Page 3 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
An odd answer, she thought, dashing off the front step. Water streamed off the roof of her portico, splashing the pair of them as they went. Rain needled her cheeks, and Mr. MacLeod held down his hat, his voice booming above the storm.
“I lost my mount. Tossed me and ran off at the first bolt of lightning.”
“Are you hurt?” He was a bulwark in her side vision.
“Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”
She dodged a puddle in the yard. “It’s possible your horse ran to the village.”
Rockcliffe was a mile north and the larger town of Carlisle, two miles south.
“That is my hope, ma’am. Otherwise, I’ll have a long walk back to London.”
He’d walk to London?Incredible.
With the barn in sight, Mr. MacLeod jogged ahead to wrench open the door. She rushed in to the healthy smells of hay and horses and stomped the cold out of her legs while Mr. MacLeod shut the door. A muddied saddle bag that she hadn’t noticed before was slung over his shoulder. Must’ve come off the saddle when his mount threw him, yet he looked none the worse for the evening’s mishap. The Highlander loomed large and unbreakable like his pagan ancestors. They’d fought the Vikings. Put fear in them, hadn’t they?
Mr. MacLeod would be no different. A worthy comparison, she decided, while watching him wipe water off his face.
Which was enough time for a startling idea to take root.
He needed a horse; she needed a decoy. Specifically, she needed a man to keep pesky suitors away. But was Mr. MacLeod trustworthy? Scoundrel, ruffian, wandering Scot—he was all three, yet his flirtation ceased the momentMrs.slipped out of her mouth. Even rogues had their moral codes. And this one, yawning behind his gloved hand, needed his sleep.
“Follow me.” She crossed the barn to an empty stall and set the lamp on a hook. “Your accommodations, sir.”
Mr. MacLeod wandered in and dumped his saddle bag on a mound of hay. “Thank you, ma’am. This’ll do.”
A black filly poked her nose over the stall. Mr. MacLeod obliged her with tender strokes on her muzzle.
“Apologies for waking you, lass,” he whispered. “I promise not to snore.”
Sabrina rested her backside on a wooden post. “Do you say that to all the women?”
His grin was a slash of white.
“Only four-legged fillies. I make no promises to two-legged creatures.”
Duly noted.Arms folded, she watched him toss hat and gloves onto the hay, his bed for the night. He was magnetic, sliding free of his great coat. Masculine in every way, yet she felt utterly safe with him, a virtual stranger. A man who spoke gently to horses was a sign of sturdy character, wasn’t it?
Or am I convincing myself to dive head first into a terrible idea?
Mr. MacLeod existed in a halo of light in the otherwise murky barn. He was a revelation of sorts, thick shoulders filling grey velvet of good quality, a black silk ribbon spun around his wet queue and tied off at the end. Surprising attire, his coat and the ribbon, given that he wore homespun breeches and well-traveled jackboots.
Another surprise was the intimacy fogging her limbs while Mr. MacLeod shed his outer garments. She shifted, restless, the wool of her cloak scraping the post.
“What will you do if you can’t find your horse?” Her husky voice was a warning. She ignored it. “Are you really going to walk all the way to London?”
“I’m not sure what I’m going to do.” Chin up, he yanked his cravat loose. The ends fell like white streamers against his wine-colored waistcoat. “I might look for work.”
“What kind of work?”
“Find a bareknuckle bout or two.”
Laughter sprinkled out of her. “That’s your idea of work?”
“The best kind.” He was matter-of-fact, unbuttoning his waistcoat. “I like the thrill of a fight. And I’m good at it.”
Her gaze glued itself to the V where his shirt flopped open. Mr. MacLeod stopped at his waistcoat’s fourth button and scratched his exposed skin. When his hand fell away, meager inches of his chest were revealed. Hardly salacious. Still, she tipped forward, transfixed. His throat was sun-burnished and the flesh below it, intriguing shades lighter as though he’d worked shirtless last summer. Mr. MacLeod sat down on the mound of hay, thankfully oblivious. In the act of removing his velvet coat, he stiffened, air hissing through clenched teeth.
