by Amy Jarecki
“You’re worried,” he said, brushing a wisp of hair away from her face. The sensation of his touch made gooseflesh rise across her shoulders.
Janet met his gaze. In the firelight he didn’t look anywhere near as stern as he usually did. In fact, he appeared rather compassionate. “I am,” she whispered.
His finger trailed to the top of her injured arm and rested there. “I’ll wager in two to three months your arm will be as good as new. Your break was clean. I felt the bone slip into place and tied the splint firm.”
“I thank you for your care, sir, but I am not as worried about my arm as I am about…” Her gaze shifted aside.
“A scandal,” he finished, his voice grave.
“Aye.”
With a deep sigh, he rocked back onto his haunches. “I will attest to your virtue. No one will doubt me. All ken when my word is given, it is true.”
“All?”
He pursed his lips. “You are referring to your father.”
“He and my kin. The feud between our families has run deep for generations. When my father hears the news…” Her mind raced. There was every chance her father would take up arms and put Laird Grant’s lands to fire and sword.
“I will challenge any man who questions me.” Mr. Grant uncorked his flask and drank. “My mother always said there was no use worrying about that which we cannot control.”
“But I could be ruined.”
“Have faith, lass. You fell down a ravine and broke your arm in the midst of a blizzard. Let people think what they may, but I will speak on your behalf.” He was right. They were stuck alone in the bothy now, and not a soul could save her.
Janet nodded as he handed her the flask. This time she took a long swig, welcoming the burn and resultant swirling in her head. “This spirit won’t last long.”
He took it and pushed in the cork. “Ah well. We shall enjoy it whilst we can.”
“Are you always so untroubled?”
He smiled—dimples, white teeth. It was an endearing smile, rather than the sinister sneer she would expect from a clan enemy. “Mayhap if I were, the Grants and the Camerons would be fast friends.”
“Hmm.” Janet couldn’t pull her gaze away as she considered his words. When she’d first seen him in Inverlochy, he’d accused her kin of stealing his cattle. He’d been adamant about his accusation, regardless of the Cameron livestock losses. Aye, she’d seen him at Highland gatherings over the years, but he’d always kept his distance. For the most part, she’d considered him an arrogant mule until the day she sewed his cheek. He became a person then—akin to a friend or acquaintance.
“What are you thinking?” he asked.
She quickly dropped her gaze to her hands. “N-nothing. Ah…” Good heavens, he must think me daft for staring. “I was just wondering how your cheek is healing. I-it is difficult to tell beneath your stubble.”
He rubbed his finger along the outside of the wound. “It itches more than anything. I’d like to pull the stitches out.”
“But you mustn’t do that. The healer always says to leave them be for a fortnight.”
“The bloody sutures might drive me mad by then.”
Her ears piqued at his vulgarity.
“Forgive me. I shouldn’t speak so coarsely when in the presence of a lady.”
Her shoulder twitched up. “I suppose Kennan wouldn’t bother to apologize.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?” She chewed the corner of her lip.
He grasped her good hand and held it between his warm palms. The pads of his fingers were rough and meaty. Her heartbeat quickened as he slowly raised it to his lips and kissed. “You must try to sleep.”
The back of her hand tingled with the lingering essence of his kiss, and she drew her palm over her heart. “You as well, sir.”
Those dimples teased her again as he threw his thumb over his shoulder. “If you need anything I’ll be just there.”
“Thank you.”
“You will ask should you need assistance?”
“Aye.” She smiled. “Good night, Your Lairdship.”
* * *
Janet awoke with a start and no idea of the time. Everything ached as she forced herself to sit up. Daylight shone from a crack at the top of the door. The only other light was provided by embers glowing in the crude hearth, but Mr. Grant was nowhere to be seen. As she set her hand down, her fingers brushed the whisky flask. Beside it were a cup of water, a piece of dried meat, and a note that looked as if it had been written on a slip of vellum with nothing more than charcoal.
