The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,12

drawn to the alluring nectar of the honeysuckle and I’ll show you a person who hasn’t lived.” Good Lord, she was confident for a lass who’d been cloistered in Glenmoriston all her life. “Now tip up your chin and open your eyes.”

Ciar slowly opened his eyes and saw only the yellow trumpet-shaped flowers framed by green. “But they’re so small.”

“Does a flower’s size matter?” Throwing her arms wide, Emma turned her face to the trellis, her smile radiating with sunshine. “See why I cannot decide which I love better?”

“You are remarkable.”

Suddenly serious, her brow furrowed. “Why is that?”

“Because you have such a unique perspective. No tutor of mine ever led me beneath a trellis and asked me to close my eyes.”

“’Tis a pity. There is so much to be experienced with senses other than sight. At least, for me.”

“I reckon you’re right.” Ciar again placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. “Where to now? Is there lilac in bloom?”

“Nay, silly, ’tis too late in the season.”

A yap came from the other side of the hedge, then another.

Emma gasped. “What—?”

“Haste,” Ciar said, spotting Janet under the arbor, now deep in conversation with her stepmother, Lady Lochiel. The two women were completely ignoring him. Thank God. Deciding there was no harm in slipping out of sight for a moment, he led Emma around the hedge.

They found a lad rolling in the grass with two black dogs, one a pup at an awkward, nearly grown stage.

“Do you like dogs?” Ciar asked.

“Like them? I absolutely adore them.”

“Come,” he said as he led Emma toward the boy. “Are your hounds friendly?”

The lad looked up, shading his eyes from the sun. “Aye, sir. If ye are friendly to them.”

Uninvited, Emma promptly sat, tucking her legs and skirts to the side. “What is your name?”

“Sam. Me da’s the coachman.”

The younger dog climbed onto Emma’s lap, planted two white-socked paws on her chest, and licked her face. Giggling, she wrapped him in an embrace. “This one is awfully familiar.”

Ciar kneeled beside her, ready to take charge if need be. The dog’s exuberance was a bit overbearing, but the chime of Emma’s laughter made him hesitate. Had he ever heard her make such a happy sound?

Sam slung his arm over the larger of the pair. “The pup’s name is Albert. And this is his ma.”

“Like Albert the Great?” Emma asked, hugging the overgrown, squirming ball of fur, stretching to keep her face away from his overactive tongue.

“Not exactly.” The lad scratched the bitch behind the ears. “He was the runt of the litter. I’ve sold them all except this fella.”

Emma raked her fingers through the dog’s thick coat. “How many were there?”

“Six.”

Albert circled and made himself comfortable amongst the volumes of the lass’s skirts and rested his head on her knee. “Och, he’s precious. I care not if he’s different from his littermates. He has mettle in his bones. I can sense it.”

Ciar scratched the little fella behind the ears. “It looks as if you’ve found a friend.”

“Emma!” Janet called.

Hopping to his feet, Ciar strode to the hedge’s end. “We’re here, m’lady.”

As Janet stepped around the foliage, her lips formed an O. “Leave it to my sister-in-law to find a dog, or a lamb, or a baby goat, for that matter.”

“The pup’s for sale, m’lady,” said Sam. “They’re water dogs. None smarter. Ken how to paw the water to attract fish, they do.”

Emma’s face brightened. “Truly?”

Janet sniffed. “I can only imagine riding back to Glenmoriston with a young dog in tow. He’ll run after every rabbit he sees. And you can tell by his feet he’s not yet fully grown.”

“How old is Albert?” asked Emma.

Sam stood. “Nine months, near enough.”

Emma smoothed her fingers down Albert’s coat. “Well, I think he’s perfect.”

“He’s quite sweet, I’m sure. However, now is not the time.” Janet grasped Emma’s hands and pulled her up. “My dear, I’ve just had a word with Lady Lochiel, and she is ecstatic to have you give a recital tomorrow evening.”

“So soon?” Emma cringed.

“Aye, and you’ll be marvelous as always.”

“But there are so many people here. They might not…”

“Not what?” Ciar asked, a bit of heat flaring up the back of his neck.

The lass huffed. “They might not approve of me.”

Every muscle in his body clenched. He hated superstitious dimwits. “If anyone says an untoward word, I will personally invite them outside and readjust their priorities.”

“This is your extended family,” Janet added. “My kin love you just as yours do in Glenmoriston. I promise, there is nothing