Page 14 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
“I never stay in one place for long.”
“But if you stayed through Twelfth Night…”
His lips parted. Hidden in burnished scruff, his mouth was easily missed, but this close she saw it. Saw him. A woman might expect unforgiving lines on a man who’d lived a hard life, but the Highlander’s mouth was endearing and imperfect, save solid teeth he’d no doubt bared in battles of life and death.
What was her minor conundrum to a man who’d fought in wars?
“My proposition is extraordinary, but I’m not like the woman who—who harmed you. I would never do anything like that.” She was appalled at the thinness of her voice.
Mr. MacLeod’s face cracked a wide, grand smile. How splendid it was. How magnificenthewas, this wandering Highlander. In the space of one night and one morning, he made her feel alive. A captive to him tracing the shell of her ear. The tingle he started in her ear went south of his touch.
Far, far south.
“You’re a brave one, but my staying isn’t a good idea.” He paused, his weathered blue eyes searching hers. “We’d have fun, you and I, but when the time came for me to leave, one of us would nurse a broken heart.”
The Highlander was in a more precarious state than her. Did he not see that? His wounds ran deep. Stripes that marked him, inside and out. He was a brave but battered soul.
Still, she could only wonder why he decided to be so careful with her heart.
Chapter Four
Mr. MacLeod whistled while steering her dray to Carlisle. She’d heard the melody many times but not the lyrics. Soldiers favored it. To keep the mood sanguine, she whistled with him. But his startle stopped her. Mr. MacLeod’s head turned, a slow swivel, patient humor in his eyes.
“Am I that bad? My whistling?” She hunkered down on the bench. “My brothers would always tell me to stop.”
“And you listened to them?”
It was a teasing challenge.
“I’m not adverse to listening to men. Justsomemen.”
The Highlander shook his head, laughing. “It’s not that.”
“Then, you’re not opposed to my whistling.”
“It’s a jaunty tune, lass,” he said with largesse. “Give it your best.”
She eyed him suspiciously. Mr. MacLeod was grinning from ear to ear. But, since they were crossing the castle moat, the time for whistling was over.
A mix of red and grey sandstone, Castle Carlisle was staunch and forbidding as castles-turned-army garrisons were meant to be. A crumbling curtain wall added to its gloom. Foreign prisoners were housed here. Men deemed unimportant to the crown. One could surmise the man in charge of the castle was too.
The town skirted Castle Carlisle, peaceful and rambling, the lanes empty since most good folk had gone to church.
“One delivery,” Mr. MacLeod said “as promised.”
She frowned. He didn’t have to sound so happy about it.
“Head south on that road.” She gestured at Carlisle’s main thoroughfare. “You’ll find The Spider and Fly a quarter mile that way. Though I doubt the doors will open today. Mr. Swinford allows himself a Christmas Day respite.”
“I’ll find something to do.”
She was sure he would. The brothel behind The Spider and Fly wasn’t so discerning with their calendar. The image of those women fawning over Mr. MacLeod burned a hole in her stomach.
Of course, they’d like him.
Unshaved, a wind-nipped queue, and one hastily knotted cravat—the Highlander wore his rugged appeal with aplomb. His great coat flapped open the entire ride as though cold air bounced off his chest.
The odd pit inside her expanded. He belonged to the world, to parts unknown.
