Too Scot to Hold (The Hots for Scots #8) - Caroline Lee Page 0,10

places with Fiona, and Finn’s going to have to go with her so she doesnae fall over— Och, lassie, I’m just teasing ye! Evie, let Liam sit with his Uncle Alistair, and Lara, ye switch places with her. Good! Now, Graham, ye’ll sit…there, aye.”

As the family began the process of rearranging themselves—laughing and teasing at the laird’s high-handed commands—Davina felt herself freeze. Her blood went cold, her heart stuttered, and her breath paused half-in, half-out of her lungs.

Graham.

She was expected to sit beside Graham?

In front of her, the finely set table swam out of focus, blackness creeping toward the edges of her vision. Not only was she going to have to acknowledge him, but she’d also have to sit beside him? To know he was close enough to touch? To smell his scent and remember what it felt like to be held by him?

Blessed Virgin, even now she could imagine his heat—

”Breathe, Vina.”

The command came from over her right shoulder, his gentle brogue laced with faint laughter. That’s why she recognized his warmth! Before Davina could think, she sucked in a breath and whirled to face him, the motion making her light-headed after her dazed moment.

Unfortunately, he realized it and concern flashed across his face as he reached for her arms to catch her. “Steady, lass. ‘Twill no’ be so hard, will it? Sitting beside me?”

There was a mocking note in his voice, but when she met his dark blue eyes, she saw a hint of hurt there too.

He was…hurt she didn’t want to sit beside him? But it was he who had been the one who’d—

Och, dinnae think of it. Just sit beside him at the meal, dinnae speak, dinnae think of him. Make it through this, and ye can escape to yer room.

So, remembering to breathe—steady, steady—she looked away, pulled herself out of his hold, and sank as gracefully as possible into the chair beside him. ‘Twas not a comfortable chair, but the hard seat would give her something else to focus on.

Besides the way his shoulders look in that Oliphant plaid—

Curse her wayward mind! ‘Twas not helping!

He didn’t try to speak to her again as he settled beside her, but he was impossible to ignore. ‘Twas as if her body were somehow attuned to his in a way she hadn’t realized. Just knowing he was beside her meant her entire right side vibrated with anticipation as it reacted to his warmth.

Last summer, after he’d learned of her grandfather’s plan to marry her to an Oliphant, Graham had met her here. He’d researched the history of the castle and had known of the secret passages. That first night, when he’d stepped through the wall to crouch beside her in bed, she’d screamed first from fright, and then from joy.

And later, she’d screamed his name.

He hadn’t taken her virginity, although she’d offered herself. He’d said he wouldn’t, not until her grandfather welcomed him as her husband. Since Grandda was holding out for a strong alliance, the bastard nephew of the MacVanish Laird wasn’t good enough.

Unfortunately, he’d also been unimpressed with Graham’s personal qualities, to the point where even after ‘twas revealed Graham was really an Oliphant, Grandda wanted naught to do with him. The old man had done his best to keep Davina away from Graham after that, but the secret passages had still been useful.

The night before Davina departed for Mull, Graham had vowed to find a way for them to be together.

And here they were, together again, but not the way either had imagined.

“Bread, Vina?”

Damnation! She couldn’t ignore him when he insisted on speaking to her!

“Aye, thank ye,” she replied stiffly, keeping her eyes anywhere but on him.

A piece of brown bread slid onto her trencher beside the oysters, and she was pleased to have some way to soak up the broth. Automatically, she reached for the bread, but her stomach was still clenched tightly enough she knew she wouldn’t be able to taste a thing.

Around them, conversations swirled, and vaguely, she could hear Finn cajoling his wife into eating something, despite Fiona’s pinched face. Down the table, someone laughed, and Laird Oliphant was murmuring quietly to Moira. But around Davina and Graham, there was a little pocket of silence which grew more and more oppressive.

“The wine…‘tis good,” he said. She was determined not to look at him, but she saw his hand—that slightly callused, yet incredibly talented hand—reach for his goblet. “I’m glad my father’s family doesnae follow Lenten privations too closely.”

“Yer father’s family?” she blurted,