“Och, woman. Enough.” He chuckled, adding his own silent litany. How beautiful, how adorable, how luscious . . . He leaned down and, pulling the sgian dubh from where it was tucked at his calf, cut a small handful of blooms that had taken root amidst the decorative paving stones.

“Don’t think you can change the subject with that sexy James Bond sock knife of yours,” she told him.

“Would you still that tongue for but one moment?”

“What’s that about my tongue, William Rollo?” she countered with a purr in her voice.

His unruly cock stirred in response.

“Ist,” he whispered, standing and stepping toward her. He moved slowly, and in the four paces to her side, he felt his heart drift from lighthearted, to focused, to somber.

Her face stilled to see the handful of humble flowers he’d plucked for her. Bright blue blooms atop long, thin stems. He felt suddenly nervous.

“Harebells,” he told her, placing the posy in her hand. “My favorite. Always so sunny and upright.” He tucked a loose bit of hair behind her ear, thinking he could as easily be describing Felicity as those flowers. “A tenacious wee blossom, just like you.”

“Oh, Will. They’re lovely.” She brought them to her nose, even though he knew they held not much scent beyond the freshness of green and sky. “Just perfect.”

She seemed at a loss for words, and the thought that he might have caught her off guard was surprisingly, deeply gratifying.

“They suit you.” He wondered at the ease he’d found with her, this newfound comfort that had loosened his tongue, giving him words enough to quiet one like Felicity. Cupping her cheek, he lay a chaste kiss on her forehead. “My wildest wee blossom of all.”

“Too bad my eyes aren’t blue to match,” she said with an awkward laugh.

“Your eyes . . .” He took her chin, tilted her face to his. “Never have I seen such expressive eyes. Lush and brown. Rich like the earth, like the trees. Beautiful beside your hair, yellow as the sun. Nay, Felicity, your eyes are just right.”

He saw tears shimmering in those eyes, and the sight stabbed him. “But whatever is the matter?” He gave her a gentle smile. “Should I have picked you some fine roses instead?”

“Oh no. I’m definitely not a roses girl. I . . .” She was quiet for a moment, studying the posy in her hand, and he was pleased to have moved her so. “Thank you,” she said finally.

She gave him a shy smile. “See, you say you’re not the chivalrous knight in shining armor, but I knew you would be.”

“No, lass, I said I wasn’t a Viking.” He tenderly kissed the moisture from the corner of each eye. “I am, however, most pleased to settle for knight.”

A bright, loud laugh burst from her, such a joyful feminine sound, and he couldn’t help but laugh with her. And the feel of it filled him, expanded him. So many years without joy, to laugh with this woman was intoxicating. A revelation, a rapture.

A gift without price.

“I see,” Robertson whispered. They watched from afar, through a break in the hedgerow. The minister trembled with some heightened emotion. “To speak so with your imbecilic father . . .”

“Aye,” Jamie said. His father, communicating? He couldn’t believe it. But still . . . he fought off a peculiar, discomfiting feeling.

“The physicians claim it was a spell,” Jamie continued with a stiffened mouth. “But I believe it was evil spirits that overran my father’s body. Dark demons, which rendered him mute. His eyes waver madly now, from the visions they sow in his head. Only a witch would converse with such a man.”

“So I see,” the minister said again.

And Jamie watched as Robertson’s face froze into a mask. Of alarm. Of shock. And a flicker of elation.

Chapter 17

Rollo’s gaze clung to the sight of Felicity on the path ahead of him. They walked among the precisely manicured hedges and stone statuary of his family’s formal gardens, and he couldn’t take his eyes off her.

More specifically, he couldn’t tear his gaze from the sight of her hips, swaying back and forth beneath all the godforsaken layers of fabric that hid her curves from him.

He didn’t know what he was doing. He needed to be paying mind to Jamie, trying to figure out what, exactly, the knave was about.

Or tending to his father, trying to connect with the man. Will had dozens of questions for him. To discover that he’d been in there, cognizant, all this time? It gave him a chill.

And then there was Ormonde. Will hoped the man was safe. His flame red hair didn’t offer much of a disguise if Jamie’s spies were about, and it’d be straight back to the Tower for him. Hopefully his message to Ormonde had been clear: Will wanted naught more to do with the Sealed Knot men.

No, there were many things Rollo needed to consider, and to do, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to tear his eyes from this woman. And so, here he was, strolling. The only thing commanding his attention, trying to imagine the curve of what would surely be a pale, sweet backside.

