The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,11
been around Grant’s sister enough to know she wasn’t one to ask for help, whether she needed it or not. “Allow me.”
“Thank you,” she said, reaching back. “My cane.”
Janet grasped the walking stick and shifted it away from Emma’s fingers. “You oughtn’t need it if you’re on the arm of His Lairdship.”
Ciar eased Emma’s hand to his elbow as he arched a brow at the lady. What was she up to? Playing matchmaker? These parties were all the same. There was always someone trying to convince him to take a wife, and if Janet continued along this line, she’d end up sorely disappointed.
“Agreed,” he said. Hell, why not enjoy Miss Emma while he was there? She was amusing, and as long as she was on his arm, no other lass would vie for his attention, which was fine by him. “I’ll be your guide.”
“And if you should need assistance,” Janet added, “remember I will be within earshot.”
“Yes, m’lady.” Ciar craned his neck, searching the vast garden. “Now where are these roses?”
“Down the path to your right,” said Emma.
Again, he slapped his thigh with his crop as he led the way. “How do you ken?”
“I can smell them from here.”
He sniffed; the air was pleasant but not heady with the fragrance of roses. “Are they your favorite flowers?”
“Must I have a favorite?”
“Absolutely not.”
Twenty paces or so on, they came to the rows of blooms. “Here they are.”
She stopped at a vine, its branches bowed with the weight of a multitude of brilliant pink roses. Closing her eyes, she leaned forward, inhaled deeply, then cradled a flower as if she’d known exactly where it was. “This is exquisite.”
Suddenly more relaxed than he’d been in ages, he agreed, “It is.”
What was it about Miss Emma that always seemed to put him at ease? That she couldn’t see him? Or was it her unabashed enthusiasm for everything around her? She seemed to harbor none of the false pretenses of so many young ladies who attended parties and gatherings only to whisper behind their fans and pretend to be aloof. In fact, there was never anything false about this young woman.
“The petals are softer than lamb’s fleece.” She breathed in again, her face rapturous as if she were capturing the essence of the rose. “And its bouquet is pure.”
Straightening, Emma almost looked him in the eye. Hers were a haunting shade of pale blue and grew lighter in the sun. At the moment her eyes looked to be flecked with silver. “Do you know what I think?”
“I have no idea.”
A brilliant smile spread across her delicate pink lips. “Heaven smells of roses.”
He couldn’t help but grin along with her. Only Emma would make such a comment with such unquestioned conviction. “So, you do favor them?”
“Aye, but there is lavender in heaven as well.”
“Just roses and lavender?”
“Oh, no.” She tugged his hand and started off. “Come this way!”
“Are you leading me now?”
“I am. But please ensure I do not step off the path and fall into a patch of brambles.”
“I think Lochiel’s garden is too well maintained to worry about those.”
She pursed her lips, giving a wee snort. “Thorns, then. The roses have already managed to prick my finger as well as snag my hem.”
Ciar shifted her hand to his elbow. “Never to worry, lass. I’ll nay allow you to tread where you oughtn’t.”
“Thank you.”
As they crossed beneath a trellis, Emma abruptly stopped. “Here.”
“What—”
“Close your eyes and breathe!” she demanded with utmost urgency.
As Ciar obeyed, a sweet, heady fragrance enveloped him while a dreamy sense of calm pulsed through his blood. “Astonishing,” he whispered.
“The bees are at work.”
“Hmm?”
“Shhh. Just listen.”
The buzz of a bee came from above and then another from the right. A slight breeze rustled the vine’s leaves.
Emma stood very still for a time while all the worries of the world faded. “Are your eyes still closed?”
“Aye.”
“Promise to keep them shut.”
“Why? So the fairy folk can come and play tricks?” he jested.
“Nay,” she whispered as the softest brush of a petal caressed his cheek and slowly traced a circular pattern, gradually moving over the bridge of his nose and then down to just above his lips.
He grinned at the tickle.
“Tell me what you sense.”
Women and whisky, he nearly growled, but doing so would be utterly inappropriate. “Ah…the sweetness of honey, a feather mattress with new linens, aaaand…”
As he opened his mouth, sweetness spread across his tongue. “Mm.” The sound came out lazily as if he’d been abed all day.