Starving, she bit into the meat while she read:
Miss Janet,
Gone to hunt. Warm water & soap by fire.
RG
Though moving caused enough pain to make her swoon, she couldn’t wait any longer to step outside. Careful to hold her arm close to her midriff to prevent it from jostling, she opened the door to thigh-deep snow as far as she could see. Mr. Grant had trampled a path toward the wood. Janet’s feet turned to ice as she followed it with silent footsteps, quickly took care of business.
Once done, she clucked for her mare. At the edge of the wood, the horse nickered, standing akimbo to protect her hock.
“Good girl,” she said. “We both need to heal quickly because we certainly cannot survive a winter in these mountains.”
Content that the mare was settled, Janet hastened back inside.
“Brr.” She shivered and blew on her good hand as she neared the fire. The pot of warm water looked tempting. Beside it were a wee bar of pine soap and a scrap of linen. Slipping out of the gown was easy because of the loose-fitting trumpet sleeves. It took some time, but she managed to loosen her stays enough to pull them around to the front and open the laces enough to push them off over her hips. Down went three petticoats, leaving only her shift.
Janet added a stick of wood to the fire, then stood very still and listened. Nothing. At Achnacarry hunting took an entire day; thus she figured she had plenty of time to bathe. Slowly she pulled the string at the neck of her shift while she looked longingly at the warm water. After her flight to the mountains and her tumble down the hill, she was covered with sweat and grime. Gritting her teeth, she gingerly slipped the garment away from her injured arm.
She crouched and soon realized washing with one hand was cumbersome at best. Unable to lather the cloth, she resorted to scrubbing herself with the soap, then dousing the cloth and running it over her body. The most tempting part? There was enough water remaining to wash her hair. She patted the tangled mass that had been styled by the maid three nights ago. Surprisingly, the decorative comb still held some of the coiffure in place, though strands hung on either side of her face.
She pulled out the comb, ribbon, and remaining pins, dunked her head in the water, did her best to work up a lather, rinsed, then wrung it out.
Now dripping wet, Janet realized her next challenge was finding a drying cloth. Curses. I should have thought about that before I washed my hair.
Coming up with nothing, she resorted to wringing out her hair again—not an easy accomplishment with one working hand. Then she crouched beside the fire and briskly rubbed her skin, the friction and warmth helping her to dry while she cradled her injured arm close to her body, trying to block the pain from her mind.
Her ears pricked up when a noise came from outside. Holding her breath, she stopped moving and listened.
’Twas nothing.
Nonetheless, she must dress straightaway. Removing her clothing had been difficult enough, but the mere thought of tugging her splinted arm through a sleeve made her skin crawl. Clumsily she grasped the neckline of her shift and gathered it until she could slip the whole underdress over her head. With it around her neck, she worked the armhole down to the fist clinched at her waist. Taking in a deep breath, she attempted to lift her arm and straighten it enough to pull the sleeve on.
A sharp, bone-jarring, torturous jab hit her so fiercely she cried out and fel
l to her backside. “Owwwwww!” Weeping hysterically, unable to catch her breath, she couldn’t move.
Then, to her horror, the door burst open.
Chapter Eleven
Robert charged through the door at a run. He’d been outside cleaning rabbits when a shriek came from inside the bothy. He was halfway to her side when the woman’s state of undress dawned on him. Aye. Not just undress, but near complete nudity.
Perfection.
“No!” she shouted, trying to tug the shift down from around her neck.
“Did you fall? Has the splint shifted?” he demanded, dropping to his knees beside her while his heart nearly pounded out of his chest.
“Go away!” She tried to curl into a ball, tears streaking down her face.
Robert forced himself to shift his gaze aside. “Clearly you need help.”
“This is humiliating. P-please go,” she sobbed.
“Nay.” He’d already seen her. He had no choice but to block his mind to it and help the poor lass. Spotting the skirts of her gown, he whisked them from the floor. “I shall drape this over your lap for modesty.”
