Page 2 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
“Clearly, you haven’t indulged yourself. A kiss in an unlikely place is half the fun.”
The Highlander hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. The confident man.
His message was clear.You haven’t kissed me.
Kissing and fun? In the same sentence? She mused on that while lifting a lit taper from the sconce and setting the guttering candle in a lamp on the entry table. What was she to make of him? As a species of men, Highlanders were often speechless stoics or bold as brass. Too much time alone in their craggy mountains and solitary isles molded their nature. It was obvious where this one landed.
After a lifetime in London, she was adjusting to the north. There were Scots, yes, but Highlanders lived as a breed apart. Strong, masculine. Almost primitive.
She shivered again, but not from the cold.
The man on her doorstep was studying her intently.
“You’ve gone quiet, lass. Hope I haven’t frightened you.”
“You haven’t.” She raised the lamp, curious.
Amber light slanted over spirited blue eyes. Minute scars revealed themselves on his brow and chin. Knicks and cuts, signs he’d led a harsh life. The Highlander was dark-haired and rugged and his face, a landscape of secrets. He would never be the handsomest man in a room, but he could easily be the most provocative. Dress him up, put him in a London ballroom, and men would gather round, clutching pints, eager to swap tales of adventure.
And the women…
They’d whisper behind silk-gloved hands and try to catch his gaze.
His gaze consumed her. Fascinating, his stare, his stillness. The effect dizzied her.
One corner of his mouth hitched. “I think I understand. You’re a good English girl who goes to church every Sunday and says a prayer for scoundrels like me.”
“Good girl, indeed.” She was amused.
But a pause snared her.
“Does that mean there’s a chance you aren’t?” he asked softly.
Rain splattered noisily, yet her ears pricked, alert.
“Are you inquiring about the finer points of my character?” Her voice was equally inviting.
What dangerous ground they trod, a man and woman alone on a stormy night. The Highlander’s fixed attention told her he was charmed by tall green-eyed red-heads with a smattering of nose freckles.
“We could discuss your character or mine. Why not both? I’m an equitable man.”
“An equitable man…” she considered that. “Now that is unusual.”
She held his gaze, enthralled.Flirting with a stranger—I really should’ve gone to the Christmas Eve Assembly.Yet, these were the borderlands, as far away from well-heeled flirtation as one could get. Perhaps she preferred the rougher variety. Muddied jackboots and all.
She raised her hood, a wisp of a sigh slipping out. This—whatever it was—was ill-advised.
“You should know, I am Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford. The lady of the house, as it were.”
Hers was a droll admission, and just like that, flirtation fizzled. The Highlander eased off the doorframe and touched the brim of his hat.
“Rory MacLeod, ma’am.”
She quirked her mouth. He’dma’amedher as though she were his great aunt, which put to rest any lingering notions the hulking Scot was a fortune hunter. Besides, those men wanted entry to her salon, not a night in her barn.
“Let’s get you settled, shall we?” With the lamp in hand, Sabrina ducked out and shut the door. “Have you a horse?”
“At the moment, no.”
