For there, not six inches from her face, was Clare’s bare chest in all its full glory. She knew him to be tall, broad shouldered, and generally well formed, but the formation of this specific man extended beyond generalities. The muscles of his chest were corded and defined, and down they went forming into the hard, segmented ridges of his stomach, a fine dusting of dark hair narrowing from his chest, leading her eye across that ridged stomach and lower to the fall of the trousers, which wasn’t fastened, revealing his smalls and a—oh—bulge.
A throat cleared.
Histhroat.
Her gaze flew up to meet his. What she saw there sent heat flushing through her.Knowledge.She’d been ogling him, and he knew it.
Oh, the mortification.
And, worse yet, her eyes begged to be indulged again.
“What is, um,”she stammered. She cleared her throat and tried again. “What is the problem?”
If Jamie were to say he felt badly for Hortense’s flushed cheeks and generally flustered state, he’d be lying.
That he could—well, his bare chest—render her speechless spurred a wave of gratification he was powerless to control.
“If you lower your gaze,” he began, unable to keep the self-satisfaction from his voice, “you will notice these trousers are about eight inches too short.”
She closed her eyes for a pair of seconds, as if steeling herself, before glancing down. Then she nodded and allowed the curtain to close.
“Too short?” asked Haley.
She must have given a silent nod, for seconds later her hand was shoving another pair of trousers through the curtains, as if she didn’t dare peer through them again. “Try these.”
Disappointment pinged through Jamie. He wanted to watch her go speechless again.
The second pair was little better than the first. “The waist is loose.”
Her hand reappeared with a third pair. “If these don’t fit, we will use a belt.”
He jerked them on. “They fit.”
“Thank heavens,” she said. Was that relief he detected? Did sheneedhim to be clothed?
A few minutes later, he emerged wearing the clothing of a laborer: gray coat, brown trousers, shirt that had once been white, and red neckerchief, all rendered in rough cloth that would easily blend into a crowd. To his eye, he looked the part, but Hortense must have seen differently, for her brow had lifted into an expression that could only be characterized as skeptical.
“What is it?”
“Slouch your shoulders.”
“Why?”
“You look too—” She searched for the right word. “Lordly.”
He obeyed, even as he snorted. “Anything else?”
“Your face,” she continued. “It looks too hand—” She caught herself mid-word. “Clean,” she finished.
“My face is too clean?”
“Plenty of dirt to be had outside,” chimed Haley.
Jamie only noticed she held an object when she extended it toward him. “Wear this.”
He turned the gray woolen flat cap over in his hands a few times. “Must I?”
“Is there a problem with it, milord?” asked Haley, wringing his hands.
