Chapter 12 #2
“A bath sounds delightful.” She eyed him back, waiting. Surely, he wouldn’t be so cruel as to scurry off to his own bath, and deny her the same opportunity?
Except he was that cruel, because the next words out of his mouth were, “I can see what you’re plotting, and you may put it out of your mind at once. You can’t come with me, Miss MacLeod.”
She crossed her own arms, glaring back at him. “Whyever not? What’s the harm in it?”
“It isn’t proper.”
Proper? Surely they’d left “proper” behind them by now? If a lady couldn’t indulge in a little impropriety under these trying circumstances, when could she? “It’s proper for you to strip down to nothing for a bath, but improper for me to do so?”
Perhaps “strip down” wasn’t the best way to phrase it, as it conjured up an exceedingly inappropriate mental image of him tearing his clothing off.
“Yes. That’s precisely the case.” He was looking at her as if she’d lost her wits. “You’re a young lady, Miss MacLeod. Young ladies don’t bathe unclothed in the out-of-doors.”
For pity’s sake. After everything that had happened—the fire, the chase through the woods, the mob of villagers with their torches, and his bloody knuckles—he’d made up his mind to insist on the strictest propriety in this?
She tossed her blankets aside, rose to her feet, and faced him with her hands planted on her hips. “What nonsense. You just told me it was private. That the darkness and the trees and rocks would hide you from the neighbors’ prying eyes. Will they not hide me, as well?”
“You … I …” He dragged a hand through his hair and muttered, “It’s not the neighbors’ prying eyes I’m worried about.”
What did that mean? If he wasn’t concerned about the neighbors, then who …
Oh. Oh.
Heat sparked through her, the flush of it rising from her chest into her cheeks, but now he’d tempted her with thoughts of a bath, she couldn’t let it go.
Really, this was all his own fault. “Please, Mr. Ross?” She folded her hands under her chin. “I won’t remove my clothing. I promise it.”
He raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to bathe with your clothes on? How do you propose to do that?”
“I won’t bathe. I’ll just … wade. There won’t be a need for me to remove any of my clothing then. Only my boots. Does that satisfy your sense of female propriety?”
“No, but I can see there’s no point in arguing with you.” He strode over to the stand that held Brodie’s washbasin and plucked up another length of toweling from the shelf underneath it. “Here. Take this.”
“Thank you!” She darted across the room, took the towel from him, and followed him out the door before he could change his mind.
“This way.” He took her down a rough pathway that led behind the cottage and into a stand of trees, away from the shores of Lochalsh. “Stay close, Miss MacLeod. It’s dark, and it will get darker still as we get deeper into the woods.”
She followed close on his heels, and it was a good thing, because the darkness was as thick as it was in Dunvegan Wood.
The inky blackness pressed against her, so penetrating all she could see was the dull glow of his white shirt in front of her as they made their way down a series of connected pathways.
Left, then right, then left again, and under a low gathering of branches. Sunlight was a stranger to this quiet place, the moss so lush the ground was like a carpet of furred green under their feet.
She heard the water before she saw it, a gentle splash some short distance ahead of them, but she was not prepared for the sight that awaited her when at last the trees opened, and they emerged on the edge of a small, deep pool, the black water reflecting a slice of moon visible in the night sky above them.
“My goodness, how pretty,” she breathed in a whisper, because such an ethereal place deserved a hushed voice. “It’s a bit like the fairy pools in Glenbrittle.” She’d only been there once, years ago, but she’d never forgotten it.
Callum didn’t reply, but for the first time since she’d laid eyes on him the day he’d come marching up Castle Cairncross’s drive she could read what he felt on his face, because he was taking no pains to hide it.
Admiration, even reverence for the beautiful place spread out before them.
There was a stillness to him she’d never seen before, a peacefulness in his expression that was …
well, it was a flattering look on him. Far better than his usual scowl and the care and worry that had drawn a line between his brows.
