Chapter Six
Four excruciatingly long days trudged past, and Emeline and Liam settled into a loose routine. Each morning, he hunted while she bathed and prepared breakfast. When he returned, they’d share their simple meal. Afterward, he’d clean his kill, muck out Deri’s lean-to, and chop wood. She straightened the cabin, washed the dishes and the few towels and cloths, and put bread on to rise.
He hadn’t deserved it after his callous behavior, but she’d made an apple pie and a berry tart, too. Not a bite of either treat remained. The man ate as if he were hollow to his toes, and more than once, she suspected he’d been hungry despite her efforts to prepare enough food. Accustomed to cooking for two slight women with small appetites, she’d been hard-pressed to determine how much food to prepare.
In addition to hares, he’d harvested three grouse, and had caught several fish yesterday and today. A less than understated way of letting her know to cook more. She’d obliged without complaint, for it wasn’t her nature to be churlish or hold a grudge for his oafish behavior that first day.
Those that held on to rancor and resentment only hurt themselves. The became bitter and toxic to be around.
In the afternoon, they shared another meal, and then she’d go for a walk while he chopped more wood.
How much confounded firewood did they need?
And must he perform the task shirtless? Displaying his delicious, sun-kissed sculpted back, chest, and arms that no mere mortal women could possibly ignore or cease to surreptitiously ogle? Or yearn to caress that glistening, muscled form?
Torture. That was what it was. Sheer torture. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he did so to deliberately put her off her stride.
Twice, she’d returned from a lengthy outing to come upon him glistening with sweat, muscles rippling in an animalist grace as he swung the ax. She’d turned on her heels and made directly for the creek to cool her toes. And the rest of her, though she only waded to her knees.
Though the brook ran high, it had a wide shoreline and hadn’t flooded as the river had.
Later, while she prepared dinner, he’d take Deri for a ride and scout the terrain to determine if it was safe for them to leave on the morrow. Each time, Liam returned perceptibly disappointed that they must wait another day to depart.
She refused to examine why his disappointment piqued her. It wasn’t as if she relished remaining here. Nevertheless, his eagerness to leave stung.
After dinner, he took himself off to bathe in the cold brook. Emeline studiously read Paradise Lost and tried, unsuccessfully for the most part, not to think of the naked man behind the cottage. She either read this tediously long, and rather depressing poem by Milton, or The Essays by Sir Francis Bacon.
Neither book was particularly entertaining or uplifting.
Most assuredly, Liam and his friends hadn’t spent their leisure reading. Honestly, she suspected the only reason the books were here was that one of them had wanted to rid their library of the works.
When Liam returned from his evening ablutions, he sharpened his sword and dirk. True to his word, he hadn’t laid a hand on her and had treated her with utmost respect and courtesy since his outburst. Impossible as it seemed, he’d reinforced the already impermeable walls he’d erected.
Nevertheless, she often caught him watching her, his smoky-gray eyes inscrutable slits. She couldn’t count the number of times she covertly studied the bewildering man as well. It had been insulting and humiliating beyond endurance when he’d growled he’d not be making an honest woman of her. As if she anticipated any such thing or had in any way hinted that she did.
“Bonnie as a rose in the morn and a shape to make a goddess jealous,” indeed.
She pressed cool hands to heated cheeks admonishing her capering pulse and vivid imagination to behave themselves. Eyes and attention trained upon the yellowed page, she worried her lower lip.
So forcible within my heart I feel
The bond of nature draw me to my own,
My own in thee, for what thou art is mine;
Our state cannot be severed, we are one,
One flesh; to lose thee were to lose myself.
Flames licked her cheeks once more. Good heavens. Was she destined to burn cherry-red all evening?
Cheery whistling interrupted her attempt to immerse herself in the poem. Head tilted, she raised her attention from the tome. Did Liam whistle? Or…did someone else approach the cottage?
