He smiled. “I’ll see what I can find.”
She nodded, but she didn’t move. He put the kettle on around her, then led her out of the kitchen and installed her on the sofa. He turned on the telly, found the least objectionablebit of satellite rubbish he could—some sappy period piece he was sure would put them both to sleep within moments—then retreated to the kitchen to catch his breath and fix what would have to pass for supper.
Twenty minutes later, he was looking for somewhere to set his burdens down. Emma moved a sketchbook off the coffee table, then watched him pour tea with a liberal splash of something strengthening. He pretended not to watch as she struggled to even get the damned cup to her mouth without spilling its contents.
“You’ve been sketching,” he noted.
“Not today, but before,” she agreed. “Yes.”
“Might I look?”
“If you like.”
He took the sketchbook from her and opened the cover. He froze. It was him, leaning against his Range Rover. He suspected it was the day when they’d gone to Inverness to drop off her car. Her talent was absolutely staggering, but that wasn’t what left him feeling completely winded.
He was standing there in medieval dress.
He flipped through the rest of the pages slowly, then shut the book and looked at her. “You’re very good,” he said finally.
“You’re a good model.”
“I’m stunned at my own handsomeness, truly.”
He looked at her to find her smiling slightly. It was the first true expression of anything but panic he’d had from her all day. She looked at him and her smile faded.
“I don’t want to talk about anything that absolutely couldn’t possibly have happened yesterday.”
He considered what he should say for several minutes before he attempted to speak. “You have to be where I’m not,” he said finally.
“I had a very bad dream. Nothing more. I’m fine.”
He looked at her seriously. “You need to be where I am not,” he repeated.
She lifted her chin and glared at him. “I might not want anything to do with you.”
“Well, I suggested you be choosy. I didn’t imply that you should be daft.”
She blinked.
Then she burst into tears.
He rescued her cup and put it on the table with her sketchbook, then sat back and gathered her into his arms. He held her and had to admit he got a bit misty-eyed himself. He’d been in her shoes exactly, save that he hadn’t been a woman and he’d spoken Gaelic—at least the modern-day incarnation of the same. He had at least been able to understand the lads about him as they’d been trying to decide how best to put him to death whilst inflicting the most amount of pain possible beforehand.
He eventually found tissues for her—nothing more elegant than half a loo roll—and made as many soothing noises as he dared. In time, she was merely breathing raggedly as she pressed her face against his neck and held on to him. She finally stopped shaking and simply breathed, a bit unevenly but without the shudders.
“The program wasn’t that terrible,” he said finally. “You wanted crap telly.”
Her hand twitched as it lay on his chest. “Shut up, you horrible man.”
He laughed a little and settled her more comfortably. “Your tea is cold, darling.”
“You put a little Scottish flag cozy over the pot. Besides, I wasn’t losing it for that long.”
He smiled. “I meant what’s in your cup. Let me fetch you more, though it grieves me deeply to toss even a splash of that extremely expensive whisky James MacLeod had locked up in his liquor cabinet.”
She lifted her head and looked at him. “Did you pick that lock?”
He considered. “Might have.”