“Do you see the weeping willow tree, just there?” He nodded toward a tree a few paces to their left. It was a large one, perhaps the largest willow she’d ever seen, with long, graceful branches drooping down low enough some of them trailed in the water.
“I do, indeed. I don’t see how I could miss it. It must be lovely in the summer, when the leaves are green.” They were a dark golden brown now, and still rather pretty, but subdued.
“The pool is shallower on the other side of the willow, but more than deep enough for wading. That’s all you intend to do, isn’t it, Miss MacLeod? Wade, that is.”
“Yes, yes, of course.” She waved an impatient hand at him. She’d already said so, hadn’t she? Though now she was here, she was far more tempted to swim than she had been before she saw the pool.
“Good. That’s your wading pool, then, on the other side of the willow. I’ll remain here, on this side, and allow you your privacy.”
And preserve his own, too, of course, but it wasn’t as if she was going to peek at him, as tempting as it might be. Although now the idea was in her head … no, no, it wouldn’t do, the mystery of his bare backside notwithstanding.
A lady didn’t peep, for pity’s sake.
“Fifteen minutes only, Miss MacLeod,” he called, vanishing into the darkness on his side of the willow. “You’d best make haste.”
Miss MacLeod did not make haste. Not if he could judge by the playful splashing coming from the other side of the willow, and the long, satisfied sigh that followed.
Only Freya MacLeod could find a way to wade seductively.
His cock rose to attention, searching for the source of that delightful sound. He pressed the heel of his hand hard against it, willing it to deflate, but after three days trapped in a tiny cottage with little to do but gaze at her, the troublesome organ persisted.
Stubborn appendages, cocks, but a plunge into the icy water would discourage it quickly enough. With a low curse, he stripped off his shirt and breeches, tossed them over a branch near the side of the pool, and jumped in, gasping as the freezing water closed over his head.
God above, but it was cold. So cold it snatched the breath from his lungs and sent his blood rushing through his veins. The water quenched his ardor, but it was a temporary reprieve only.
It didn’t matter what she was doing. Even the most mundane tasks—sleeping, eating, reading—took on a new eroticism when Freya MacLeod engaged in them.
He kept still when she slept so he could listen to the soft, steady rise and fall of her breath.
If she drank a cup of tea or ate a bit of bread, he became mesmerized by her mouth, and his lips quirked in a helpless grin whenever she rolled her eyes over Captain Singleton.
She was stealing his wits with one breath, one bite, one page at a time.
It was maddening. She was maddening, and the devil of it was, she wasn’t even trying to catch his attention. She hadn’t the least idea how alluring she was, or how tempting he found her.
Which, of course, only made her more so.
Unless he hadn’t been as stealthy as he thought. She’d caught him staring at her a few times, but where another lady might have preened, she seemed more baffled by it than anything else.
But not nearly as baffled as he was. How had this happened? He’d hardly noticed her that first day at Castle Cairncross. He’d overlooked her so thoroughly Hamish had been obliged to remind him there was a third MacLeod sister.
There was no overlooking her now. No looking past her, either, and with each day that passed Brodie’s cottage seemed to grow smaller, the walls closer, the space between him and Freya narrower, and narrower …
Another splash came from her side of the willow, then another one, louder this time and followed by a laugh that was pure joy, a laugh that floated through the swaying branches of the willow, a laugh he felt as surely as a warm palm caressing his cold flesh, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.
She was utterly enchanting, damn her.
He stifled a groan. It had been a mistake, bringing her to the pool. She was altogether too close, and he was altogether too naked, but it took a stronger man than him to resist the plea in those big green eyes.
The sooner they returned to the cottage, the better. He wouldn’t find much relief there, but at least he’d be dressed, and his cock tucked chastely into the tight confines of his breeches. “You have five more minutes, Miss MacLeod.”
The splashing stopped. “Is that all? It feels as if we just got here.”
“Five minutes.” He snatched up the lump of soap and began a vigorous scrubbing, the flesh of his arms and chest burning under the punishing assault. “And not a bloody minute longer,” he muttered to himself, like the bad-tempered devil he was.
