Page 12 of The Highlander's Twisted Deal
Sara gave her a brief nod, and there was nothing to be done but to push open the door and step inside. Ava did so, holding her breath.
The room was small and square, simply decorated, and quite clearly a bedchamber. A blazing fire crackled in the hearth, and real glass shimmered in the windows, keeping out the drafts. It was black as pitch outside by now, and the wind wailed. A smattering of rain hit the glass, and Ava shivered.
A four-poster bed, hung with velvet curtains and decorated with furs, stood in one corner of the room and was very difficult to ignore. There were various pieces of furniture, all plain and practical, but what really caught Ava’s notice was the bare-chested man sitting in a chair in front of the fire.
Sara pulled the door closed behind her, and Ava jumped.
Laird McAdair tipped back his head, lifting his half-finished glass of whiskey towards her. “Alone, at last.”
She swallowed hard. Her throat was suddenly dry. “So I see,” she managed. “Well, I’m thirsty. May I have a drink?”
“There’s whiskey,” he responded, gesturing to a bottle on a low table by the fire.
She shook her head. “How about some tea? We’ve had a long few days, all of us. There’s nothing a nice cup of tea won’t fix.”
He shrugged. “As ye like. There’s a kettle on the hearth.”
Ava got to work, hanging the kettle over the fire, preparing the cups, and making sure her small stash ofpillowfriendwas ready at hand.
“Do ye like mint tea, Me Laird?” she asked as innocently as she could. Mint would disguise the oddly sweet smell ofpillowfriend.
“Aye, that I do.”
The kettle whistled, and Ava poured out two cups. She stirred in the mint, then added a generous pinch ofpillowfriendto one cup. After a moment’s hesitation, she decided not to dose the other. He might demand that they switch cups, but it would certainly look odd if she didn’t drink the tea she had asked for.
It was easier, too, to keep her back turned to Laird McAdair. He hadn’t moved from his seat since she arrived, hadn’t made a move towards her, but she could feel his eyes on her. She wasawareof him in a way she didn’t like.
Without his shirt on, she could see that his plaid hadn’t added to his bulk. His chest was tightly muscled, covered in a fuzz of dark hair and the occasional scars. His skin looked warm, and Ava determinedly avoided thinking of how it would feel beneath her palms.
Ye will find out soon, whether ye want or not.Just because he’s handsome, just because he saved ye, doesnae mean he’s any better than the old Laird himself. The only difference is the dose ye are giving him.
She turned back to him with a bright smile and placed one teacup in front of him, sipping her own.
“It’s refreshing, I think,” Ava said, smiling blandly, “after such a long journey.”
He watched her intently—did the maneverblink?—and chuckled low in his throat. For a moment, Ava thought he knew what she’d done.
Then, he leaned forward in his seat, setting aside his whiskey glass, and stretched out his left arm. A filthy bandage was tied around his forearm, and Ava remembered how Laird MacCarthy’s blade had glanced across it.
“I thought ye wouldnae have yer own herbs and supplies, so I brought me own. Ye will find them over there, in the cupboard.”
There was a long moment of silence. After the pause had become almost unbearable, Ava spoke.
“Ye… ye want me to heal ye?”
He lifted smudgy dark eyebrows. “Are ye not a healer? Yer fingers say otherwise.”
He waggled his own fingers at her, and Ava automatically glanced down at her green-tinged fingertips—the mark of a healer. The stains on her hands barely made it past the first joint of each finger, but she’d known women with entirely green fingers in the past.
“I am a healer,” she said, “but I thought… well, it seemed to me… uh, the bath, the new dress, the food…”
He smiled innocently at her, but there was a bite of devilish enjoyment there, too. “Well, I thought ye would be tired and grubby. Hungry, too. Now, whydidye think I brought ye here, lassie?”
It was too much. Ava started to laugh.
It began as a giggle and then worked its way up into a throaty chuckle. Laird McAdair did not laugh, but he watched her laugh with a complacent grin, sipping his whiskey.
“For what it’s worth, lassie,” he said when her giggles had subsided, “I’ve never paid or coerced a woman to lie with me. I’ve never had to. I’ve no taste for unwilling participants in bed. Men who think otherwise have clearly never been with a woman whowantsto be with them. It’s a difference, let me tell ye.”
