“You’ve asked me to marry you.”
“Yea, but—”
“Andyou kissed me!” MacKerrick taunted.
“Youkissedme!”
He winked at her “You kissed me back.”
Evelyn’s chest heaved. “Never mind,” she snapped. “Forget I suggested it. Obviously it was a poor idea.” She turned and left the pen, stalking over shards of the broken mead jug toward the upper end of the hut and the strips of rags she’d made from her ruined kirtle and cloak dangling from the ceiling—her hair was still icy wet. “When the weather clears, I’ll simply take my chances with a journey to the Buchanan village.”
“Town.”
“Oh, do shut up!” She snatched a cloth from the rafters. “They’ll either accept me or nay.”
“Now, Eve…” MacKerrick cajoled, beginning his grisly work on the deer. “There’s nae shame in fearing your first time with a man.”
“I amnotdiscussing this with you.” She’d rather starve. Or face the entire pack of grays. Suggesting that MacKerrick marry her had been a foolish, impetuous, naïve,madidea, and the highlander wasn’t taking her seriously, any matter—latching onto the most sordid detail of becoming man and wife. What of companionship? Trust? Safety?
She sat down on the stool, her back to the pens, and undid her clammy plait. She wanted to cry but would not humiliate herself further. She picked up the cloth and began rubbing at her wet, tangled hair, and her eyes fell onto Minerva’s black cloak.
She stuck her tongue out at it petulantly.
Her hair as dry as she could hope to get it, Evelyn rose from the stool and retrieved the cloak, the black wool likely scratchy when worn on its own, but dry. She had no other choice save to remain in her own wet clothes and catch her death.
Besides, the sight of the garment would irritate MacKerrick.
Evelyn turned toward the far end of the hut, cloak in hand, where the highlander had opened the deer’s torso into an empty cavity. He hadn’t said another word to her, only kept on with his gruesome chore.
“I’d change my clothes,” she announced. “And then I’m going to sleep.”
MacKerrick’s knife paused but he did not turn. “Very well, Eve.”
“Be certain you keep your distance, sir,” she warned, a bit loudly.
When he did not answer, Evelyn ignored the pinch in her heart and climbed into the box bed, drawing the ragged, moth-chewed curtain closed with as much force as she dared.
Savage Scots dwelling—at least in a proper keep she might have a door to slam.
Chapter Nine
Evelyn awoke to warm, glowing light beyond the bed’s tattered curtain and a savory aroma that threatened to turn her stomach inside out. She lay still for some time, blinking in the gloom of the box bed and trying to determine if she was dreaming or nay. The hut had never felt so warm, even though she was clothed only in Minerva’s old cloak, which was surprisingly soft against her skin.
Then she heard a voice—MacKerrick’s—singing soft and low. Evelyn strained to hear the words, but they were in Gaelic and too quiet for her to make out. Goose bumps pushed beneath the wool at the sound of the highlander’s smooth, masculine voice. She would have to ask him what the words meant when she was no longer angry at him.
Evelyn pushed herself aright and looked around for her kirtle and underdress, which she had spread out beside her to dry.
They were both gone.
Evelyn frowned at the thought of MacKerrick pulling back the curtain whilst she slept and absconding with her clothing. She looked down and was somewhat placated by the fact that Minerva’s cloak completely enveloped her, although she would have to be mindful of her modesty when she alighted from the bed in search of her gowns.
She clutched at the front of the cloak with one hand and pulled back the curtain slightly with the other to see if MacKerrick was still moving about. At first glimpse of what lay beyond the ragged cloth, Evelyn gasped and pushed the curtain completely aside.
The upper living end of the hut had been transformed. MacKerrick’s brother must have brought more than foodstuffs, for the area around the fire pit glowed a golden yellow from the light of nowtwosmall oil lamps, washing the room in a shimmery incandescence. And the fire itself was a wonder, the usual peat fuel enhanced by the addition of several lengths of wood, creating merry, high-dancing flames that crackled and hissed. The broken pottery had been swept from the floor, and the crock and urn sat on a flat rock within the fire ring, their rustic lids cocked and whistling aromatic steam. Another wide wooden bowl Evelyn had not seen before sat nearby, filled with water and what looked like a wadded length of linen from Evelyn’s old kirtle. The flagstones near the bowl and under the low stool were dark gray and chalky with drying water.
Evelyn’s eyes were drawn to the shelf on the wall, where her gowns—and she recognized MacKerrick’s long tunic and plaid, dark and dripping with water, as well—were suspended by items placed along their hems on the shelf.
“You’re awake.” MacKerrick’s voice startled her from the far end of the hut, where he stepped from the shadows carrying a bucket. Evelyn knew she was staring, but could not help it.
