Page 12 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
He kept his eyes on his boots. “The worst part is, the lady got away with it.”
“And now you are wary of women with unique propositions.” She nudged his queue aside.
He didn’t answer; he didn’t have to. Betrayal like that would turn the bravest souls skittish. It was to Mr. MacLeod’s credit, and a certain resilience he must possess, that he was willing to hear her. Contrite, she poured oil of arnica into her palm. She couldn’t right the wrongs of the noblewoman in question, but she would do her best to heal him. The confounding part was, she wanted to heal more than the Highlander’s back.
“I’m going to rub the oil into your skin,” she said above his ear.
It was a warning she should’ve heeded. Mr. MacLeod stiffened, then relaxed little by little, his tension fading under her touch. Intimacy blossomed. How could it not when trying to heal a man? The muddling part was the effect on her. She wasn’t prepared for her own response—her blood coursing, thick as honey and her mind just as clogged.
Oil of arnica glistened, the rivulets streaking angry red flesh and traveling between his ribs. A fruity aroma teased her nose. She rubbed the meaty grooves and taut flesh of his back. Mr. MacLeod’s skin was warm under her hand. She was careful, spinning kind circles over his bruise. His ribcage expanded and contracted, steady. Labored.
Trust came, touch by touch. She was no seductress out to trap him, and he was no marauder determined to have his way with her.
Though part of her wished he would.
“You’re too young to be a widow,” he announced gruffly.
“And you’re too old to steal kisses in barns.”
A smile creased his profile. “You have me, there, lass.”
He was almost boyish in his relaxed state. Tension uncoiled. Each slippery circle her fingers made on his back did the trick, as one might do when stroking a pet, but the Highlander was not meant to be domesticated. To wander, yes, and break hearts, most definitely.
Satisfied with her work, she reached for a linen. She was dazed by his presence, suspended in the rarified air of mutual attraction.
“I need to wrap the bruise, otherwise the oil will stain your shirt.”
Mr. MacLeod’s head bobbed lazily. “When you do, please explain yourself.”
The hulking Scot’s voice rasped, thick and drowsy. She began wiping excess oil between her fingers, comforted by the fact that he was just as consumed as she was.
“I need a false engagement to keep suitors away, otherwise I’ll never get any work done. Everyone—the local town folk, the four souls employed in my household, even my father and brothers who send me letters, imploring me to marry—all seem to think I need a husband. Especially after last night.”
Weathered blue eyes met hers. “Last night?”
“It was Christmas Eve, remember? There was an assembly in Carlisle, which of course, I didn’t attend. And with the steady stream of gentlemen callers—”
“A steady stream, lass?” he teased.
She swatted his bicep. “There’ve been more than a few, sir. Now sit up.”
She plucked a second linen off the table and placed one end on the front of his chest. “Hold this here.”
The Scot’s fingers pinned the cloth in place. “Tell me about this steady stream of gentlemen callers.”
“I don’t suspect there will be any today since it is Christmas Day.”
“Good to know.” He blessed her with a crooked grin. “Though finding me with you, and my shirt half off, would send a message.”
She laughed. “Not the one I planned, though it would be effective.” She wrapped the cloth and went on, “Over the summer, I had more than the usual number of visitors. The local gentry coming to welcome me, I suppose. I’m new to Eden House—my home, that is. I purchased it last spring with funds left to me by my late husband.”
“Did he leave you with any children?”
“No.”
The Highlander hummed, ruminating. “Seems to me you’re ripe for marriage.”
“I’ll marry for love, thank you very much.” She was emphatic.
