Page 11 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
The smolder in his eyes was gratifying. Undeniable attraction was a thread they shared. She’d hold onto it and press her case.
Mr. MacLeod reached for the top of his waistcoat. Slowly, he unmoored a button. Leisured flicks of his fingers captured her rapt attention. Mr. MacLeod was halfway down when she heard her name.
“Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford.”
“Yes?” She glanced up from his waistcoat, breathless.
His brows arched. “Are you getting the oil of arnica or not?”
“Yes, the oil.”
Air thin in her lungs, she gathered her wits and sped off to the kitchen. Once inside, she stopped to shore herself against the storm battering her senses. Her cheeks flushed; her pulse bounced. She set a placating hand over her heart and found the organ banging a vigorous cadence. A deep, calming inhale and the parts of her galloping out of control quieted. Barely.
She could do this—touch him and convince him to stay.
But the touching part…
Her knees jellied.
Brushing a wisp of hair off her ear, she focused on a mildly disordered kitchen. Two red and white checkered linens had been tossed willy nilly on the pine table. A hunk of meat large enough to serve her household turned on the roaster. Fat drippings hissed and sizzled. She’d have to remember to crank the mechanism later. It was a promise she’d made to her cook, Mrs. Digby.
Her gaze lifted to the mantel where squat jars sat in a cluster. Her medicinals. She went to them, selected the correct amber jar, swiped freshly ironed linens, and strode back into her dining room where Mr. MacLeod awaited her.
He looked like a pagan, waiting for her.
Or a knight of questionable honor. She’d have to rethink that shining armor business.
The Highlander’s legs were sprawled, half his chest was bared, and his forearms rested loosely on the arms of the chair. His shirt draped low off one shoulder. When he scratched his nape, his chest flexed from natural movement.
She cocked her head. Big was so, so, so inadequate to describe him. No adjective could match his thick firm flesh, the hard—
Oh, get ahold of yourself, Sabrina. It’s a pectoral muscle.You’ve seen them before.
Well, not like that. She swallowed hard. A dinner plate would fit on half of his chest.
She walked forward, uncorking the jar with an over bright, “I see you’re ready for me.”
“I appreciate your kindness. My back is bothering me more than I care to admit.”
“You should’ve let me look at it last night.”
“I shouldn’t let you look at it today,” he said wryly.
She set the jar and the cork on the table next to his clothes, all neatly folded. The orderliness left a pang in her solar plexus: the rough Scot might not have much but he took great care with what he had. She touched his shoulder, dociled. Claret and cherry red skin bloomed around a broken blood vessel near his shoulder blade.
“The bruise is substantial. The center of it is…” She drew a circle with her fingernail around splotched skin. “…the size of a large apple.”
With his head hung low, he linked both hands between his legs. “I’ve had worse.”
A starburst of scar tissue caught her eye. A lead shot removed from his back? It had to be recent. The scar’s pink hue was too vibrant for it to be from years ago.
“What’s this?” She tapped thickened skin. “A war wound?”
His laugh was a rueful scrape.
“If you count war with the gentler sex, then yes. The lady in question hired me for an unusual job. We had our differences on how to get the job done and” —he shrugged heavily— “she shot me.”
She gasped. “How awful!”
