Amanda Scott by Highland Princess

must have been profound.
    The result had been as if a dam had broken, releasing a torrent of praise for her ladyship. Directing the conversation after that had been child’s play, and he had soon learned that her ladyship delighted in early-morning rides, that she had been unable to indulge that pleasure at Dunyvaig, from whence she had just returned, and that she would almost certainly want to ride first thing in the morning.
    Thus, Lachlan had set himself to wake before dawn, had ordered his horse saddled, and had ridden across the causeway into the woodland before her, soon finding a concealed vantage point from which he could watch for her to follow.
    Keeping her in sight had been easy, although for a time he’d had to be careful not to let her see him. But the only time she had nearly done so was when she had paused to watch the sunrise, and after that she had seemed to care only about her destination, because she had ridden without once looking back.
    She lingered on the headland only a moment or two, gazing northward at a calm sea. Then, abruptly, she wheeled the gray, leaned over its withers, and urged it forward. Responding at once, it galloped across the strip of sand, its long tail banner high. The lass’s glorious ebony hair, loosed from its plaits, streamed like a second banner behind her. Despite the distance between them, he could see her wide smile, and found himself grinning in response.
    Without further thought, he spurred the powerful bay he rode, and it too leaped forward, as eager for the run as he was.
    Mairi breathed in the tangy salt air, wanting to shriek her delight as Hobyn pounded along the sandy shore toward a line of boulders that formed an uneven barrier from the waterline into the thick growth of shrubbery at the high-water mark. As she drew near, she reined to a slower pace, then to a halt.
    The day was fine despite the overcast. The sea was calm, the shallow loch even more so, and the sand looked warm and inviting. Impulsively, she slid to the ground, retaining her hold on the reins as she did. Then, taking off her cloak, she heaped it on one boulder as she sat on another to pull off her soft leather boots.
    Barefoot, she stood and wriggled her toes in the sand. Then, chuckling to herself like a merry child, she pulled the gray higher onto the shore and looped the reins over a branch of scrub. Then, hoisting her skirts above her knees, she ran between two of the boulders to the flat, clear stretch of sand beyond. Water lapped at the shore, rhythmic and gentle with airy foam in place of the surf that often thundered in from the north, so the tide was clearly on the turn. Although thoughts of surf and tide distracted her briefly, the temptation to test the water soon proved too much, and she ran onto the wet sand, finding it cool to her bare feet but not cold enough to discourage her from testing the water.
    As the next wave spilled onto the beach, she splashed through it, squealing as the chilly water kissed her ankles. Then, laughing, she ran on, skipping and kicking the water with a child’s delight until she stopped to watch two brown and white redshanks fighting over flotsam they had found on the beach, their long red legs making them easy to identify. The victor took wing with its snatched prize, and the other followed with angry, excited babble. The flight of both—fast, erratic, with jerky wing beats—held her fascination briefly until she heard hoofbeats thudding toward her across the sand.
    Whirling, she saw the horseman bearing down on her, having barely slowed to negotiate the line of boulders. She knew instantly who it was, and her heart, although still pounding hard from her run, quickened its beat.
    He slowed his mount, reining it to a halt while still some distance away, as if he were afraid he might frighten her if he rode too close.
    Moments passed. At last, moving cautiously, still watching her, he eased a leg over the horse’s withers and slid to the ground.
    The