CHAPTER 17 #2
She shrugged. “I don’t know. I want you to be happy. And Malcolm is…” She clamped her mouth shut.
“More handsome than Bruce? Stronger? Better? With eyes like the sea after a storm…” Her words trailed off.
She flushed when she saw Evie looking at her with a knowing grin. Chloe’s frown deepened.
“You were right about Bruce, Eve,” she said. “I should have listened to you.”
“For once, that’s something I don’t like being right about.”
“He’s going to come after me, isn’t he?” Chloe fiddled with the wooden spoon.
“Let’s hope not. And let’s not speak of that anymore. I have news.”
Chloe’s head snapped up to her. Her cheeks were rosy, a dreamy look on her face.
“What is it?”
Evie, still beaming, said, “I’m pregnant.”
She wanted to be shocked about that but she wasn’t. Her sister practically beamed when she talked about Callum. It was clear Evie was happy and madly in love with her laird.
There was a small pang of jealousy that went through her. She wanted to have that kind of happiness with someone—she thought that someone was Bruce—and now she wasn’t so sure. She wanted to fall madly in love, too.
She shoved aside the jealousy as she grinned. “I knew it.”
“Oh, sure. How did you know?
Chloe rolled her eyes. “Sis, you’re glowing.”
“Oh. Well…” She cast her eyes downward and blushed. “Maybe I am.”
“You are,” she insisted. “How am I supposed to throw you a baby shower in the fourteenth century?”
Evie giggled. “You don’t.”
Then something else occurred to her. “What about medical care? This is practically the dark ages.”
“There’s a midwife,” Evie said, as though it were the most normal thing in the world. “It’s not like I have any other choice.”
“I know, but I worry.”
“You always did worry about me, but you don’t have to.”
“Yes, I do. I will always worry about you because you worked yourself to the bone putting me through college. I wish there was some way to repay you for that.” She fiddled with a torn piece of the bread bowl.
“You being here is all the payment I need. Come on. Let’s get you to bed. You look exhausted.”
She pushed up from the table and stood, her chair raking back.
Chloe did the same. Together, they left the great hall and headed up the stairs.
She still got a bit turned around in the keep, but she was starting to get the hang of the place.
The bedchambers for the family were in the east tower on the second floor.
The west tower hosted the tapestry room.
At her door, they bid each other good night.
Chloe pushed inside her room and found all the candles blazing.
Someone had set a fire in the hearth for her, warming the room.
She was glad because she certainly didn’t know how to do that.
She kicked off her shoes and stripped down to her shift, falling into the covers. She was too tired and drowsy to change.
The last thought she had was how she was going to get that stone back from Malcolm without him knowing.
***
The woman had darted from his room as if her skirts were on fire. No lass had ever been so quick to get away from him, especially after sharing a kiss such as that. He growled and fought the urge to kick the table with the food, pitcher, and tankard on it.
“I don’t like kissing men with beards,” he repeated, his voice high as he tried to mimic her. “Well, lass, ye sure have a funny way of showing it.”
He was certain she’d liked it. He was more than certain he’d liked it. In fact, he wanted to do it again. As she had stood there, looking up at him with those big green eyes, he had a hard time resisting her. And her mouth…her perfect heart-shaped mouth seemed to beckon him.
He blew out a heated breath as he turned and kicked out his foot. The toe of his boot struck the leg of the chair and it toppled over with a muffled thud against the thick carpet.
The lass was infuriating.
He glanced at the rumpled bed where she had slept away most of the day.
When she had passed out in his arms once again—she seemed to do that a lot—the only place he could think to take her was his bedchamber.
When he had stomped through the great hall, no one was about.
Not even Jamie who tended to lurk about looking for trouble, drinking ale, and pestering Roslyn for more oatcakes.
He’d kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot and placed her on the bed. Her head had lolled to one side as she slept, her face in beautiful repose. She had long lashes that curled upward and the most perfect, smooth ivory skin. He had resisted touching her face.
He had left her for only a moment to collect clean bandages and a dram of whiskey.
She’d never made a move as he unwrapped her hand and revealed the shallow cut along the burned image of the stone in her palm.
The slice had been red and angry with the first sign of streaks pulsing outward from it.
Perhaps she had used a dirty knife when she cut her hand, but why she would cut her hand in the first place, he didn’t know.
Using the dram of whiskey, he had dribbled it over the cut.
He’d paused to see if she had any reaction but she didn’t.
Then he’d dabbed the blood with a clean bandage until it had finally stopped bleeding and rewrapped it, tying it loosely.
He’d placed her hand on her chest, pulled the covers over her fully clothed body, and stepped away.
Only when he had realized the hour was late did he leave to find food. He had sweet-talked Roslyn into giving him a tray for the lass. When he’d returned, she was sitting up in the bed, looking confused.
There was something about her rumpled look, the way her tangled, messy hair framed her face, and the way she blinked her big, green owlish eyes that had sent him over the edge. In that one moment, he knew had to find a way to have her.
He did not regret kissing her. Not one bit.
Now, he stood in the center of his bedchamber peering at the empty bed after her sudden departure. What was he going to do about her now? He simply could not allow her to fling those words at him and then leave. He was convinced she enjoyed the kiss, too.
And he was going to prove it.
But how?
Then he found his answer.
She had left the keystone on the table beside the bed. When she passed out, he had pocketed it to keep it safe. After he’d bandaged her hand, he had placed it on the table for her. He didn’t want her to think he intended to keep it from her. She was the one with the power, after all, not him.
He ran his hand over his beard, his skin whispering against the coarse hair.
Perhaps the lassie was on to something. The hair on his chin had become thick and unruly over the last few months. He hadn’t properly groomed himself like he should have and his beard was getting a bit out of hand. After all, he didn’t want to look as though he didn’t care.
He made the decision. He would shave it off and in the morn, he’d find the bonnie lass and return the keystone to her.
And perhaps, if he were lucky, he’d get to kiss her again.