The Highland Laird (Lords of the Highlands #8) - Amy Jarecki Page 0,87

making him step lightly.

He paused to pluck a few blushing pink foxgloves. Closer to the river, he found daisies in full bloom as well as corn marigolds. The only other time he’d ever picked wildflowers he’d been a wee lad trying to impress his mother. Until he’d met Emma he’d rarely paid much attention to flowers.

The sound of the falls began to rush as he neared the bridge. Staying hidden in the brush, he peered up and down the road. When he spotted no one, he dashed from his hiding place and sprinted across the bridge, through the scrub, and didn’t stop until he was safely hidden by the stone bower walls.

Ciar laughed as he turned full circle. There he stood, a man of eight and twenty behaving like a lad of sixteen.

Fancy what a wisp of a woman had reduced him to. Yet there was no other place he wanted to be at the moment. His skin tingled with anticipation. He needed her in his arms. He absolutely had to know she was safe and happy and thoroughly, undeniably, utterly in love with him.

Ciar paced, checking his pocket watch every half minute. The bower was a round, medieval-looking shelter. An empty brazier stood in the middle, surrounded by wooden benches. If he had to guess, a great number of clan stories had been passed down in this place. He took a length of leather thong from his sporran and tied it around the flowers to make a posy.

It was half past noon. She ought to arrive any moment. Had she tripped and fallen? Did Robert prevent her from venturing outside? Was her wound causing too much pain?

When a twig snapped outside, he pressed himself against the wall and held his breath…until Emma stepped through the archway.

A ray of sunlight captured the coppery highlights of her hair. Standing in the threshold, she held her head high and remained very still, radiant in the light as if she were an angel. With a quick inhale, she turned her head his way. “You’re here,” she whispered.

“Aye, lass.” Taking her hands, he pulled her behind the walls and into his arms. “Only you would have sensed my presence.”

“I’d find you anywhere. You smell like cedar, spice, and a wee bit of magic.” She rose on her toes as her arms wrapped around him. “Och, only you can make me swoon even when you’re paces away.”

“God, I’ve missed you.”

Before she could reply, he covered her mouth with a kiss. As she melted against him, he ran his hands up her spine and allowed himself to devour her. Dear God, he’d craved to have her in his arms every moment since he’d found her missing at Gylen.

“Ciar,” she sighed, dropping her head back while his mouth explored her neck, her delicate cheekbones, her eyelids, until he nuzzled her ear. “I’m so happy.”

Forcing himself to calm his ravenous desire, he laced his fingers through hers and took a step away. “Why are you happy, mo leannan?

“Because you are here with me now. And because…”

Ciar grinned at her blush. “Because?”

“Of what Robert said.”

How could he be so daft? He’d been so overcome by the sight of her, he’d forgotten the most important part of his duty. Lowering himself on one knee, he swept the posy from the bench and took one of her hands in his palm.

He cleared his throat, gazing at pure beauty. “Emma Grant, you have shown me things about the world around us that I never would have stopped to notice. And yet they are such important things. Like the heavenly scent of honeysuckle. You have enriched me mind, body, and soul. You, my love, have made me a better man, and I cannot imagine existing without you.”

A tear splashed on her cheek, accompanied by her blissful laugh.

His chest swelled at the sound. “Will you do me the honor of agreeing to be my wife?”

She nodded before she managed to find the word. “Aye.”

He took her palm and pressed it against his cheek, then kissed it reverently. “You have made me the happiest man in all of Christendom.”

“And I am the happiest woman.”

Remembering the posy, he stood and placed it in her hand. “I picked these flowers for you—a gift I thought would escape suspicion when you return to Moriston Hall.”

She lightly brushed her fingers over the petals. “Exquisite.”

“The first I found on my journey to the bower is a spray of foxglove. It reminds me of your cheerful nature, your kindness, of how