Page 24 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
Seeing that on his clothes revived her. No matter what, the day was not a complete loss.
A laundress would eventually wash those red marks away. The rest of clothes could use some care, too.
“Please tell me you have more than an extra cravat in your saddlebag,” she said.
His face scrubbing stopped. “Why?”
“Because I’d hate to see what Polly would do if you walked around wearing nothing but a cravat.”
His body rocked with gentle laughter. “Ah, lass…”
“I presume that’s not the kind of entertainment you and Digby were plotting.”
He flopped back in the chair, a friendly, easier man than the menacing brute she saw earlier today. Mr. MacLeod pulled a small table in front of him when Digby delivered a plate filled with roast beef, mashed parsnips, and buttered peas. A pint of ale came with it.
“You are a god-send, Digby. Thank you.” Mr. MacLeod tucked into his dinner, ravenous.
She picked up her sewing again and found a seam that needed fixing. It was disconcerting, this intimacy, with him an arm’s reach from her. The salon could seat twenty people easily, thirty would be a crush. Yet, the two of them huddled close in front of the fire, the toes of their shoes touching under a humble table.
In and out, her needle went. She was content, waiting until he nudged the empty plate aside.
Mr. MacLeod contemplated the fire with an elbow on the arm rest. Amber and soft yellow illuminated him, painting him vulnerable. His hand supported his chin and half covered his mouth. An adventurer who lived by his wits, he answered to no one.
Opening his heart required magnanimity.
She had to accept the Highlander might have reached his limit where his heart was concerned.
“I’ve never met a woman quite like you,” he said, staring into the fire. “I could be tricked into believing that we’ve known each other for years, and not a mere night and a day.”
This was promising.
She guided her needle into the cloth. “There is a quality to our exchanges.”
“I’ve taken over your life, lass.” His mouth hitched sideways. “I promise, I’ll not stay long.”
A man who’d fought in far flung places, who’d disguised himself to breach a monastery, and who’d worked for a woman who shot him in the back would crave adventure.
Leaving was never his problem—staying was.
“People come and go, Mr. MacLeod. I understand that.”
Though there was a peculiar pang when she thought of him, gone.
He turned his head to her, intrigued. Fire cast his scruff in brilliant colors. Earthy browns, russets, a sprinkling of guinea gold blonde. She’d have to be kissably close again to find the white whiskers.
“But I am more concerned about your change of heart,” she said quietly. “And your motive behind it.”
Eyes wider, he acknowledged that her words struck true.
“You want to know what happened between me and Crawford.” His voice was harsh when saying the captain’s name.
“I want to know everything about you.”
“You know what I think? Your composure is your ballast,” he said. “No storm will topple you.”
She tugged on stuck thread. “Kind of you to share your observation.”
It was true, she would bend and bend until the worst had passed. Mr. MacLeod would be the immovable Highlander in a Black Watch kilt on a mountain. The man she imagined today. Storms would batter him, but he’d not bend.
