Page 33 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
Beige cloth, indeed.
The silk matched her skin as though the Highlander has memorized her.
His smoldering eyes were raking her from head to toe. If she was ephemeral and light, he was dark and forbidding, dressed entirely in black. A black shirt, black waistcoat, and his Black Watch kilt (surprisingly, the thing had been rolled up in his saddlebag). His queue was severely tied and his jaw shaved clean. Every angle of his face was cut stone.
He was stunningly handsome, and his eyes a penetrating, unnatural blue.
His stare held her in a vise grip. Air thinned in her lungs as though he owned it…owned her.
“Those fig leaves…” Shaw gestured vaguely at her. “They look like a man’s hands.”
Shaw. She’d forgotten he was there, forgotten the crowd behind him. For a moment, she couldn’t speak.
“They’re fashioned after mine if you must know.” Rory’s voice was gritty and his eyes hooded.
Shaw’s head tipped back and he laughed. “I heard about you, MacLeod, but I wanted to see you for myself.”
Rory was testy. “And?”
“You are the genuine bloody article. Good show, your Black Watch kilt.” Shaw sketched a bow. “But my advice to you—watch your back. Crawford’s out for blood.”
Shaw blended with the crowd, taking her sense of safety with him. A footman swept by and took her cloak and Rory’s great coat. Buffeted by the crowd, Rory moved closer. People brushed by, all of them in glorious costumes, but she couldn’t say what they wore. She was lost to the Highlander. Her body was on a journey to his.
A journey that began when she touched his jaw and asked, “Shall we dance?”
Chapter Eleven
Rory made sure the mood lightened once they entered the ballroom. Men’s heads swiveled when they walked by. Sabrina was astonishing. The lass had left him tongue-tied until his craving for her took over. With her hand curving over his arm, he was possessive. He’d not share her. When men dared to ogle, he swatted them down with new variants of his glare.
Crossing the Rutger House ballroom was a statement.
The red-haired widow from London belonged to him.
Rory felt the bite of truth sink into his skin.
Years, he’d walked, run, and rode his horse—miles and miles of travel, of fighting and living—for this short walk with Sabrina.
How long would it last? He blinked, unsure.
Under the blazing shimmer of a thousand candles, he faced Sabrina for the dance, a reel. She was light and angelic, her smile a wobble. Of course, they’d touch each other again.
Of course.
He hoped they wouldn’t burst into flames. Her scarlet lips were unchaste and carnal and her hair a sensual tangle down her back. He was taut with lust and emotion when stringed instruments struck their notes, and lines of dancers flowed into one.
Sabrina raised her hand to his. But her emerald eyes said she offered much, much more.
Humbled, he took her hand and placed it on his arm as though the woman was fragile porcelain. They rotated, quiet. Consumed. Their desire palpable.
She tossed back her head on the second rotation. “Did you run out of green felt?”
The question reached his fogged brain. Green felt. The mist cleared and he laughed, a rusted gritty sound.
She went on. “I ask because there seems to a surplus of green leaves on my costume, while yours…” her gaze dipped to the sole fig leaf pinned to his kilt “…seems short on coverage.”
“I’m a generous man,” he quipped.
They backed away as the dance required, his anticipation torture. Again, the lines melted together. A new rotation began. This time her hand was on his shoulder. The bandage. Her fingers seemed to read it. The lass was learning him.
