Chieftain Read Online Free PDF

who likens you to a pig deserves to languish in a sty, and I’d be lying if I said other than you are a pleasure to look upon. ’Twas always so.”
    She started down the steep steps. “Thank you for that, my lord. Have you questions about the keep?”
    He had dozens, and he had also years to obtain the answers. “What was here before?”
    “A thriving crop of bracken, with heather and gorse for color and peat bogs for aroma.”
    He chuckled at her lighthearted reply and received a smile. The wordless exchange was oddly satisfying and completely unexpected. “How much land do we hold?”
    She glided gracefully down the steps, a gentle breeze lifting her coif and revealing a coil of wheat-colored braids at the nape of her neck. And she smelled of heather, his favorite fragrance.
    “I own the land and control the water within one day’s ride in all directions, according to the writ the old king granted to me.”
    Me. Her stressed use of the singular verified her new independent nature. He’d break her of that bad habit, too. “How much of it do we farm?”
    “I lease it to the tenants. In exchange I reap first fruit of their labor.”
    If she wanted a contest of wills over pronouns, he’d gladly oblige. “What do we do with the profits?”
    “With last year’s tallage, I built four new houses, from which I now collect rents.” She stopped halfway down the hill and pointed to several of the buildings that he had admired moments before. “I also set aside enough money for liming of the fallow fields. ’Tis proven to enrich the soil.”
    Her businesslike account of her stewardship of the land shocked him as much as his own desire for her. Exploring her charms would have to wait; for now he would delve into her mind. “I thought assuming responsibility made you sore at heart.”
    Her lips tightened, drawing his attention to her finely angled jaw. He’d like to put his mouth there and taste the flowers of Scotland on her skin.
    She stared at the gatehouse. “It once did, but thanks to you, circumstances forced me to overcome my weaknesses.”
    She was condemning him for defending his culture and his land against Edward I and leaving her to fend for herself. “Had you not bedded a prince, the Macqueens would have taken you in. You could have lived in safety in the bosom of my clan.”
    A shrug rippled her mantle. “I’m happy here.” Picking up the hem of her dress, she hurried down the remainder of the steps.
    In the interest of harmony, Drummond dropped the subject of what she should have done. Although he had spent years anguishing over the state of affairs of Clan Macqueen, he had eventually given up hope of returning to the Highlands. A lifetime of loyalty pulled at him, and like dried leaves tossed on hot coals, his yearning for Scotland burst into a fiery need. If she would but admit her infidelity, he would gift her with this demesne, take Alasdair and head north. His family would welcome him. They would also name Alasdair the son of a whore, for they all knew she had given herself to an Englishman.
    For years Drummond had hated her for that. “Who helped you?” he snapped.
    At his angry tone, she drew back and glared at him. “A league of Roman engineers rose from the dead and bade me let them build this keep,” she snapped back. “I sat upon a tufted silk throne and nibbled pomegranates and figs while they struck up the castle of my dreams.”
    A moment after his mind began working again, Drummond choked with laughter. How queer, he thought that she had become so entertaining and distracting.
    She crossed the well-tended lane. “I learned many skills at the abbey.”
    Did she regret the preposterous outburst? Why? Suddenly he felt driven to know more about her. He thought of the stories she’d told of her childhood. “You learned from Sister Margaret?”
    “Some knowledge came from her.”
    She obviously didn’t want to discuss it, which was peculiar, because her childhood had been a