The highlander was…magnificent, and Evelyn saw him as she never had before. MacKerrick wore a different long, creamy, shin-length shirt, but this one was sleeveless and boasted a deep V at the neckline, which revealed not only long, muscular arms from the shoulders down, but the high ridge of his chest and the cleft of his breastbone, his leather necklace resting above the golden hair. The tunic was caught low about his hips by his belt, although he wore no blade. The tops of his boots nearly met the hem of his shirt, but in the gap Evelyn glimpsed chiseled calves softened by the same gilded hair.
Her eyes traveled back up to his face, the stubble of beard gone from around his slight smile. His hair was damp and curling over one shoulder, leaving a dark patch of wet over one breast, and he had redone his long, skinny braid and added its twin on the other side of his head. He looked…well, clean. And strong and masculine and quite delicious, actually. Evelyn was startled by her awareness of this new MacKerrick.
“Did you sleep well?” MacKerrick asked and Evelyn’s trance was interrupted by his voice and by Alinor, who also stepped from the shadows.
The wolf trotted to the box bed, Bonnie close at her tail, and as Evelyn reached out her free hand to pat them both, she noted their smooth fur and the wide, lopsided bows tied inexpertly around each of their necks. She couldn’t help the smile that spread across her mouth at the lovely sight of them.
She looked up as the highlander approached the fire, realizing she had yet to speak to him. “MacKerrick…what—” She let her eyes flit about the room pointedly and then return to his. “What is all this?”
“I would have dressed wee Whiskers as well, but he wouldna keep still long enough for me to make the knot.”
Evelyn laughed uneasily. “But the fire, the clothes—” She gestured vaguely toward his person as he bent to place the empty bucket near the stool. “What is all this?” she repeated, realizing she sounded like a dunce.
“A feast,” he said, tossing her a grin that flashed white teeth in his freshly shaven skin and caused Evelyn’s heart to lurch stupidly. He was beyond sensual. MacKerrick crossed to the shelf and retrieved a small jug and then faced her once more. “We are celebrating. Come.” He beckoned to her with a wave of his hand, indicating the stool, and Evelyn had the distinct impression she was being tempted by sin made flesh.
She rose, but then hesitated. “What is it we are celebrating?”
“Our kill, for one,” MacKerrick said, moving to the fire and uncorking the jug. He set aside the lid of the large crock and poured in a splash of liquid before taking a swig from the jug himself. He gave a satisfied sigh. “Come, Eve, sit. I’ll nae bite you.”
Evelyn wasn’t so certain he would not—and even less certain that she did not wish for him to at leasttry—but she moved to the stool anyway, out of curiosity as to what MacKerrick was about. She sat carefully, quite aware of her nakedness beneath the cloak and taking pains to arrange it.
“You said ‘for one’—is there aught else to celebrate?” she asked warily as he stepped closer to her, but still an arm’s length away. The sight of him so…exposedwas doing odd things to Evelyn’s senses. She really ought to demand that he don more clothing.
She ought to.
He handed her the jug. “Mead?”
“Thank you.” She took it and tipped it to her mouth awkwardly with one hand while he resumed puttering with this thing and that about the hut.
“I thought you might fancy a bath,” he continued, his eyes flicking to the bowl and rag near her slippers. “The lot of us have already cleaned up a bit.”
“I see that.” By all that was holy, did she surely see it. She couldn’t help but wonder if MacKerrick was naked beneath his long tunic, and if he had disrobed entirely whilst she napped, only steps away from her. Goose bumps prickled her skin again.
But under no circumstances was she about to wash while MacKerrick was in the hut with her. Absolutely not.
She glanced at the bowl, struggling to keep the longing from her face. “I don’t think I shall,” she said. “I’ve already been wet once today and I’d not risk a chill.”
“The water’s warm, and there’s a scant drop of oil in it—lavender.” MacKerrick grinned at her temptingly and Evelyn groaned to herself. He looked her up and down. “You should be able to retain your modesty in that blasted cloak if you but turn ’round.”
Evelyn hesitated and hated herself for showing MacKerrick she was wavering. But he was right. If she faced the wall and kept the cloak around her…Dear God! She would love to feel clean again. She had never felt so gritty and smelly and dry.
“And I willna peek,” MacKerrick said, his solemn words betrayed by his grin.
Everything she knew logically screamed at her that this was yet another terrible idea. She should just wash her hands and face and be done with it. The food smelled delicious and she was starving, as usual.
“Be sure youdon’tpeek, sir.” The warning was out of her mouth and she had turned away from him before she’d even realized she’d made the decision. Evelyn dragged the bowl to between her feet—carefully, so as not to spill one drop of the precious, oil-laced water—and slipped off her shoes. She bent to wring the water from the rag and began to wash.
Conall caught himself staring at Eve’s back and forced himself to another task, any task that would take the images of her touching her bare skin with the water-laden rag. But his eyes still strayed to her with every seductive glug of water, every near-silent sigh of pleasure from her mouth. Once, when he happened to glance at her, the cloak had dropped behind the curve of her shoulder, glistening like the palest honey in the firelight. Conall turned his groan into a cough and looked quickly away before Eve caught him looking at her skin, her hair tangled wild down her back…
Conall turned completely away and looked down: his léine tented away from his hips, pushed out by his cock. He squatted down by the fire and tried to think of his bony, balding brother, Duncan; of a dung heap; of rotten fish.
It didn’t help. His head turned back to her as if of its own accord, her shoulders hunched beneath the cloak, her head bent low, and Conall imagined her washing her most private, feminine parts, the cloth sliding up and down…
He stood abruptly, fists clenched. He could stand no more. Conall took a step toward her, stopped.
Eve’s head came up, immediately on alert, and she showed him her profile. “Did you want something, MacKerrick?”
“Can I—” He cleared his throat, hoping she would not turn completely and see proof of his arousal. “Can I wash your hair for you, Eve?”
