His silvery eyes dropped to her lips, and she knew he thought of kissing her. She gave a shiver of wanton anticipation. “Not here, Mackinnon,” she whispered.
“Och, why did I marry such a troublesome wench?” he said in mock despair. “A good Scots lass would kiss her lord and master when he asks.”
“Whereas your Italian bride retains some grip on decorum.”
“Blast decorum,” he said, sliding his arm free of her waist and catching her gloved hand.
“I promise to be very indecorous later, amore.”
“I cannae wait,” he murmured, brushing his lips across her knuckles.
“Marina, you’re a grand success. Congratulations.”
She shook herself out of the daze she always tumbled into when her husband set out to beguile her and turned to greet Fergus’s friend, Hamish Douglas.
“Good evening, Hamish.” When she kissed his cheek, she had to stretch up to reach him. He was as large as a small mountain, and as fair and handsome as a young Viking. “When did you arrive?”
“An hour ago. Diarmid is here, too.”
“Oh, I hope I see him.”
&n
bsp; Since her wedding, life at Achnasheen had proven more convivial than she’d expected. Diarmid and Hamish were regular visitors, as were Fergus’s sisters and their families.
Poor Mary and Clarissa. They’d never recovered from their shock at how casually Marina treated their brother’s authority. She could see where he’d picked up the wrong-headed idea that women were fragile flowers who needed a male to protect them from life’s harsh winds. She was glad she’d disabused him of that notion.
Eighteen months of marriage had witnessed the occasional clash, but she and Fergus had both learned to compromise, or even upon occasion lose a battle. With each conflict that found its resolution, their trust in one another grew stronger and more certain.
And there were benefits to their infrequent arguments. Marina and her husband had marked the start of each truce with some spectacular encounters in the laird’s tower bedroom.
“I’ve asked Signor Lucchetti to save me one of the waterfall pictures, and I believe Diarmid means to buy the painting of the Cuillins.” Hamish gestured to where his lean, dark-haired cousin was chatting to Marina’s father. “I hope he’s in time. Soon the only pictures that haven’t sold tonight will be the ones that the Duke of Portofino lent for the exhibition.”
As Fergus had foretold, Marina’s move to the wilds of Scotland hadn’t damaged her burgeoning career. His Grace, the Duke, had been delighted with the twelve pictures she sent him and had commissioned more. From the moment the first suite of Achnasheen paintings went on show at the ducal palace, his aristocratic friends had clamored for views of Scotland to decorate their own fine houses. She and Fergus had since traveled across the Highlands, seeking out beautiful places for her to paint, although nothing in her opinion could compare with the glories of her home.
Marina’s fears that Fergus might resent her dedication to her art proved unfounded. He was proud of her talent. Not only that, he was delighted that because of her work, the world learned to admire his beautiful homeland.
Life was grand. Now they expected a child in late summer, it promised to become even better. She felt blessed beyond what anyone could deserve.
Diarmid and her father approached. Since breaking his leg, Ugolino had visited Achnasheen three times. On his last trip, he’d brought Giulia, the plump, easygoing widow he’d married not long before Christmas.
Giulia was here tonight, charming potential purchasers with her broken English and flashing green eyes. Much of Papa’s spectacular record as Marina’s Italian agent stemmed from her new stepmother’s skills in persuading older gentlemen to buy the artworks.
“Dolcissima, you’re a wild success,” Papa said, once Marina and Diarmid had greeted one another. “The Prince Regent’s secretary has just bought two pictures, and the fellow says His Royal Highness will likely want more for Carlton House. You’re under royal patronage now, figlia mia.”
“Papa, you amaze me,” she said.
Fergus scowled at his father-in-law, stouter and more cheerful than ever since he’d settled down with Giulia. “That fat pretender is lucky to have a painting by my supremely gifted wife.”
“Hush, caro,” she said. Her husband was no lover of a Hanoverian Royal family he dismissed as mere usurpers on the throne that rightfully belonged to the Stuarts. “Once His Highness has paid for his pictures, you can harangue me about the Jacobite cause to your heart’s content.”
“Brava ragazza.” Her father’s glance was admiring. “I’ve taught you the worth of a shilling.”
“And a florin, Papa,” Marina said with a laugh.
“That’s what a Scotsman needs, a thrifty wife,” Diarmid said.
Fergus’s half-smile had been much in evidence tonight. It reappeared now. “Nice to hear ye thinking about marriage, laddie. Does that mean you’ve got a lass in mind at last?”