Page 15 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
When the dray slowed inside the outer gatehouse tower, a guard ambled forward.
“Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford, you are a sight for sore eyes.”
She put on a smile. It was Private Heath. “Good morning, sir. Am I delivering to the buttery?”
Heath’s attention flitted to MacLeod. “No ma’am. Captain says he wants the barrels in the outer ward.” The young private brushed his forelock and looked at Sabrina. “Says he’s taking some of your ale to Lord and Lady Rutger’s ball.”
That was promising.
“Will you sign the bill of lading, then?” she asked.
The private hedged. “The captain’ll want to do that, ma’am.”
“He didn’t go to church?”
Heath’s grin slid sideways. “Not if you’re making a delivery.” He stepped back and waved them on. “Go on, ma’am. He’s sure to come running when he hears your dray.”
The captain…running? A brisk walk, maybe, but that would be the extent of his enthusiasm.
Mr. MacLeod snapped the reins, teasing her, “You are quite the enchantress, drawing men out of the stonework.”
“Oh, please,” she groaned. “If we move fast, we’ll finish before he comes.”
Mr. MacLeod drove them back into the sunshine. He checked the skies. “A fine sunny day. Looks like you’ll have most of it to yourself.”
“Probably,” she said, distracted.
The outer ward was a stitchwork of footpaths and ruts in dormant grass. A stack of cannon balls filled the eastern corner. Enough shade was there. Jostling from muddy ruts, she nudged her chin in that direction.
“Park by those cannon balls.”
Mr. MacLeod began steering the dray in a wide arc. “What are you going to do?”
She faced him, taken aback. They were bouncing, hips and arms, against each other. The wretched ground made it impossible to sit with decorum. Mr. MacLeod seemed to make sure the dray rolled over every single rut.
“Humor me, lass. You’re about to enjoy a day to yourself. What will you do?”
He braced a leg and pulled the brake in one mighty heave. If it were her, there’d be three, maybe four incremental pulls on that lever. The Highlander had the strength of five men. His sinewed arms creating a pillow with his coat last night came to mind. Even with generous shirt sleeves, his bulk was obvious. She imagined their contours, and abruptly scanned the upper battlements.
Unnerved, she took an interest in those bricks.
“Sabrina…”
She shivered. He said her name intimately, teasingly, the syllables sounding better when treated with his Highland burr. Though it wasn’t safe, she turned her face to his. Life danced in weathered blue eyes. Yet, his attention stilled her.
Only the faintest breeze blew against her hood.
“We discussed my awful whistling, so why not my day?” She gusted a sigh and looked elsewhere. “I suppose I’ll work.”
“Too much work isn’t good for the soul,” he chided.
“And what would you know of my soul?”
That set him back, but Mr. MacLeod recovered easily, which didn’t surprise her. She’d already gathered he came up punching or laughing whenever life dealt him a blow. He’d kick the devil in the teeth if given the chance.
MacLeod hopped off the dray and went around to her side. She was already navigating her downward climb when strong hands gripped her waist. Startled, she grabbed his shoulders. The Highlander was solid as stone, easing her down. They stayed in place, their bodies joined by an unseen tether.
She tipped her face to his.
