Page 32 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
“Supposedly, there is a difference,” she said affably.
The lieutenant was an admirer, not a suitor. At least, he never put serious effort into his pursuit. He didn’t have to. Women flocked to him. Blessed with wavy black hair and azure eyes, one could say the man was pretty.
Quick introductions were made. A loose conversational circle should’ve followed. But she was pressed on both sides, an English soldier in regimentals to her right, a towering Scot draped in black on her left.
“You said ‘supposedly’ Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford.” The lieutenant’s inquisitive blue eyes honed on her. “Does that mean you haven’t noticed the difference?”
The artful lilt in Shaw’s voice gave her pause.
“They all look the same to me.”
Which drew a chuff of laughter from Rory. “Claymores are the superior weapon.”
“The gentlewoman apparently doesn’t see it.” Lieutenant Shaw spoke over her head to Rory.
Rory smirked. “The gentlewoman sees the difference where it counts.”
“Doesn’t sound like it.” Lieutenant Shaw dipped his head to her. “English longswords have stood the test of time. Claymores are relics of the past. Museum pieces.”
“Claymores are sturdier,” Rory shot back. “A better weapon all around. More heft and weight. Gets the job done…satisfactorily.”
And that was when Sabrina understood, a rivalry was mounting. The combatants squared off with her between them. Superior swords and the men who wielded them was at play.
“The longsword is longer. It’s in the name,” Lieutenant Shaw amused himself with that.
“English swords…” Rory’s thumb and forefinger pinched the air “…have needle thin tips. Nothing substantial.”
“Yet English swords dominate—again and again and again.”
Sabrina stepped forward and reached for the bow under her chin. “My it’s getting warm in here.” She yanked the ribbon. Her cloak parted and the two combatants forgot their verbal skirmish.
Wool slipped off her shoulders, which she slung over one arm. The whites of Rory’s eyes flared wide. He shouldn’t be surprised. Their costumes were his idea, but this is where she grasped the gap between an idea and its execution. The Highlander must’ve entertained a more chaste version of what she wore. Or Polly and the seamstress conspired to this end. Either way…
Sabrina squared her shoulders.In for a penny, in for a pound.
A grin tugged Shaw’s mouth. He adored women. Displays of flesh pleased him immensely.
His white-gloved hand rose slowly, pointing. “Are you…”
“Eve, yes.” She was abashed. “I’m Eve from the Garden of Eden—a connection to River Eden Brewery, you understand—and Mr. MacLeod is Adam. We’re engaged to be married,” she blurted out as if that explained everything.
Shaw nodded approvingly. “Bold move, Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford.”
Her costume? Or planning to wed Rory?
Flesh-colored fabric styled after a medieval gown draped her. She touched gossamer silk gathered at her shoulders. Expensive didn’t begin to describe the silk. How did Rory purchase it? Did he have funds stashed in his saddle bag? If so, why was he dallying at Eden House? A man who could procure silk like this could easily procure a horse.
And what fine silk it was.
Though appropriately covered, this was like wearing her shift in public. The bodice was just shy of improper, but her cresting bosom wasn’t the eye-popping part. Green felt fig leaves covered her breasts, their shape scandalous.
Each fig leaf matched the outline of Rory’s hand.
Each one, a caress. His.
She touched delicate prickles tickling her nape. The Highlander’s weathered blue gaze journeyed from one green felt leaf to another.
Felt fig leaves had also been sewn into a low-slung belt. It wrapped around her hips. Without a pannier, the dress clung to her. Her body appeared to be translucent. Her shift, her corset, and a slender underskirt were layers between her skin and the slip of a gown. All of them sewn from the same sparkling flesh colored silk.
