Scot to the Touch (The Hots for Scots #7) - Caroline Lee Page 0,24

to give the other person the chance to study her mismatched eyes and react as they chose. Melba and the baker both looked a bit uncomfortable, but Duncan apparently hadn’t even noticed. Then she’d set out to charm them with her knowledge of their profession, asking questions and doling out quiet praise. Even those who were leery of her at the beginning, finished their visit beaming and nodding happily.

Aye, she was intriguing.

As they left the baker, Kiergan was lost in thought, not paying much attention to where he led her. It wasn’t until he noticed the dirt road had turned to grass when he realized they were strolling toward the stream which led through the meadow above the loch.

“Ye are verra popular with the villagers.”

Her observation startled him, and his gaze jerked to her. “I was just about to say the same about ye, Katlyn!”

She blushed, but he noticed those full lips of hers tug into a secret smile. She obviously appreciated his praise, and he knew he could make use of that.

Nay, ye’re no’ seducing her. She’s yer friend, remember?

“I’ve spent my life interacting with my clan and helping to run the keep. We had nae housekeeper, and Grandda relies on both me and Davina.” She shrugged daintily, her hand still in the crook of his arm. “I ken I’ll never be the lady of the keep, thanks to my curse, but I can run a household efficiently enough.”

His hold tightened momentarily. “Dinnae call it a curse, Kat.”

She didn’t seem to mind the diminutive. “What else would ye call it? Many cannae even look me in the eyes.”

And she hadn’t been offered as a marriage option. Had she ever believed marriage—bairns, a household, all the futures other lassies dreamed of—was a possibility for her?

“I dinnae ken,” he muttered. “But ye— I ken ye’re no’ cursed.”

Because how could a woman, as lovely and kind and witty as she, be cursed?

She took a deep breath. “Well, I’m comfortable dealing with tradespeople once they get used to my—my eyes.”

He wondered what she’d been about to say before she hesitated. Instead of asking, he responded to her original statement. “I’m no’ used to running the household, but I like people. I’ve spent many an hour chatting and drinking with them.”

For many years, that was all he’d been good at.

Mayhap she heard the bitterness in his tone because she peaked at him from under her lashes. “Kenning people and how they think—really kenning them—well, ‘tis an important leadership skill.”

He snorted. “Leadership? My father would be a fool to give me the lead of a rabid goat, much less a greater responsibility.”

She tugged him to a stop, and when he turned to meet her eyes, he had a hard time maintaining the nonchalant grin he was attempting as she studied him.

Finally, she shook her head. “I think that’s a lie, Kiergan.”

“Och, ‘tis,” he confessed. “Goats dinnae go rabid, remember?”

She nodded seriously. “I ken it. But were this particular goat rabid, I’m certain ye’d do an exemplary job caring for it. And yer clan.”

Her faith was jolting. He pulled away from her, stepping toward the stream and throwing a weak grin over his shoulder. “I doubt my clan would appreciate being put in the same category as a rabid goat. What’s his name?” he asked, in an attempt to distract her from this topic.

“The goat? Reginald. He used to be quite the charmer, until the whole catching-rabies thing.”

Surprised yet again by her wit, this time his lips curled more naturally as he bent to scoop up a water-rounded stone. “And this once-charming Reginald…ye think he’s worth less than my clan?”

“I ken it. The Oliphants love ye, Kiergan,” she said quietly. “ ’Tis clear from yer outing today.”

Without answering, he cocked his arm out to the side and skipped the stone across the water.

She hummed, then stepped up beside him. “Ye might joke about yer abilities, Kiergan, but ye are a fine man and could be a capable leader.”

Snorting, he turned away, looking for another stone. “I’m nae leader.”

“Ye told me yer brother gave ye the responsibility of the clan’s correspondence.”

As always, the reminder sent a burst of pride through his chest. “Aye,” he said nonchalantly, “and I’m damned good at it. ‘Tis my golden tongue, ye ken,” he added with a habitual wink.

She didn’t seem to notice—or at least, care—when she nodded seriously again. “Yer tongue is blessed, from what I’ve heard.” And before he could decide if that was a compliment, she continued, “Diplomacy is