She didn’t move.
“Go on, now. It will settle your stomach and warm you.”
She took the glass tentatively, but didn’t drink any. Instead she sat quietly pensive, staring at the fire.
Her long hair hung down around her like damp yellow ribbons from a rain-drenched maypole and stuck to her cheeks, which still held no color. The heat from the fire dried the dew that had sprinkled her face and hair.
One small pearl earring dangled from her ear. When she took a breath, it shimmered in the firelight the way a tear does when it’s ready to fall. There was a lost look about her, the same sudden lonely and disoriented look of a fragile bird that has just fallen from its nest.
It crossed his mind that she must have family.
God... what a thought. He wiped a hand over his face. That was all he needed. Some raging father invading his island to avenge his stolen daughter’s honor. Or worse yet, a passel of angry brothers to beat the hell out of him.
He was going to kill Eachann. He was. If brothers showed up, Eachann was going to face them first.
He waited a moment then said, “Lass?”
She turned.
“Your family will be worried.”
She looked at him as if she were wondering who he was speaking to, then she turned away with no answer for him.
He gave it another try. “How’s your stomach?”
“Fine,” she whispered.
He took a long drink, poured another, and when he looked at her again he saw that her color was changing, her cheeks were more pink from the heat. The damp strands of her blond hair were drying and beginning to curl as if suddenly coming back to life. The firelight warmed her face and hair with a golden glow that was the color of early morning sunshine.
He sat there watching, the way he liked to watch a sunrise, with a sense of quiet awe that makes you focus on the smallest detail. Right now he was fascinated by the pulse point in her neck, where the skin was pale and soft. He wondered how her skin would feel against his fingers, and what it would taste like against his mouth. “I wonder how it would smell,” he said into his whiskey glass.
She turned just as suddenly. “What did you say?”
He silently cursed his loose tongue. “Nothing.” His tone was much sharper than he’d meant it to be. He knew it the moment he saw her flinch slightly, then turn away again.
He took another stiff drink, then went to the fireplace where he squatted down and jabbed the logs into snapping flames with the poker. Sparks flew all over the hearth and onto his sleeve. He swatted at them, slapping at his shirt sleeves, then scowled down at the ashes scattered all over the place.
He straightened and crossed to the desk almost by rote. A moment later he was bent down sweeping up the hearth with the whisk. When he cleaned up the ashes and burnt splinters of wood, he spotted a trail of wet leaves across the carpet.
He hadn’t used the boot jack. What the hell was wrong with him? He never forgot to use the boot jack. He whisked up the leaves into the dustpan, frowning the whole time because he couldn’t explain away his curious and odd thoughts of this young woman who meant nothing to him.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Cleaning up the leaves.”
“Why?”
“Because I tracked them in.”
“Oh.” There were a hundred questions in the tone of that one word. She looked around again. “You don’t have any help?”
“They’ve long been in bed.”
“Oh.”
He rested his elbow on one bent knee. “Why?”
“The house is so clean, that’s all. I thought maybe there was a maid. Another woman.Someone...” Her voice trailed off.
