Page 9 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
“Why didn’t you?”
He eyed her over his shoulder. “Because I liked it when your hand was on my chest.”
A feminine laugh feathered his ear.
“We have that in common, Mr. MacLeod, because I liked putting my hand on your chest.”
He liked her touch on other places, but he’d not quibble about that. Her laugh, her smell, her touch—his body was hungry for more. He shifted on the seat; the first signs of arousal were stirring in his smalls.
“As far as I can tell,” she said “your bones are sound, but you probably have a very nasty collection of bruises.”
Despite her practical tone, the ache between his legs wasn’t letting up.
“And how do you know this?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“Experience, Mr. MacLeod. I have four brothers, all of them foolhardy, and a father who refused to spend his coin on a proper doctor.”
“I see.”
Pain and pleasure mingled oddly the more she explored his back.
Such magical hands…
Years in the army had left his body battered and strong. He’d survive. Only one spot was bad. Hands fisting, he knew this drill. His wound wasn’t the problem; the flesh between his legs was.
“Stop.” He was emphatic. And lust-addled.
Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford’s enticing hands melted into a proper fold at her waist.
He glanced away, disappointed. Such terseness was unseemly. The woman had given him refuge on a stormy night and fed him breakfast. The hardness behind his placket was his own bloody fault.
“I didn’t mean to bark at you. It’s all this…” He waved a frustrated hand and shifted in the chair to put more distance between his body and her hands.
Emerald green eyes clashed with his. “I was trying to help you.”
“Then help me by explaining why your maid thinks I know you well when we only met last night.”
That doused her ire. Her gaze sought a narrow window bursting with sunlight in the dark-paneled room.
“Yes, that. I wanted to explain my predicament last night, but you were tired.”
“Your predicament?”
A fragile smile curved her lips. “A situation that I find myself in. But you are perfect to resolve it—a veritable knight in shining armor.”
His brows shot to his hairline. Him? Perfect? He was no knight in shining armor—more like the dragon who breathed fire on a woman’s house before moving on.
Hands fretting, Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford betrayed no other lack of confidence. “I had to think fast this morning. The servants were all aflutter at a man sleeping in my barn.”
Cloth scratched upholstery. It was his homespun-covered thighs angling themselves toward the gentlewoman. Even though his mind counseled him to leave, his body hung on her every word.
“What did you tell them?” he asked.
The fretting stopped. The fair widow tipped her chin, friendly and direct.
“That you are my future husband.”
Chapter Three
