoned to him. Her head tilted to the right, making her hair fall over her petite shoulder and inviting him to touch the silky tresses. Her eyes sparkled, and the sound of her laughter— Ah, but he could listen to that light, musical note all night long.
“Yes,” she said once she had gotten her laughter under control. “And the gentlemen who have no right to put the wordgentlein front of the wordmen.”
He didn’t know who had wronged her, but he had a sudden burning desire to use his fists. “I’m sorry,” he replied, seeing pain flash in her eyes.
She pressed her hands to her cheeks. “I should not have said that!” Her eyes rounded, looking very much like two large walnuts faded to a golden color by the summer sun. “I don’t know what came over me to speak so plainly. I daresay, I know better.”
“I rather like yer plain speech,” he admitted, happily taking his cue from her. “There does not seem to be much of it here in London. Where I live on the Isle of Skye in Scotland, true speech is our way.”
When her mouth parted slightly, he wasn’t sure if he had offended her, so he added, “Or perhaps I’ve simply misjudged?”
“No,” she said with a laugh that lacked the bitterness he might have expected given her remarks of moments ago about the gentlemen. “You’ve not misjudged. One rarely hears the truth from another in theton. The way here is to speak what you know someone wants to hear, unless you truly dislike the person or think he or she is not even worth speaking to at all. Then you either give him or her the cut direct or gossip about him or her in whispers behind your fan.”
As she relayed the information, her face displayed one emotion after another, and he found himself unable to look away. Anger, hurt, and defiance flitted across her face, and finally, the acceptance of the inevitable settled on her delicate features. It angered him that she would accept such things, as he felt sure she spoke from personal experience.
“Is this what ye do or others do?” he inquired, seeking to ensure he was not misunderstanding simply because he was attracted to her.
She paused and offered him a startled look. “Me? Oh, no, I would never do such a thing, which I’m sure is one of my gravest flaws.”
“I’ve a hard time imagining ye have any,” he replied, hearing the huskiness in his voice.
Her lashes swept downward to veil her eyes for a moment before she met his gaze with her now-serious one. “You’ve only just met me. I assure you, I have many.”
“Name one,” he challenged, reveling in the easy, honest banter.
She pressed her lips together on a smirk. “I have spoken far more honestly than is wise. I’m not sure why.” She stared at him as if she was trying to untangle a knot and he was the knot.
