The thought turned her legs to pudding, and she sagged in his arms.
“Is something amiss?” he asked with a grin, setting her away. Her plaited bun was beginning to unravel, and he tucked a rogue strand of hair behind her ear.
Mrs. Ross’s shawl slipped from her shoulders to the floor. “Goodness.” She pressed her hand to her racing heart as her gaze traced down his body. The blue-and-green kilt seemed rather primitive apparel, and it awakened a matching primitiveness inside her. She’d never imagined a man’s bare knees could be so exciting.
She knelt to reclaim the shawl, sneaking a peek beneath the tartan as she came back up, but it was too dark under there to see anything. On this cloudy day, the dozens of candles in the chandeliers overhead were all but useless against Duncraven’s gloom.
Trick’s lips quirked in a knowing smile as he took the shawl from her and settled it back in place. “I asked Niall whatleannanmeans,” he said.
“And?” She reached down, her fingers skimming the kilt’s hem.
“Sweetheart.” He rubbed a gentle thumb beneath her chin, then bent to brush a soft kiss across her lips. “It means sweetheart.”
Something went melty inside her. “I want to reach under here,” she whispered.
“Is that so?” Leaning closer to shield her from view, he traced a finger down her throat and into the low neckline of her very English dress. “We’ll have to accommodate you, then. But not here.”
At the wordhere, his expression sobered, as though he’d just remembered what had happened here today. He dropped his hand and smoothed down the front of his kilt. “Sweet Mary, I’m tired.”
“You didn’t get any sleep.”
Her gaze followed his as he looked around the gathering. A few thoughtful souls were helping tidy the worst of the brawl’s aftermath, but most folk were back to eating and downing spirits. Their chatter seemed to grow louder in proportion to the drink they consumed.
“I think maybe I’ll lie down a spell,” he said.
“Shall I come with you?”
“Nay.” He scrubbed his palms over his face, avoiding her gaze. “I’m really tired.”
She tried to ignore the rush of disappointment. “Perhaps I’ll go sit with Hamish a while.”
“You do that. It’s a difficult day for him.”
He began to leave, but she snagged him by the sleeve. “It’s a difficult day for you, too, Trick.”
When he shrugged and pulled away, she let him go.
Forty-Two
“HOW IS HEdoing, dearie?”
Startling from a doze when Hamish’s old friend Rhona came into the room, Kendra bolted upright on her chair. “He slept the whole hour I was here.” For the hundredth time since she’d entered the chamber, her gaze darted to the bed and she was relieved to see Hamish still breathing.
Rhona touched a hand to her shoulder. “I thank you for sitting with him. It was a welcome respite.”
“I can stay longer.”
“Nay, you run along now,” she said, settling to her embroidery. “Down at thedraidgie, all the young people are telling ghost stories.”
Kendra slowly rose. “If you’re sure, then.” At Rhona’s nod, she slipped out the door and closed it quietly behind her.
She didn’t want to hear ghost stories—this bleak castle gave her shivers as it was. Deciding to check on her husband, she made her way up the dozens of winding stone stairs.
He wasn’t in their chamber.
Someone had made their bed after they’d left, and it was clearly undisturbed. He hadn’t come up to rest at all. Disappointed that he’d apparently fibbed to get away from her, she wandered to the room’s only window, deep in an alcove set into the wall. Resting her palms on the cold stone sill, she leaned out and looked up at the sky.
Gray, to match her mood. The clouds were moving swiftly; rain was on the way. A blackbird fluttered from the heavens and down to the garden below, spreading its wings to make a graceful landing on a stone bench.
