Chapter 17 #2
Apparently that was all the invitation he needed. He gave her a quick smile, one that was unfortunately close to dozens he’d given her centuries ago, then turned to see to his horse. Sunny took a deep breath, then walked toward her door.
“Wait.”
She stopped on her threshold and looked at him. “Why?”
“So I might go first. To make certain your house is safe.”
She wanted to tell him that she had no reason not to feel safe, especially if she was on the inside and he and his charming smiles were loitering on the outside, but she couldn’t manage it.
She watched him take off his horse’s gear and send the beast off with a friendly slap on the rump.
She sighed and stepped aside so he could open her door and go inside.
She realized that he’d come to an abrupt halt halfway across her threshold because she ran into his back. He reached behind to steady her.
He held on to her arm quite tightly, actually.
She eased past him, then turned on her lights so she could see his face. He looked like he’d just seen a ghost.
She glanced at the chairs in front of her fire to make sure that wasn’t the case, then looked back up at him. “What is it?”
“There’s something about your threshold—” He shuddered violently, once. “I don’t like it.”
“But surely you’ve been here before,” she said. “Didn’t you come to visit Moraig?”
“Nay. Alistair always sent a car to bring her up to Cameron Hall.” He took a deep breath, but it did nothing to improve his color. “I feel as though I’ve been here before, but that’s impossible—”
Well, it wasn’t, but she didn’t bother to say as much.
He had looked bad before; now he looked like he just might pass out if she didn’t get him into a chair.
She drew his arm over her shoulders just as she had on the way to Patrick’s, then put her arm around his waist and forcibly pulled him into her house.
She led him over to one of the comfortable chairs in front of the fire, then pushed him unresisting down into it.
“I need to see to your fire,” he said faintly.
“What you need to do is to put your head between your knees before you pass out,” she said. “I can make my own fire. I can even see to your horse. Jamie keeps my little stall stocked with hay and oats and Patrick was here this morning so I’m sure there’s still water out . . . um . . . there—”
She shut her mouth when she realized she was babbling.
She was nervous, that was it. She had wished so fervently during those first days that Cameron would somehow find his way into her house and take up his place before her fire. Now, there he was, yet it was so far from how she’d pictured it that it was all she could do not to burst into tears.
Running was a better alternative.
She would see to his horse, then escape to Patrick’s house. Cameron could dry off in front of her fire and be on his way before she returned . . . say, in a day or two. His headache would pass without any help from her.
She left Cameron to his own devices and went outside.
She lured his horse to the little stall with a handful of oats, rubbed him dry, and made sure he had enough food to satisfy him for a bit.
She hesitated, then went back around the house to get Cameron’s saddle.
There was no sense in letting it get ruined in the rain.
She heaved it up, then shrieked when it left her hands.
Fortunately—or unfortunately, perhaps—it was only Cameron holding on to it from the other side.
“Go sit by the hearth, woman,” he rasped. “I’ll be right behind you.”
She wanted to protest, but he looked even worse than he had ten minutes earlier.
She watched him walk off very unsteadily into the deepening gloom and realized with a start that he’d been speaking Gaelic.
That she couldn’t remember how long he’d been doing so, or whether or not she’d answered him in the same language was probably a good reflection of her state of mind.
She was insane.
She took a deep breath. All right, so maybe it wouldn’t kill her to make him some tea and let him sit for an hour. She would make nice, find out once and for all that he did not know her and had no desire to make her acquaintance, then be on her way to healing her broken heart for good this time.
In Seattle, if she had any sense.
She went back inside and kept herself busy first tending her fire, then making a killer batch of hangover cure.
Cameron came in and shut the door behind him.
She heard him take off his boots and set them by the door, no doubt next to hers.
She heard him take off his coat and hang it on a hook.
It seemed so perfectly normal, so I’m-home-honey-what’s-for-supper -ish, so much as it might have been had things been different.
His footsteps came to a halt behind her. “Let me take your coat, Sunshine.”
She allowed it, then picked up a mug of something unpleasant for him and something tasty for her and carried them both into her little great room.
