Page 48 of Kidnapping Cordelia

“I’m away, then,” Dugald said, striding off before Muir could stop him.

Cursing the man for leaving him to fend off Rona alone, Muir turned back to her. “Well?”

“What this I hear about some little English princess staying here and making sheep’s eyes at ye?” she asked, moving closer to him.

Muir took a step back and shrugged. “Ye must mean my betrothed,” he said, hoping Delia would forgive him the falsehood, and hopeful it would no longer be false by this afternoon.

“Betrothed? Don’t be daft, Muir. Why the devil would ye go marrying some silly little Sassenach chit? Ye need a helpmeet, someone who can work with ye and grow the farm into something greater than it is now.” She stepped closer, reaching for him, but Muir grasped her wrists, holding her off.

“’Tis none of yer affair, and the farm is growing just fine, I thank ye. I have made my choice, Rona, and it’s not yerself. It would never be, as I’m certain I have told ye afore now.”

“But she’s nae even Scottish!” Rona said in disgust. “And she disnae ken one end of a sheep from the other. Why in God’s name would ye marry such a one?”

“That’s none of yer affair, Rona, so keep yer nose out of my business,” he said, even as he considered the question for his own sake.

A warm feeling burst in his chest as he thought of Delia, of the way she challenged him about everything, of her earnest desire to learn about sheep, about how it felt to hold her in his arms. The realisation that his feelings for her had grown far stronger than he had ever expected over the past weeks had hit him hard yesterday and seemed to grow brighter and stronger with each hour that passed. He was suddenly nervous about asking her again if she would marry him. Though he had no reason to expect her to refuse him—why else had she stayed and begun reading books on sheep? —the idea that she might made him feel slightly sick.

His distraction was such that he did not react quickly enough as Rona threw herself at him, using an old trick she had learned as a girl, and hooking her leg around his, pulling him off balance.

It would never have worked if his thoughts had not been elsewhere but, as it was, Muir went down like a felled tree, with Rona landing atop him. She straddled his hips, pressing herself against him and putting her mouth on his. Muir froze, so shocked he could not react for a moment, and then he reached for her hands that were roaming over his chest, pushing her backwards. He opened his mouth to tell her just what he thought of her behaviour but did not get the chance to speak.

“Good afternoon, Muir. Is everything quite all right? You seem to be having a little difficulty.”

Muir glanced up, horrified to see Delia standing beside them, looking down with a placid but politely curious expression on her face.

“Delia!” he exclaimed, panic bursting in his chest. “’Tis nae what it looks like, I swear it.”

“Really?” Delia asked, wrinkling her nose. “Because it looked to me as if this young woman—I beg your pardon, I do not know your name,” she told Rona with a cool smile. “Well, it looked as though she forced herself upon you.”

“Oh,” Muir said stupidly, so relieved his wits seemed to have abandoned him. “Aye. In that case, it’s exactly what it looks like.”

Delia nodded, apparently satisfied by his explanation.

“Rona, this is Lady Cordelia Steyning. My fiancée,” he added, shooting a glance at Delia to see how she took this.

Rona, blushing for the first time Muir could ever remember, got to her feet and smoothed her skirts down.

“Rona Telfer,” Rona said grudgingly, glaring at Delia.

“Good afternoon, Miss Telfer,” Delia said with a smile. “I do hope you will excuse us, but Muir has promised to take me for a picnic, and you know what betrothed persons are like. Three is a crowd.”

“Yer really to marry her, then?” Rona said, eyeing Delia’s pretty lace-trimmed gown with a disparaging eye.

“Yes, he is. Next week,” Delia said, flashing a dazzling smile. “So, you may congratulate us.”

“Aye, well… congratulations,” Rona said sourly, before stalking off to her pony, mounting unaided, and riding off again.

Muir let out a breath as the woman disappeared. “Thank ye,” he said, the words sincere. “And thank ye for not thinking I’d be such a numpty as to play ye false.”

“Of course,” Delia said, but her voice was uncertain now, her gaze still fixed upon the retreating figure of Rona as she rode away.

“Delia?”

She turned then, looking up at him.

“Did ye mean what ye said, lassie? Will ye marry me next week? For I admit, I have spent the morning getting up the nerve to ask ye again.”

“You have?” she asked, her soft mouth curving a little at the corners.