She jerked a hairpin from her hair and spent the next half hour bending it and twisting it and trying to make it work like a key. Finally she placed a hand on her back and straightened stiffly. She glared at the door, then at her reflection before she jammed the pin back into her hair where it was about as useful as an empty purse.
She stood there trying to think of something to do. She was cold. And she should just take a bath. It would certainly warm her up.
But with her luck, MacOaf would come strolling in. She eyed those water pipes to see if she could loosen one and conk him on his fat head. But after a few futile tries there was no way to get any section of the pipe loose.
Exhausted and angry, she gave up and just sank to floor. She sat there, her chin resting in one hand while she mentally called down inventive curses on Eachann MacLachlan’s arrogant, handsome, and overly large head.
She had just wished that all his great-grandchildren would be horned when she got bored and started counting her bruises.
Twenty-seven on one leg alone.
With a groan from her tired and sore muscles, she creaked upright, pretending she didn’t have too many bruises to count. She crossed the room.
At the sink, she turned on a spigot and bent down, using her hand to help her drink. She finished, wiped her mouth, then reached out to turn off the faucet. And froze.
A second later she was laughing with wicked glee.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Love starts when another person’s needs become more important than your own.
—Anonymous
Somewhere high up in Heaven there had to be a big golden book that explained why people fell in love for no intelligent reason. Amy knew this had to be, because by the time Calum had her safely on shore, her broken heart wasn’t broken anymore.
She could feel his look and glanced up.
“Are you warm enough? It’s not much farther.”
“Yes. I’m fine.” And she was. He’d bundled her up in his dry coat, donned his spectacles, and swung her into his arms before she even had a chance to take a step. It was terribly romantic.
He stared down at her. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” she told him, knowing she couldn’t tell him what she was feeling. So she just looked away.
When she looked back, he was watching her so pointedly and as if he couldn’t help himself. She wanted to reach and touch his cheek to soften his expression. He was so serious. He was so intense. She wondered what his laughter would sound like.
Neither of them spoke as he carried her toward the house. The silence was almost worse than her confused feelings about this man; it hung about them the same way the fog did—you were aware of it, but just plowed on through anyway and hoped it wouldn’t last.
She knew the instant he wasn’t looking at her anymore. It was such an odd thing that she could feel his gaze on her every time. As surely as if he had touched her. She watched him openly, trying to understand exactly who this man was.
She cocked her head slightly. “Your glasses are fogged up.”
“Aye, lass. But they’ll have to stay foggy. My hands are full right now.”
She felt her own flush. He carried her up the hillside without a complaint or a labored breath.
She reached up and removed his spectacles. His steps slowed to the barest of movement, just distant crunches on the gravel of the path.
Amy used the wet skirt of her gown to polish his lenses. Very carefully, she reached up and set the glasses on his straight nose, then hooked the wire stems back over his ears.
“There,” she said matter-of-factly and she smiled.
He pinned her with a look as confused as she had felt just a few seconds before.
He almost ran with her up the steps, went inside and kicked the door closed. He stood in the giant entry with all the wood-paneled walls soaring up above them like the ancient island pines from which they were made.
He muttered in frustration.
