Page 10 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
The shock on Mr. MacLeod’s face was priceless. Weathered blue eyes rounded and his whiskered jaw, a chiseled rock of masculine architecture, unhinged briefly before clamping shut.
“I don’t actually want to marry you,” she said.
He folded his arms. “That’s a relief.”
She’d worked it all out tucked in her bed. The plan suited her needs and ought to suit his. An arrangement, as one does when opportunity presents itself. However, if Mr. MacLeod refused, which she was sure he wouldn’t, she’d tell the servants the Highlander’s love had waned—or some such romantic nonsense.
But what popped out of her mouth next was unexpected.
“If I did marry again, it would be for love.” She was emphatic, adding, “For a true partner in life.”
Mr. MacLeod tipped a conciliatory nod. “Understood, ma’am. It’s a well-established fact; neither you nor I want to get married. What you expect of me, however, is unclear.”
She nibbled the inside corner of her lip, something she hadn’t done in years. Her wants felt vast. Somehow the Highlander stirred a world of new prospects.
“The first thing I want is for you to stopma’am-ingme. I feel like a doddering old relative when you say it.”
Though she had no problem when othersma’am-edher.
“The alternative is to address you by your name, and Throckmorton-Rutherford is a mouthful, lass.”
She hiccupped a laugh. “Please, call me Sabrina.”
It made sense, telling him her Christian name.
“Let’s stick with proprieties, shall we?” A wink softened his refusal.
It was endearing to realize there’d never be a dull moment with Mr. MacLeod should he accept her faux engagement, but with his arms tightly folded over his chest, it was obvious he wasn’t convinced.
“Should you stay and help me, there’d be a horse for your effort.” Her offer was hopeful.
Air gusted slowly out of him. The man was a mountain of silence.
“I ask only that you stay for a fortnight,” she said, a little desperate. “Possibly longer.”
“You must have averyexcellent horse.”
She dipped her chin. Artful persuasion was in order, which she was short on.
“You may have your pick from my barn. Take two if you like. They all came with Eden House when I purchased it last spring.”
Mr. MacLeod was stoic and unreadable until he bumped his back against the chair. The edges of his mouth pinched, and benevolence for the Scot washed over her.
“Let me tend your wound, Mr. MacLeod, and while I do, I’ll give you all the necessary details. If, after you’ve heard what I have to say, and you want nothing to do with me, then I’ll gladly deliver you to Rockville or Carlisle. And you, sir, may wash your hands of me.”
“You’re no physic,” he said, droll.
“But I am skilled at applying oil of arnica on bruised flesh.”
His nostrils flared and his eyes burned with a peculiar light. Oil of arnica must be applied to bare skin. She held her tongue, aware of the tableau she offered. Mr. MacLeod did too. Behind his fierce stare, the Scot had to be constructing an image of him, shirtless, at least partially, and her touching his bare skin.
“I do not think it wise.” His voice was a rumble.
“But you will throw caution to the wind and let me do it anyway,” she said, enticingly.
A muscle in his jaw ticked.
“You’re a bloody confident woman.”
