Chapter 11
Daphne glanced up at Hunter. He stood very still, his shoulders squared, and a muscle jumped in his jaw as he stared after his mother.
Well, I cannae stay quiet, can I?
Daphne placed her hands on the table, palm down, and made herself look straight at him. “Ye shouldnae have said that.”
He shot her an incredulous look. “It was ye she was going at.”
“She wasnae being cruel.”
He leaned forward. “Ye think she wouldnae have gotten all the information out of ye about yer kin and where ye came from? Eh?”
“That’s nae the point.”
“Ye wanted to tell her everything?”
“I daenae think ye should speak to yer mother like that,” Daphne insisted. “It’s nae fair.”
He gave a short laugh. Snatching up a greasy glass of whisky from the table, he downed it at once, pulling a face that made her think that it didn’t taste as good as it should.
“Me mother is tougher than ye think. She might sulk for a day or two, but probably nae even that. I wouldnae insult her. I ken her better than ye.”
“I didnae say that ye didnae. I just didnae like it, that’s all. Even if she was prying for more information than I wanted to give.”
He stared down at her, and she thought she caught a hint of bafflement in his eyes.
“I cannae make ye out at all,” he huffed. “I leap to yer defense, and ye scold me?”
She sniffed. “I’m sure ye arenae a man who balks at a scolding.”
“Didnae say I was. But ye can see why I am upset?”
She twisted her fingers together. “I didnae mean to scold ye.”
He grunted and sat down with a thud that made the dishes rattle.
For a moment, there was silence, but she could feel his eyes on her.
What do I do now? Should I go? Finish me meal? What?
Back in England, things were a little simpler.
A lady didn’t stay in the same room as a gentleman, not if they were alone.
Servants and common women weren’t ladies, of course, and therefore their reputations were guarded a little less carefully.
But since Daphne was a companion, not a maid, she did have a reputation to uphold.
Unnecessary, considering that she’d already borne a child out of wedlock, but that was supposed to be a secret.
But here, it was different. Women had more freedom, to be sure, but not necessarily freedom from consequences.
For example, she had been bartered in a treaty between clans, meant to marry Laird Gilmore to keep the peace.
Because she hadn’t done that, her return would bring danger to her clan and to herself.
In England, marriages of convenience were done a little more subtly. Just a little.
And that brought her back to the original point. Should she remain in the room with Hunter, or should she go?
Something made her think his gaze had darkened. Glancing up, her eyes met his, and the air tightened between them.
“I willnae let anyone talk about ye and the bairn until ye are ready to admit it to everyone,” Hunter said quietly, not even blinking. “Nae even me own mother.”
She bit the inside of her cheek. “Thank ye. That is kind, very kind.”
“In fact, I willnae even talk about it meself, if ye prefer it. But”—he leaned forward, his gaze searing into hers—“about that kiss…”
At once, Daphne jerked to her feet, nearly tripping over her own hem as she did so. She scrambled back from the table, putting distance between them.
Her heart hammered in her chest so hard she thought it might break her ribs. Tension fluttered through her, tightening and loosening at random, giving her an odd, unsteady feeling.
“That kiss was a mistake,” she said firmly, making sure to look him dead in the eye.
That was what Lady Pilbury always said: to look a person in the eye when one was serious.
It had even more of an impact when coming from a woman, since women were meant to be modest and demure, keeping their eyes glued to their own shoes.
Proper ladies never looked men in the eye, certainly not for any extended period of time.
Popular novels were full of morals like that, where Proper Ladies were rewarded, and improper ladies (who looked men in the eyes or even did more bold things, such as touching a gentleman’s arm with an ungloved hand) met fitting fates.
Fitting fates included being sent to an asylum, or perhaps falling ill with some terrible disease.
If they were lucky, they repented before they died.
But die they did, of course. After all, a message had to be sent.
Don’t look men in the eye, was the message, or else.
But if you didn’t look a person full in the face, they could ignore you more easily. They could convince themselves that you didn’t mean it. And, of course, proper ladies weren’t supposed to mean anything, certainly not a no.
Pamela, Daphne thought dizzily.
Pamela was the heroine of a novel that had been exceptionally popular at some point.
