Page 89 of All Scot and Bothered
Cecelia studied him as he split log after log with one mighty blow like an executioner. There was a rhythm to his work, so much so that she timed it out in seconds.
Split. Gather. Toss. Take up ax. Lift. Swing. Split. Repeat. It was mesmerizing, hypnotizing even. She might lose time here, and reason, watching the ridges of his ribs and abdomen gather strength and collapse with every swing. Tracing the unfamiliar angle of his arms as he lifted them over his head, showcasing the power of his arms.
That tremendous body had been at her mercy last night. Had belonged to her hungry gaze and hungrier mouth. She’d locked every bit of his astonishing strength into a seizure of bliss.
And then he’d returned the favor with a supreme skill that had both humbled and terrified her.
She was becoming increasingly attached to the churlish Scot. There was no dancing around it. The sight of him stimulated her in every conceivable way. The scent of him enticed her.
And the taste of him intoxicated her beyond all reasoning.
What had Jean-Yves said only this morning?I don’t want to develop at taste for oblivion.
Ramsay had taught her last night the oblivion sex could offer. And it appeared she’d developed the taste for it in a single dose. She felt craven, as though he’d woken a new hunger in her body just as vital as that for food.
She had very few innate talents, but the rhythm andstructure of sexual relations apparently came as easily to her as maths.
What was it about the discovery of her virginity that vexed him so? Did he blame himself for taking what she gave? Or was she at fault once again for a lie of omission?
There was only one way to find out.
Breaking away from the shadow of the house, Cecelia smoothed down the soft cotton of her robin’s-egg-blue day dress and drifted through an overgrown graveyard of what might have been a vegetable garden once.
Ramsay brought the ax down with a particularly brutal swing, embedding the blade a good two inches into the platform of the ancient trunk.
“Lovely day for it,” Cecelia called, her cheeks bunching around the rims of her spectacles as she squinted against the sun.
Wasn’t Scotland supposed to be gloomy and gray?
Ramsay’s nostrils flared on a grunt, though he didn’t look at her as he bent to retrieve the split wood and toss it on the woodpile. Instead of settling into the grooves created by the other logs, they crashed against the lean-to and clattered to the earth.
She’d thrown off his rhythm, it seemed.
Inside the lean-to, a coarse pallet was spread over straw and grass, two heavy patchwork quilts folded neatly at the edge.
Had this been the “structure” in which he’d slept? Lord, she felt awful.
“Speaking of lovely days,” she said, forging ahead. “I might remind you that it’s July, and you’ve split enough firewood to keep us here through Christmas. I don’t know about you, but I’m not planning on staying that long.”
She’d meant the teasing observation to perhaps createa crack in the wall of ice he’d constructed between them, but his frown only deepened as he snatched his shirt from where it hung on a peg of the lean-to and punched his fists into the sleeves.
“Did ye make any progress on the codex?” he asked without ceremony.
Cecelia’s smile faltered.
“Not as such,” she answered honestly, mourning the lost sight of his chest as he did up the buttons.
He barely flicked a glance her way. At least not one long enough to notice that she’d taken extra time with her coiffeur and unwrinkled her most comely summer frock that brought out the blue in her eyes and the darker shades of crimson in her copper hair.
“Did ye require something?” he asked as he did up his cuffs.
Her shoulders slumped as even the pretense of optimism abandoned her. “I feel like we should discuss… last night.”
He astonished her by shaking his head. “There is no need.”
She blinked after his broad back as he grabbed his vest and pulled it across his wide shoulders while stalking toward the house.
She willed her feet to move, jogging after him. “Ihave need. I want to explain—”