“Noooooo…”
“Bear up your courage. ’Tis not the first time I’ve helped a woman dress.”
Those words seemed to settle her—or shock the lass—because her weeping turned into staccato breathing. Robert’s jaw twitched. Most likely she thought him a more hideous rake than before. With the brushing of taffeta, he covered her lap with the gown, but the sight of her creamy flesh disarmed him. Smooth and shapely thighs led to dark curls—curls that concealed a tempting treasure. Higher up, her arm crossed a perfectly rounded breast while Miss Janet’s fingers tugged futilely on her twisted linen shift.
Gulping, he shifted his gaze to her face and brushed the tears from her cheeks. “Och, lass, I left the water for you to splash your face and hands, not for a full bath. No one, man or woman, who’d only just broken their arm could be expected to dress without assistance.”
“But I felt so slovenly, and the water temperature was deliciously nice.”
“I cannot say I blame you there. It has been a harrowing couple of days.” Trying not to stare at the soft curve of her breast peeking from beneath her arm, he pointed to the shift. “That’s twisted up tighter than a hemp rope.”
“I’m afraid I bunched it up overmuch and then it twisted more due to my damp hair and…ah…Goodness gracious, this is so improper.”
“Nonsense. You are in need of help and, since there is no one about for miles, I am the only person who can give it.” He started untwisting the linen. “Tell me,” he said, trying to calm her unease, “did it not hurt to remove your clothing?”
“It hurt a great deal, but not anywhere near as much as trying to put my things back on. I thought I would swoon from the pain.”
“Hmm.” The shift unfurled until he had it completely covering her torso. Now came the impossible part—pulling the sleeve up her splinted arm. He tugged the armhole downward, but the tie at the neckline prevented him from moving it far enough. “I’ll need to release this bow.”
“Must you?”
“Aye, unless you can raise your arm about five inches.”
She met his gaze with a mixture of apprehension and trust. “Very well, untie it,” she whispered, so softly it made his stomach stir—causing a great deal of stirring in inappropriate places.
He pulled on the bow and the collar dropped wide. So did Robert’s mouth. Except for the arm hiding the tips of her breasts, he beheld the most exquisite feminine bosom he’d ever seen in all his days. Everywhere he looked, Janet’s skin was as smooth as warm cream. On the curve of her breast, a tiny mole peeked above her hand—exactly where his lips wanted to be, worshiping, tasting, exploring her.
He licked those wayward lips, pretending to examine the widened hole. Most likely, if Janet had released the tie at the collar, she might have been able to slip her arm inside, though Robert could imagine the agony and pain she must be enduring. Carefully he fingered the sleeve. “I shall slip this over your hand now.”
Janet sucked in a gasp, but he managed to quickly slip it over the splint and up to her shoulder. “Breathe,” he whispered, his lips very near her ear.
She smiled with her stuttered inhalation, her eyes mesmerizing. They were flecked with shimmering shades of blue from turquoise to indigo. She glanced downward as if bashful.
“Don’t,” he said, wanting more.
With a mere flicker of her eyelids, those vivid blues again stared back. “What?” she asked, her voice breathless. Did she feel the connection, too?
Of course not. Her father is my sworn enemy.
Clearing his throat, Robert released his grip on the shift and stood. “I’ll turn my back whilst you finish.”
“Thank you.”
After a great deal of grunting and rustling, silence filled the bothy.
“May I turn around now?”
“Mm…” It sounded as if she had her mouth full.
He glanced over his shoulder. One end of her shift’s ribbon was in her teeth and the other was in her good hand. She was trying to tie a bow.
“Allow me to help.”
She shirked away, as if he hadn’t just helped her pull the damned thing up her broken arm. “Och, you won’t be able to dress alone.” He briskly tied the damned bow. “My guess is a lady’s maid helped you tie your stays when you were dressing for Samhain. Am I right?”
She nodded, looking sheepish. At least she was covered, albeit with a single layer of holland cloth that left little to the imagination.
If only the good Lord would bring a heat wave on the morrow, my torture would be ended.