Alarm flitted through her and, once she’d grabbed the fire poker, she crept to the window. The sun hung low on the horizon. Faint streaks of purple and pink pastels feathered the dusky blue sky between the tree branches.
Liam’s mane of wet ebony hair bounced upon his shoulders as he marched up the slight incline. Whistling. Relief swept her. She hadn’t known exactly what she’d do if someone else besides him had been outside.
She adored his hair, and she itched to thread her fingers through its silky lengths. She’d never seen a man with more magnificent hair. Many of the females frequenting Aunt Jeneva’s shop would’ve gnashed their teeth for locks half so lovely. The shiny tresses were wasted on a man.
His beard intrigued too. Mostly because of what it hid.
Liam fairly beamed as he burst into the cottage. So excited was he, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d kicked his heels together. “Lass, we leave on the morrow.”
Emeline ought to have been overjoyed, but dismay better described the emotion tightening her chest. Having him nearby day and night had taxed her nerves and her reserves to no end. Yet, the truth was, once they left this cottage and she accompanied him to his home, this camaraderie would end. That knowledge reinforced her loneliness and apprehension.
He knew what he returned to. Knew what to expect. She had no idea what her future held.
And always—always—lurking ominously in the shadows was the knowledge that someone wanted her dead. Someone desperate or determined enough to go to the extremes of locating her while she was on holiday in the Highlands and replacing the drivers with hired cutthroats.
Until that matter was solved, she’d never be at ease. Her gut instincts told her she couldn’t solve the mystery without help. And she didn’t even need the fingers of one hand to count the number of people she could impose upon to assist her.
However, Liam’s grin proved contagious, and she smiled in return. All the while making certain her gaze didn’t stray to the tempting dark hair peeking from the opening of his unlaced shirt.
Upon spying the poker in her white-knuckled grip, he elevated a raven eyebrow. “Did ye mean to clobber me with that or run me through?”
“I dinna ken who approached.” Self-conscious and feeling ridiculous, she returned the poker to the holder on the hearth.
Still grinning, he held up a good-sized kettle filled with water. “I found this in the lean-to’s loft. I thought ye could wash yer hair tonight, if ye wanted to,” he said, striding to the fireplace and hanging the pot on the hook.
Must he be so blasted giddy that they were finally leaving? And was her appearance so hideous, he wanted to make sure she was presentable when they arrived tomorrow? Nonetheless, making a good impression couldn’t hurt and that was better accomplished with a well-scrubbed scalp.
“That would be wonderful. Thank ye for suggestin’ it.” Despite the uncharacteristic peevishness that had swept her, her response was sincere. The offer was simply too welcome to resist. It had been over a week since she washed the mass tied at her nape.
He waved toward the door. “I thought we could put a chair outside, and ye could lean back. Then I can help wet it and wash it.”
She gawked as if a trow had parted his beard, poked its ugly head out, winked, and brazenly waved. God save her, but the suggestion was far too intimate. Far too tempting. If he touched her—
“Ye dinna have to help me,” she hastily declined. “I’m accustomed to washin’ my hair myself.”
He cupped his nape and gave her a boyi
sh half-grin. “Aye, but I’ll wager ye’re no’ accustomed to doin’ so from a kettle outdoors.”
And that was why, fifteen minutes later, she stood uncertainly outside the cottage.
The evening had turned cool, but not unpleasantly so.
Deri whickered for his master and shifted his feet.
“Ye’re a glutton for attention, lad,” Liam called to the horse. “There’s a lass requirin’ my consideration at present.”
Deri snorted and rolled his big brown eyes as if to say, Just wait until ye wish to ride me again.
“Have a seat, lass.” Patting the chair back, Liam pulled a face. “I dinna think I can manage with ye standin’.”
He assuredly could too. He stood a foot taller than she.
“I told ye, ye dinna have to do this.” Having already untied the strip of cloth holding her hair back, Emeline obediently, if somewhat reluctantly, plopped onto the chair as he’d indicated. Acutely aware of the handsome man who’d soon be touching her hair, she swallowed around the constriction in her throat.