Thinking on it now, he realized he’d only given mind to how beautiful Felicity was. Lovely, with unguarded ways, always with her innocent chatter. She was like a light shining straight into the dark chambers of his heart.

But now he’d seen another, different facet. She was so much more than merely pretty. Watching her communicate with his father, Rollo realized just how special, just how extraordinary a woman she truly was.

Did all who met Felicity feel her light blaze straight into their hearts? He marveled at the thought.

She’d stopped on the path, and Will let himself walk right up along her back. He didn’t touch her. Such indiscretion would be too reckless so close to his family’s home.

But still, Rollo allowed himself to hover, just against her. Near enough to feel the heat of her through her gown. He pressed closer. Felt the give of fabric against his hardened groin.

She was sweet torture, this woman.

“Are you even listening, Will?”

No indeed. He took a deep breath in and exhaled through his teeth. “Apologies. You were saying?”

“These gardens . . .” She canted her head, studying a particularly extravagant topiary hedge. “This is nuts. Who takes care of all this stuff anyway?”

“My mother has people,” he replied, distractedly examining the hedge before him. “I’ve never given it thought. How peculiar,” he muttered suddenly. “Her tastes in topiary do seem to run to the . . . Byzantine.”

She giggled, bumping her hips back to nudge him. The brief jostling pressure had dark thoughts furrowing his brow. She was frisky as a kitten, and here he was, about to explode right on the spot.

He closed his eyes, breathing deeply to gather himself. But all that did was bring her scent more clearly to him. She’d washed her hair with something smelling of roses.

“I mean, you already live in the most spectacular garden in the world.” She waved her hand, gesturing toward the hills lining the horizon. “It’s just weird to me, this whole formal garden concept.”

“It . . . I . . .” What to say? What was she talking about? He needed to gather himself. His arm stretched stiffly toward the ground, gripping the cane at his side. His eyes went to her hair, the source of this scent that was suddenly driving him mad. “I see you finally sorted out the issue of your hair.”

“Huh?” She tilted her head to look up at him, and he thought the sight of those bright eyes trained only on him would surely be his undoing. “What on earth are you talking about, Will?”

He cleared his throat. “Your hair. You kept saying it was driving you mad. You seem to have sorted it out,” he added, his voice finally steady.

“Oh.” She seemed to visibly deflate. “No, it’s still making me batty.”

She lifted her hands to feel the mass of it at the nape of her neck. “I thought having it always in my eyes drove me crazy enough. But then some girl helped me this morning, and”—she ran her fingers along the tight looping bun—“ow!”

She shot him a dramatic pout. “She put pins in my hair. She kept sticking me, over and over. I swear she was using straight pins. I wouldn’t be surprised if I were bleeding under here. All I want,” she muttered on, “is a barrette, or a rubber band, or a scrunchie, or a head band, or a butterfly clip, or—”

“Hush,” Will whispered with a small smile on his face. “This is my home,” he said, letting his cane drop to the ground. “And when you are in my care”—he slowly ran his fingers along the sweep of her bun, carefully removing each pin, one by one, dropping them with exaggerated disdain to the grass—“you may wear your hair however you like.”

As he pulled the last pin free, her hair spilled down her back. Felicity shuddered in pleasure.

“Ohmygosh. That feels so . . .”

The feel of her hair loose. The feel of Will at her back. The feel of his fingers on her.

The sensations overwhelmed her. The man drove her crazy. Didn’t he see? Didn’t he see how good they were together? He was so caring, and gentle, and thoughtful, and he had no idea how great he was.

He was utterly silent, lacing his fingers in her hair, pulling them gently through. He rubbed her head. Massaged the nape of her neck. Traced his thumbs lightly around the curve of her ears. Brought his hands back up to scrape his fingertips lightly along her scalp.

“Oh that feels so good.” Felicity didn’t understand why it was that every woman in Perthshire, or wherever it was he’d said they were, wasn’t all over Lord William Rollo like white on rice. “Will, you have no idea, do you?”

“Hm?”

“You’ve got no idea,” she whispered, turning to face him. She pressed the front of her body against his. Feeling his arousal, her eyes widened.

“Ohh,” she said with a wicked smile. “Maybe you have some idea then.”

Felicity reached around to graze her hands lightly down his back, along his ass, stroked back up. He wore only his shirt and plaid, and the rough wool clung to her palms. The fabric slid over his body, and she felt each curve of muscle and flesh.