Page 38 of The Groom Wore Plaid
“Is it?” He took a step toward her and she didn’t back down, only lifted her chin as if to dare him.
And he was tempted. But he wanted her off balance, kept wondering about his methods.
“Did you enjoy the sword fighting?” he asked.
She blinked in confusion, but rallied.
“You gave a tolerable response to your uncle’s obvious superiority.”
He felt the rare urge to laugh, but didn’t give in to it.
“I train often, even in London,” he told her. He moved smoothly by her and went to the dressing table, where her brush and hand mirror awaited. There were tiny bottles of women’s things, and he touched them one at a time, noticing over his shoulder that she’d fisted her hands. “There are many men who’ll train in the sport, even if they have to fight a Scot. I see that the Sassenach weren’t as good for my training as facing a Highlander would have been.”
He lowered his voice and faced her again. “Nights sleeping in the heather and among rocks were a reminder of a more primitive part of myself: being with the men of the clan, putting meat on the table for my people, defending a man against a wild stag. At heart I am such a man, Maggie, and such a man thinks about bedding his wife and making her revel in the glory of physical sensation. I thought constantly about what you look like beneath those garments.”
Maggie felt heat flush beneath her bodice, up her neck and across her face. She was far too aware that they were alone in her room, with no one nearby to serve as a distraction. It was just the two of them, and he wielded his wicked flattery like a sword against her. And she was far too susceptible. He was touching her things, intruding on her life—and bringing about his own ruin, she reminded herself, taking a deep, calming breath.
He came another step closer. “I never would have imagined being so distracted by a woman.”
Something in her traitorously wanted to believe him, wanted to be distracting to a man, had never imagined what a heady, powerful feeling it might be.
But it wasn’t true. It was all a ruse to assure her cooperation.
She licked her lips and tried to summon a cool tone. “I think ye’re talking yourself into an obsession for something ye can’t have.”
He passed by her, circling her. She held her breath, then gasped when he kissed her neck, his warm, damp lips making her shudder. Why could she not remain cold to him, when she wished for it so desperately?
“Such an innocent reaction,” he murmured, then blew across her damp skin.
“Then ye misunderstand my reluctance to be touched by ye.”
He chuckled.
Where was his anger? It was easier to do battle with an angry man. Humor was a new tactic that reminded her too much of those autumn weeks they’d spent together.
And then she remembered her plan for tonight. “I ken ye’re waiting anxiously to see the shirts I sewed for ye. Let me get them.”
Heading for a chest against the wall was a face-saving retreat, she thought wryly. She held out both hands, offering the shirts, perfectly pressed and folded.
He barely gave them a glance, was watching heras if he meant to pounce. She dropped the pile on her bed, then shook out the first one. Her stitches at the neckline were even—deceptive, she knew. She peeked over the top of the shirt to find him frowning at it.
He immediately wiped the frown away and said, “Thank you for taking the time to perform such a wifely deed.”
She gritted her teeth, then spoke with dismay. “Oh, dear.”
“What is it?”
He couldn’t hide the wariness, which delighted her.
“I do believe I made a mistake. I am so thoughtless! My mother always told me to pay more attention to my sewing, but nay, I only wished to be outside, looking for frogs.” She winced. The little boy he’d been had loved frogs, too.
“I don’t see a mistake,” he said pleasantly.
She shook the shirt out even farther, and a third sleeve materialized on the right side. “I’ll never be able to look Mrs. Robertson in the face again! Already she thinks I’m hopeless in the womanly arts.”
“Nonsense,” he said smoothly. “When I wear it, I’ll have an extra handy cloth with which to clean off my sword.”
She gaped at him. Why wasn’t he irritated? Why wasn’t he growing tired of her? It was so frustrating. Then he put his hand into his coat and removed an unfamiliar object, a several-inch long piece of triangular glass.