She had nothing to be nervous about, Emeline strongly admonished herself. Nevertheless, there was something so very intimate about allowing him to wash her hair. It unnerved and thrilled at the same time. She clasped the linen cloth about her shoulders tighter, as much for something to do with her hands as from nerves stretched taut as bow strings.
“I’ve never washed a woman’s hair before.”
All the more reason for him not to wash hers.
Instead, she softly said, “No’ even yer wife’s?”
His low chuckle surprised her. She’d expected anger at the mention of his wife. “Nae, Kristin preferred her lady’s maid perform the task.”
So her name had been Kristin.
What kind of woman had she been?
From the little Liam had shared, not a very admirable one.
Emeline knew she’d been English, of course, and she and Liam had two children together. His wife hadn’t liked the Highlands, and his caustic remark about being duped gave Emeline reason to wonder if the union had been entirely by choice.
Moving behind the chair, he carefully lifted her long hair over the back. He ran his hands down the tresses a few times before gathering the mass together.
“Let me ken if I accidentally pull yer hair. Ye’ve quite a lot.” He cleared his throat, and she ducked her chin, smiling.
Had he bitten off more than he could chew?
Did he now regret his gallant offer? Hadn’t he said he wasn’t a gallant?
What else did one call a man who went out of his way to treat and assist a woman?
“I shall,” she murmured. “I confess, this is rather a treat. I’ve never had a lady’s maid before.”
He poured the first bowls of warm water over her hair, running his big hand down the strands. Two more scoops followed. The distinct aroma of Castile soap wafted past her nostrils. After drawing the bar over her hair from scalp to the ends several times, he added a bit more water and worked the soap into a frothy lather.
She’d expected he’d use the same soft soap in the jar she’d been using for bathing. This must be his personal bar. He’s used it all over his body. And though it shouldn’t have, the thought sent another burst of excitement pelting along her nerves.
Unable to resist relaxing as he gently rubbed her scalp and washed her hair, Emeline closed her eyes. Now she understood why fancy ladies might enjoy this on a regular basis. When she’d washed her hair at home, it had been a quick process.
Well, as quick as it could be with hair hanging to her waist.
“How does that feel?” Liam’s voice held a slightly husky note.
She mustered a lazy, closed-mouth, ghost of a smile. “I fear, I could get quite accustomed to this pampering.” Her bones felt the consistency of warm wax and her eyelids weighted by bricks.
“Ye’ve beautiful hair,” he said, scarcely above a whisper—almost as if he unwillingly spoke his thoughts aloud. “The color’s unusual. No’ quite auburn and no’ quite sable.”
His was black as a moonless, starless night. Except for the silver. Those were the stars glittering in the midnight sky.
She chuckled and, arching her neck, opened her eyes, peering backward at him. “Nae one’s ever described my hair that way. I simply call it dark brown, as did my aunt.” She scrunched her nose. “Although, now that I think on it, I believe she mentioned an auburn-haired female somewhere in the family tree.”
“Nae, nothin’ so common is dark brown for ye, Emeline.” His voice sounded a soft caress as his fingers stilled. “Chestnut. Bronze. Treacle. Whisky.”
“Whisky? I’m no’ sure that’s a compliment, Liam.” She chuckled, slightly shaking her head.
“If ye ken how much I enjoy whisky, ye’d have nae doubt, leannan,” he replied in that spine-caressing deep brogue.
Such an innocent comment shouldn’t have sent thrills rippling from breast to knees, but—God save her—it did. She was reading too much into his actions and words. That was what inexperience wrought. He was a man of the world and no doubt hadn’t a second thought about his rascally speech.
“Och, Emeline. Close yer eyes and dinna move. A bit of soap is drippin’ down yer forehead.” A moment later, he bent close, so near she smelled the Castilian soap scenting his still-damp hair. He swiped the soap away, and at his touch, a tremor rippled through her.
She might blame it on the cooling evening, but she knew it for what it was.