Offering his hand, Robert helped Janet to her feet, stopped staring, and picked up the taffeta skirt.
“Petticoats next,” she said.
He straightened, keeping his back turned. “What do you need all those for?”
“The gown will look wilted without them.”
“We’re stranded miles from civilization and you’re worried about having full skirts?”
“Well, we can’t leave them here. A-and they help provide warmth.”
He hadn’t thought about that. So he sorted through the pile of India muslin and helped her tie three blasted petticoats in place, then again picked up her skirt.
She shook her head. “Stays next.”
He held up the contraption. “How in the devil did you manage to remove this?”
“It wasn’t easy. I nearly broke my good arm twisting it backward.”
“’Tis a miracle you didn’t. But why wear these now? You can put them on afore we ride.”
“Are you serious? No proper woman would be seen outside her bedchamber without her stays.”
“Right. Of course. How terribly unfeeling of me.” He looked to the stays. “Would you prefer the laces in front or in back?”
She huffed. “I believe the front would be most practical.”
Wrapping the stays around her midriff and then painstakingly tugging the laces through each eyelet until his fingers brushed the delicate softness of her breasts turned his knees boneless. And then she gasped. It was not a shocked gasp of horror, but a wee, barely audible gasp. A sound emitted by a female only when she was aroused.
Robert’s hands stilled. She stared at him with desire in her eyes, her chest heaving with the same unsteady breaths he was experiencing. Her lips parted—heaven help him, he wanted to kiss her.
Nay, you will not kiss Sir Ewen Cameron’s daughter, you clodpoll!
Finishing the job, he tied a bow, praying she didn’t notice the slight tremor of his fingers.
“You are adept at this, Mr. Grant,” she whispered. “Wherever did you acquire your skill?”
“Anyone can tie laces.” That wasn’t quite true, but he would never own to his many conquests, not to a maid as pure as Miss Janet. “Besides, I have a sister.”
“You do?”
“Aye.” He held up the bodice of her gown and carefully he
lped her slide into it, injured arm first.
“I do not recall ever seeing her before.”
“I doubt you have. She keeps to Glenmoriston.”
“How old is she?”
“Ten years my junior. She’s only seventeen.”
“Seventeen, and you do not take her to gatherings?”
“She hasn’t wanted to go.”
“Is she shy?”
“Yes.” Robert grasped Janet’s shoulders, turned her to face the wall, and started with yet another set of laces. “Pull your hair aside, please.”
“’Tis wet and matted.”
He glanced at the hand-painted comb on the floor. “I’ll work out the knots for you after I’ve finished cleaning the rabbits.”
“Oh, my goodness, you caught rabbits?”
“Four of them. I found some hazelnuts beneath a grove of trees where the snow wasn’t as deep—gathered enough to fill my sporran. They’ll make a tasty pottage.”
“I daresay they will. I’m hungry.”
Once she was put back together, Robert helped her sit atop her pallet of furs. “How’s your arm?”
“It’s the most painful injury I’ve ever had, but I have no alternative but to endure it.”
“I wish I would have been the one to fall and not you.” He pressed his lips to her forehead and kissed. “Please remain still and do not cause yourself injury whilst I fetch the rabbits.”
Chapter Twelve
Janet watched the imposing Highlander stoop over the fire and use a wooden spoon to stir the pottage. “My, you are far more industrious than I ever imagined.”
“Given your clan’s bias, I doubt you ever imagined anything good about the likes of me.”
She closed her eyes and sighed. Robert Grant had no idea how Janet had noticed him at every ceilidh she’d attended. Who wouldn’t admire a man of his stature, even if he was the leader of a feuding clan? She’d always appreciated his brawn, though never entertained any illusions that his character might be anything more than menacing. Janet had once avowed the same sentiment to Lady Mairi—“Robert Grant might be a brawny Highlander, but he is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” Now that she’d experienced his gentleness, his capacity for kindness, she was confused and muddled.