Page 15 of Bride of the Mad Laird
Is it possible tae die from such fierce embarrassment?
Even the nape of her neck was burning.
She stood, teeth chattering, still with her rolled up cloak under her arm, her kirtle and blouse soaked through. She was turning to ice, despite the heat in her cheeks.
Tòrr groaned loudly. “God’s blood. I’m a damned fool, forgetting ye’ll have ne’er set eyes on a naked man before.”
All that issued from Lyra’s mouth was a soft, gurgling sound.
He softened his tone. “Apologies, lass. But if ye dinnae take off those sodden clothes of yers, ye’ll risk catching yer death.”
Shock had all but robbed her of her voice. The vision of what she’d seen floated dizzyingly before her tightly closed eyes. His broad chest with its smattering of dark hair, the bulging muscles of his strong arms. His thighs… and… and… that mightythingbetween them.
Surely he could hear her heart hammering against her ribcage like a tin drum. She huffed mightily, horrified at the very idea of stripping off her clothing. Yet her fingers were already turning blue.
There was little choice but to do as he said.
“I will, if ye promise ye’ll nae look at me until I’m covered.”
“Ye have me word I’ll nae catch so much as a glimpse of ye.”
Was that an infuriating hint of laughter in his voice?
Her half-frozen fingers fumbled with the fastenings on her clothes, and she slowly peeled them off one by one.
“Dinnae ye dare look at me.”
“I’m nae looking lass, I’m keeping me gaze on Paden.”
Once the last of her soaking-wet clothes had been removed, she flung them over the beam beside Tòrr’s. Still shivering, she gratefully, enclosed herself in the woolen cloak.
When at last she summoned the courage to face him, she was grateful his attention was directed elsewhere. He was scraping away a heaping of old peat and thatch lying on the stones close to where they stood.
“There’s a remnant of a fireplace here, and enough peat and kindling to make a bonny fire.”
Tòrr reached into his saddlebag and took out his flint. It was not long before there was a small fire chattering in the fireplace. Not a hearty blaze by any means, but, if they stood close enough, it granted them sufficient warmth to bring the life back to their half-frozen bodies. A broken beam was added as fuel, and before long the fire was both warming them and drying off their clothes hanging overhead.
Fortunately, with half the ceiling gone, the swirling smoke was whipped into the sky, joining the rain.
Lyra dipped her head, unfurled the loose braid hanging down her back and flipped her hair forward, running her fingers through it to catch the warmth and dry it off. As it dried, it floated around her shoulders in a golden cloud.
She glanced up to find Tòrr gazing at her intently, his eyes dark. In that moment their eyes met, and she felt something dart between them, a sudden stab of heat, straight to her heart. Her breath hitched in her throat.
Daes he feel it too?
Turning her head, she diverted her attention to seek a level spot on the floor where she could make herself as comfortable as possible. Sitting cross-legged, with the cloak firmly tucked around her, she basked in the glow of the fire, so acutely aware of Tòrr’s presence beside her that it was almost impossible to keep her breathing even.
Venturing a glance at Tòrr, he seemed oblivious to her.
It was some time before the rain eased and Tòrr unwound his long legs and rose to his feet. “’The fire’s almost out, ‘tis time fer us tae be on our way.”
She clutched her cloak tightly as he reached a hand and helped her up.
Although their clothing was still faintly damp, the fire had dried them well. She turned away as he dressed himself again.
“I’m decent. Now it’s yer turn. I’ll nae watch ye.”
Before she slipped off the cloak, she went to the saddle bag to fetch the clean, dry stockings and chemise from her bundle. He stood with his back to her and, after she’d donned the rest of her clothing, she stood close to the remnants of the fire to loosely braid her hair.
