Page 26 of Tempted By a Highland Beast
“Only when words fail me.” He stepped back, giving her space. “Which, around ye, seems tae happen with alarming frequency.”
“I have that effect on people.”
“Dae ye now?” His voice dropped lower, taking on an edge that made her pulse quicken. “And what effect would that be?”
Rowena lifted her chin, meeting his gaze directly. “I make them forget how tae think clearly.”
“Is that what ye’re daeing tae me?” The question hung between them, charged with something that had nothing to do with sword fighting.
“I wouldnae presume,” she said, though her voice came out breathier than she intended. “After all, I’m just a lass who holds her sword wrong and fights like she’s planting turnips.”
Constantine’s smile was slow and dangerous. “Aye, ye are.”
“Because I’m such a poor student?”
“Because,” he said, stepping close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from his body, “ye’re the first student who’s ever made me forget what I was supposed tae be teaching.”
Rowena’s heart thundered in her chest, but then Constantine turned around and barked another command at her as if he hadn’t felt the… whatever that was between them.
“Good,” he murmured when she moved into position. His mouth felt closer to her ears, and his breath was stirring the hair at her temple. “Now try a simple step forward, then back. Keep yer guard up.”
Rowena raised her arms as she’d seen the warriors do, trying to imagine holding a sword. She took a step forward, then back, her movements cautious but increasingly confident.
They stood there for a moment, the air between them charged with an electric tension. Rowena felt her breath catch, her heart hammering against her ribs. Constantine’s gaze dropped to her lips, and she saw his jaw tighten as he fought against some internal battle.
The spell broke when Rowena stepped back suddenly, her cheeks flushed and her breathing uneven. “I should… I should go,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Constantine nodded, his own breathing not entirely steady.
Rowena turned and hurried toward the castle, her mind racing. What had just happened? She could still feel the warmth of his hands on her shoulders, could still see the way he’d looked at her in that moment before she’d pulled away.
Would he’ve kissed me if I had stayed?
She moved through the castle corridors in a daze, her thoughts consumed by the memory of Constantine’s touch. It wasn’t until she reached the doorway to her chamber that disaster struck. The heavy wool of her gown caught on a splintered piece of wood in the doorframe, and she heard the distinctive sound of fabric tearing.
“Nay,” she breathed, looking down at the damage. A long tear ran down the side of her skirt, exposing her shift beneath. It was the only decent gown Lilias had kindly given her, and now it was ruined.
Frustration coiled in her chest, directed as much at herself as at the splintered wood. She was growing weary of needing help for everything, of depending on borrowed kindness and offered hands. This, at least, she could manage. A torn gown was no great matter. She could mend it.
During her earlier explorations, Rowena had noticed that the laundry room was located in the lower levels of the castle, where the sewing supplies were. She made her way down the stone steps, her torn gown held carefully to avoid further damage.
The room was empty when she arrived, baskets of clean linens stacked neatly along one wall. She found what she was looking for in a small wooden box tucked into a corner—needles, thread, and a pair of small scissors.
She gathered the supplies quickly, then looked around for a private place to work. It was bad enough ruining a gown that wasn’t her own, the last thing she needed was an audience seeing her in nothing but her shift in an attempt to fix it.
The first empty chamber she found was small and sparsely furnished, with only a wooden stool and a narrow window that let in a thin stream of light. It would have to do. Rowena settled herself on the stool, spreading the tear across her lap, and began to work.
The stitching should have been simple work—she’d been trained in fine needlework since childhood, had embroidered tapestries that graced her father’s hall. But her hands trembled from lingering tension after the encounter with Constantine, and her usual steady fingers fumbled with the heavy wool.
The coarse thread caught and tangled where her delicate silks never would have, and the awkward angle of the tear made her usual precise technique impossible.
“Ye can dae this,” she muttered under her breath, pulling out yet another crooked stitch. “Ye’ve sewn far more intricate work than this.”
But every time she tried to calm herself, Constantine’s gaze flashed through her mind, making her hands quiver anew. Her stitches, normally neat and measured, came out puckered and uneven.
The tear seemed to mock her efforts, growing wider instead of narrower with each failed attempt born of her rattled nerves.
She was on the verge of throwing the entire dress across the room when she heard footsteps in the corridor outside. She froze, praying whoever it was would pass by without noticing her. But luck was not on her side.
