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Rankin approached, headdress feathers waving, silk and satin trains sliding like plumed tails. “That was no proper kiss at all from the king,” Charlotte said. “I expected something much more genteel and memorable.”
    “You cannot expect something romantical from the king,” Lucie reasoned.
    “Struan!” Sir Philip peered behind the rhododendron. “And Miss MacArthur! What are you doing back there? We fellows must make up the deficit for the ladies. Like so!” Leaning toward Charlotte, he kissed her quickly on the lips.
    “Oh!” Charlotte swatted him with her fan, but giggled.
    “And one for you,” Sir Philip said, turning to Fiona, who offered her cheek. William bent toward Lucie, who dimpled and smiled as he kissed her cheek.
    Though Lady Rankin huffed indignantly, she laughed when William kissed her cheek next. Standing close beside Miss MacArthur, wrapped in the sweet scent of the flowers, James saw others in the room begin to share kisses, as young women coyly complained, and young men obliged with proper kissing, amid laughter and flirting.
    “It seems no one is satisfied with the royal kiss,” Lady Rankin said.
    “Not Scottish women,” Fiona said, and Charlotte and Lucie laughed.
    “What of the Highland lass in our party?” Sir Philip asked. “I will do the honors, since I am dressed in proper Highland fashion.” He came around the potted plants to kiss Elspeth MacArthur, quick and moist on the lips. He grinned, pleased, and stepped back.
    The girl smiled, though James stood beside her and felt himself go still. No reason to feel jealous of that bit of silliness, he told himself—and yet he did.
    “Look,” Charlotte said, “the Countess of Argyll has accepted a kiss from the Earl of Huntly. No one shall be left out of the game now.” They moved off to watch, leaving James and Miss Mac Arthur alone again, behind a screen of roses and rhododendrons.
    “So, was that a proper kiss Rankin gave you?” he asked curtly.
    “Not really, but we will let him think so.” She looked up to meet his intense gaze. “Not that I am a judge of kissing. Well, there was the draw-lad when I was a girl.”
    “What in blazes is a draw-lad?” He knew he sounded irritated.
    “The boy who pulls the yarn on the big looms. We have both large looms and hand looms at Kilcrennan. But those kisses were not proper, either, I suppose—”
    “Hush.” The urge welled so quickly in him that he obeyed it without thinking, taking her small chin in his fingers. “This is a proper kiss.” He touched his lips to hers.
    Surprising. Tender. Breathtaking and heartbreaking all at once, just for an instant, so that something spun inside him like a whirligig. He had not intended it—that simple kiss took him like a storm. He drew back, and felt her quivering hand on his forearm.
    “Oh,” she gasped. “Oh—” She tilted her face upward for more.
    “Aye,” he murmured, and leaned down again. This time his lips lingered, warm and firm over hers, and he took her by the small of her waist through the yardage of silks and satins. The big flowering plants shielded them from view, and the girl grabbed his coat sleeve, making a soft little sound in her throat. He felt as if he had stepped off a cliff with his eyes closed, as if he took a small, forbidden moment of hungry bliss.
    Drawing in a breath, he pulled her closer to him, and she sighed against his mouth, felt her body press against his, wildly enticing, and she groaned softly as he slid his hand along her back, from the small of her waist upward, until his fingertips skimmed the warm, soft skin over her shoulder blade. She caught her breath, his body surged—
    James dropped his hands away. “I beg your pardon. Thoughtless of me.”
    She still clutched his sleeve. Letting go, she stepped away. “Good day…Lord Struan, thank you for”—she did not look at him—“your kindness today.”
    “Miss MacArthur,” he murmured in farewell, knowing full well he craved to