Page 19 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
Which told her he hadn’t seen Mr. MacLeod kissing her.
Mr. MacLeod barked a laugh. “You won’t beforthwithinganything…Crawford. I’m not under your command.”
“A shame, that. And it’s Captain Crawford to you.”
“So, this is where command stuck you…” Mr. MacLeod looked at the crumbling wall “…where nothing happens. At least you can’t do much harm here.”
Sabrina hissed a fast breath. The Highlander tossed oil on the fire with that quip. She positioned herself between the men as a cheerful rendition ofJoy to Worldrang louder.
“Did you go caroling last night?” she asked the captain.
His attention swung at her like a fist. Mouth clamped hard, he seethed. Fraught seconds passed before he regained his composure.
“I was at the assembly last night.” Stiff and flinty-eyed, he demanded, “Where were you?”
What was it Mr. MacLeod said?Tell him to sod off.Shoulders squaring, she considered it. He had no right to demand anything of her, but for the sake of peace, she’d tell him.
“I worked late into the night. To prepare today’s delivery for you, as it happens.”
A vein on the captain’s forehead bulged when Mr. MacLeod leaned casually on the dray. It must’ve taken all his strength to tear his attention off the Highlander and give it to her.
“You work tirelessly, Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford. Why don’t you warm yourself in the Gate Keeper’s room?” He reached out with a guiding hand to herd her. “I have mulled wine.”
“But women aren’t allowed in that part of the garrison.”
His smile was sticky. “It’s Christmas Day.”
Standing in his vicinity made her want to scrub herself from head to toe. Her feet knew where to take her. She stepped closer to Mr. MacLeod.
“It’s a kind offer, the mulled wine, but my delivery—”
“Let him finish it.” The captain jerked his head at Mr. MacLeod.
Interrupting her was a habit of his. She forced politeness into her voice.
“I don’t think you understand. Mr. MacLeod doesn’t work for me. He’s—"
“Marrying Sabrina.”
Mr. MacLeod?
She spun around so fast toward him that a breeze shot under her hems.
What is he about?
A cold shudder crawled across her nape. He swelled beside her like a menacing, dark-garbed beast.Angel of deathcame to mind—hardly the image a woman wanted in her future husband. Even a counterfeit one.
The captain was no better. His smile froze in a macabre waxen display. Awkward and frightening couldn’t begin to describe the vignette the three of them created. Mr. MacLeod swooped in with a claiming hand on her back.
Trust mewas the stamp he put there.
She willed composure and stayed though she badly wanted to flee.
To Captain Crawford, “Quite a surprise, isn’t it? But here I am” —she opened her hands— “on the cusp of marrying this man. It’s head-shaking, really, how fast these things are decided.”
She was beatific, tilting her face to MacLeod. He was too surly to appreciate the irony.
“Not him.” Captain Crawford reached for her.