Desire. For him.
“I’m goin’ to rinse now,” he said, a queer inflection in his tone.
Did he know? Was she so transparent?
“Keep yer eyes closed,” he said.
As if she dared open them and have him read in her gaze what she’d been hiding since they’d first met. He might be an untamed Scot with no use for women—och, only one use—but from the instant he’d plopped her on Deri, her body had been much too aware of him.
Several more tepid bowls of water flowed over her head and hair. With each, Liam combed his thick fingers from her scalp to the ends of the tresses. She’d never been more relaxed or felt more indulged in her entire life. There was something very nice about having one’s hair washed. That, she couldn’t deny. Particularly by a startlingly virile man.
After gathering her sopping wet hair and twisting it into a rope, he wrung the water out. He smoothed his big palms from her forehead, over the back of her head and then raked his fingers through her long tresses several times.
Now that the sun had sunk below the horizon, a slight breeze had kicked up. The evening had grown chilly, and she shivered.
“Let’s get ye inside before the fire, and get yer hair dry.” He patted her shoulder, his voice neutral once more. “We dinna need ye catchin’ a chill.”
Aye, because that would delay our departure.
Chapter Seven
With legs made of jelly and a distinct reluctance to move, Emeline sighed. She took the towel from around her shoulders and wrapped her hair. Summoning her nerve, she bent her lips upward shyly and faced him. “Thank ye, Liam.”
To her utter astonishment, and a delighted skip of her heart, he dipped into a courtier’s bow. “It was my pleasure, my lady. Now inside with ye. I’ll bring the chair.”
“Aye, sir.” Giving him another radiant smile over her shoulder, she dutifully filed into the cottage.
He might be reluctant to admit it, but no man washed a woman’s hair if he didn’t feel something for her. She wasn’t sure what or where it might lead, but happiness like warm molasses burbled behind her ribs.
Setting her teeth against the waves of shudders rippling through her, she squatted and added two logs to the fading fire. She prodded the coals until flames snapped and crackled, sending heat radiating outward into the room before removing the linen from her hair.
Shaking the long tresses down her spine, she hauled a chair before the hearth. She’d positioned herself far enough away so that she’d not overheat but close
enough her hair would dry when Liam entered. He shut and bolted the door then set the kettle in the corner.
Wordlessly, he carried the other chair to where she sat. “Em, stand up for a minute.”
Giving him a curious look, and declining to remind him again that her name wasn’t Em, she stood.
He positioned her chair just so, and once he’d collected a blanket from her bed and draped it across the back of her chair, situated himself beside her. “Now ye can sit.”
Slowly lowing herself, she gave him another inquisitive glance. “What are ye about?”
“Ye can rest yer head against the chair’s back without risk of a crick in yer neck. I should’ve thought of that outside.” With a big palm to her shoulder, he eased her backward. “I’m sorry I dinna have a comb or brush.” He gave her another one of his charming, heart-stuttering grins. “But I wasna expectin’ to entertain a lady.”
The way he said, entertain a lady sent a secret thrill through her. To wrangle her wayward musings and bring her leaping pulse under control, she asked, “So conditions are safe for us to travel tomorrow then?”
“Aye.”
He combed his fingers through her hair, and she stifled a groan. This was pure heaven. Who knew having someone attend to her hair could be so sensual? So evocative? So addictive?
“I’d like to leave at dawn. We’ll take it slow, but I still think we will reach Eytone Hall by midafternoon.” Another slow drag of those long fingers to her hair, gently tugging at her scalp, and a zip of pleasure skittered down her spine.
How was she to sit behind him for hours and hours, her arms around his solid torso, and her breasts brushing his muscle-ridden back and maintain her poise? She didn’t suppose he’d let her walk.
Don’t be ridiculous. She bit her lip. Of course not. His home was too far.
She’d have to clench her teeth and think of unpleasant things: Liver. Mushrooms. Beets.
To Woo a Highland Warrior Page 7