He ran the soap over the rest of his body, between his toes and between his legs. His cock had given up the fight and retreated, and just as well. Perhaps it would do the gentlemanly thing and stay there until he returned Freya to Hamish.
He scrubbed the past four days of dirt and grime from his hair, dunked his head under the water, then surfaced and gave a vigorous shake, sending water droplets in every direction.
There was a great deal of splashing coming from the other side of the willow. Far too much splashing for a lady who’d promised she’d only wade. “What are you doing over there, Miss MacLeod? Because from here, it sounds like you’re swimming.”
The splashing stopped. There was a long pause, then, “Swimming? No, indeed, Mr. Ross. Of course not. I promised I wouldn’t.”
She’d promised, yes, but perhaps she was as susceptible to temptation as he was. He’d soon find out. He rose from the pool, shivering, and made quick work of drying himself and donning his clothes.
He half expected to find a soaking wet water nymph on the other side of the willow, but when he emerged from the branches he found Freya standing on the bank of the pool, fully clothed, and with a demure smile on her face. “Look at the sky, Cal—er, I mean, Mr. Ross. You can see Cassiopeia.”
“Who?”
“Cassiopeia, Queen of Ethiopia. She was Andromeda’s mother.” She pointed at the sky. “Just there above her and to the left is Ursa Minor.”
He followed the gesture and drew in a sharp breath.
Millions of stars were suspended in the velvety darkness above them, more stars than he’d ever seen before, as if someone had tossed a handful of diamonds into the air, and they’d remained where they landed, winking and twinkling with joy at their sudden freedom.
“Cepheus is to their right,” she murmured. “Do you see that sort of elongated triangle? That’s Cepheus. He was Cassiopeia’s husband, and Andromeda’s father.”
He gazed into the sky, trying to find the shapes she pointed out amidst the infinite pinpricks of light. “How do you know so much about the stars?”
“My father taught me when I was a girl.” She turned to him, the moonlight catching the golden strands hidden amongst the red of her hair. “Did no one ever teach you about the constellations?”
They hadn’t. No one had ever taught him much of anything. His mother had done the best she could for him, but she was a midwife and had been gone a good deal of the time, earning their bread. He’d spent much of his childhood alone.
“Draco is just there, to the left of Cassiopeia, above Ursa Minor. See his tail?” She traced the shape with her finger. “He was a dragon, but I’ve always thought he looked more like a serpent, with that long, pointed tail.”
“I don’t know how you can find him, with so many stars.”
She was quiet, but he felt her shift beside him, the warm weight of her gaze like fingertips stroking his skin. “The North Star, Mr. Ross. If you ever get lost, search for the North Star. You can find all the constellations from there.”
He turned to her, so pale and beautiful with the starlight on her damp skin. He traced his finger from the soft skin behind her ear down her neck, chasing an errant drop of water glittering in the moonlight and catching it on his fingertip. “What’s this, Miss MacLeod?”
She had gone swimming, the minx.
“Don’t tell me you broke your promise.” He traced his fingertip over the hollow at the base of her throat, leaving a damp trail across her skin before touching the loose hair at the end of her braid. “Ah. Wet, just as I thought. Shame on you, Freya.”
But there was no anger in his voice. He’d intended it as a mild scold, but it came out low and throaty, a caress more than a reproach.
“I—I beg your pardon.” She gazed at him, her eyes deep, mysterious shadows in the perfect oval of her face. “It seems I’m not as good at resisting temptation as I imagined.”
He stared at her for a long moment, his throat working. He had no right to touch her, no right to kiss her, but here, under the stars with the moonlight shining down on them like a blessing, there was nothing in the world that could stop him from tasting her.
Surely, Fate brought them here. Who was he, to argue with Fate?
He touched his palm to her cheek and drew her closer, closer, until his mouth was hovering over hers, only a breath away from her parted lips.
“Neither am I,” he whispered, just before his mouth found hers.