Daphne had once read it to Lady Pilbury, and they had come to the conclusion that Pamela, while being the ideal woman in the eyes of Society, could not possibly have led a pleasant life or a practical one.
After all, her ‘reward’ at the end of the novel was to marry a man who was, quite simply, the worst fellow in the world, as far as Daphne could tell.
And once again, Pamela’s way of dealing with life would simply not work in the real world.
After all, most women couldn’t simply swoon to get out of being assaulted. It simply didn’t work. They often didn’t go ahead and marry the men who’d tried to hurt them, either. And, generally speaking, women had opinions of their own.
Not Pamela, of course.
I’m nae bloody Pamela.
“That kiss isnae worth talking about,” she insisted.
Hunter’s eyes darkened. He took a step toward her. Only half a step, yet it felt as though the walls were closing in on her. The air grew thicker, hard to breathe, and her palms started to sweat. She tried surreptitiously to wipe them on her skirt.
“Oh, nay?” he murmured.
“Nay. The plain fact is that we were both frustrated.”
He gave a short laugh. “Oh, aye. I forgot that ye like plain speaking. Well then…” He took more steps forward until he was less than an arm’s length away from her.
She could smell petrichor on him, with a tang of whisky.
“How about this? Frustration isnae the word I’d use to describe what I feel when I think of ye, lass. ”
Her mouth dried out, forcing her to swallow just to work a little moisture into it.
The proper thing to do, of course, was to leave.
Instead of leaving, Daphne stayed right where she was, her feet planted to the floor.
Bloody Pamela would have left.
Fortunately, she didn’t like Pamela. Nor did Lady Pilbury.
“Gracious,” she’d murmured, several times during the story. “What a milksop of a woman. I can only hope that the story gets better.”
The story hadn’t got better, naturally. But this particular real-life story was one that Daphne was writing herself. At least, she thought she was writing it, but there had been several changes of late that didn’t feel as if they were within her control at all.
“Laird MacCrimmon,” she began, sounding shamefully breathless. “Hunter, I…”
He took another step forward until he was right in front of her, his warm breath tickling her forehead. She had to tilt her head back to look at him once more. He could have reached out and pinched her chin like he did before.
Stop it! Stop thinking about it! It’s time to be a lady. Remove yerself from the situation. Do the sensible thing.
She might as well have been talking to a wall.
“Come on now, lass,” Hunter breathed, leaning an inch or two closer.
She could count the grey flecks in his eyes.
There was a gold band in his iris, right around the black pupil.
She could see where a curl had fallen forward over his forehead, glossy with sweat.
He smelled of horse, but not unpleasantly so.
No, it was the sort of clean, animal smell that made a person think of freshness and healthy animals.
The sort of smell that made a person lean forward, it seemed.
“Daenae tell me ye havenae thought about it,” he murmured.
“Daenae tell me ye arenae thinking about it right now. It would be easy, ye ken. I could kiss ye, put me arms around ye. I could sweep everything off the table right now, pick ye up, put ye down on it. Oh, the things I’d do to ye if I got ye on the table, lass.
Ye drive me mad, did I ever tell ye that? ”
Her heart skipped a beat; she could have sworn it. A pulse thrummed through her body, deep and insistent, gathering between her thighs.
She’d felt that sharp-sweet pleasure before, even though she barely remembered it now. It had only been once, after all, before the business of life and a baby crowded in to make her forget.
Now, though, she wondered briefly how she could ever have forgotten that feeling at all. The sensation was a strange one, going round and round in her body with nowhere to go, making her swallow.
“Hunter…?” she breathed, curling her fingers into fists.
His breath hitched in his throat. “Aye, lass? Speak, come on. Tell me what it is ye have to say. Daenae make me beg. I daenae beg.”
Her eyes fluttered shut. When they opened again, she found his gaze fixed on her face, something almost fond in his eyes.
I cannae.
“I have to go,” she gabbled in a rush. The ache between her legs twinged, and she forced herself to push the sensation away in her mind. Ignoring it was almost impossible, but she could choose not to act upon it, surely?
She didn’t wait to see what he did or how he reacted. She turned on her heel and raced out of the room, plunging away into the darkness.
Children never ceased to be irritating, did they?