She handed him his, then sat down on Moraig’s stool in front of the hearth.
Cameron sniffed what she’d given him, considered, then took a deep breath and drank.
It took a handful of minutes, but she finally saw the lines of tension and pain begin to fade from his face.
Silence enveloped them both, silence that should have been full of knowing that she had him and modern sutures both in the same century, but wasn’t.
She tried to be content with what she had, but that didn’t work, either.
He had to go if it meant pushing him out her front door herself.
She took his mug out of his hand and escaped to her kitchen before she had to pretend to be comfortable with his silence any longer.
She poured him the last of what she’d made for him, then washed up.
He could finish that, then he could go. Not even Moraig would have faulted her for wanting to kick him out, not considering the extenuating circumstances.
She picked up his cup and turned toward her great room, expecting to see him sitting in front of the hearth.
Instead, he was leaning against the wall, four feet away from her, watching her.
She almost dropped the mug. He leapt forward and caught it, then took it and leaned back against the wall again.
“Why are you so nervous?”
“I’m not,” she lied. “I’m just worried that you won’t make it home before dark, so you’d better drink the rest of this in a hurry.”
He smiled faintly. “Are you throwing me out now?”
“Absolutely.”
His smile deepened. “Aren’t you even going to offer to feed me first?”
“Do you want me to feed you?” she asked in surprise.
“Actually, I don’t think I dare eat,” he admitted uneasily. “I was forced to endure brunch—and a London brunch, no less— this morning. I’m still trying to keep it down.”
“Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?” she asked, more sharply than she had intended.
He didn’t respond. His smile faded, then he applied himself to his tea. He finished, then handed the cup to her slowly. “What did I do to make you dislike me so?”
She shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t dislike you.”
“Then why are you so angry with me?”
“I’m not angry with you.”
“Then why is it, Mistress Sunshine, that you run each time I get close to you?”
Because looking into his bright blue eyes and seeing no true recognition there was killing her.
Because having him standing four feet away from her and knowing exactly how she would feel if she crossed those same four feet and flung herself into his arms was killing her.
Because looking at his mouth that was still so beautiful and knowing what miracles it was able to work on hers was simply killing her.
She grasped for the first thing that came to mind. “Why do you care?” she asked desperately.
He considered, then seemed to choose his words very carefully. “I’m not certain I have the answer that question deserves.”
“Thank you so very much for making the effort anyway,” she said tartly. She said it that way because it was easier to be angry than hurt—and she had no reason to be hurt. The man was missing several critical memories and couldn’t be blamed for what that did to her.
But he could be blamed for standing in her house when he should have been standing somewhere else. She turned away and washed his mug. That would give him time to get his boots and coat and get the hell out.
She heard him walk away. That was promising. She set the cup on the drain board and closed her eyes as she heard her front door open. She let out a shaky breath, then turned around as the door closed again.
Cameron was, unfortunately, on the wrong side of it.
He leaned back against the wood and looked at her. “The storm is terrible. Definitely too wet to go out.”
She felt her mouth fall open. “What?”
He walked over and leaned against the little counter that separated Moraig’s kitchen from the great room.
“My horse is quite happily installed in your shed and I think I would be just as happily installed here on your floor.” He looked at her with a very small smile. “I wouldn’t even need a pillow.”
“But you can’t stay here,” she said in astonishment.
“I wasn’t suggesting anything unseemly,” he said easily. “Just a bit of Highland hospitality.”
“Ha,” she said with a snort. She was tempted to remind him of all the times that had gone awry for the hosts, but she refrained. “I think I’ve already done my duty for the day.”
He smiled. “But surely you don’t want me retching all the way home, do you?”
“Why would you do that?”
He shot her a look. “I have a fair idea of what you put in that tea, woman. I should think you would feel slightly guilty about denying me access to your loo.”
She closed her eyes briefly, knowing she was being backed into a corner and not really sure how she was going to get herself out of it. Worse still, she didn’t know that she wanted to get herself out of it.