Amy awoke to the sound of pacing. She blinked a few times because everything was a bright blur.
The first thing she recognized was Calum. He walked from the bureau to the window, then back to the bureau, back to the window, then back to the bureau. He never looked at her because he was staring at the floor as he walked, his hands shoved into his pockets.
It was like watching a metronome.
He stopped at the window and removed his spectacles. He began polishing them with the curtain. He held the glasses up to the light, then polished them some more.
After hooking the stems over his ears, he used a finger to shove them into place on the bridge of his nose. His hands went back into his pockets and he just stared outside.
The windowpanes were as foggy on the inside as the air was outside. A drop of moisture dripped down the glass. Calum reached out and caught it with a finger, lifted it into the misty daylight and seemed fascinated with the way it ran around his finger.
For some reason Amy couldn’t explain, she wanted to watch him waste time a little longer. He began to draw vertical lines in the window mist. Then he did horizontal ones. He filled in the squares with little markings she couldn’t make out.
She wondered if he was even aware of what he was doing. He seemed so far away, so preoccupied, as if his head were in some different place, a place that must have been bleak and dismal if she were to go by his expression.
She wanted to go touch him. He looked like he needed touching. She knew what it was like to feel lost in your own skin. And that was how he looked. Lost inside.
She got up carefully, and as silently as a mouse she padded over to where he stood. He was leaning against the window frame with one broad shoulder while he wrote intently on the glass.
She reached out and gently placed her hand on his shoulder. He almost jumped out of his skin.
He hollered so loudly he scared her half to death and she screamed.
“Amy?” His hands closed over her shoulders.
A second later he was holding her so closely that her palms were flat against his chest. She looked up at him.
His face was unreadable. His eyes were dark and watchful.
She reached up and touched his jaw. It was rough and prickly with black whiskers that shadowed the hollows of his cheeks and grew so thickly on his chin.
He still stared down at her. His gaze seemed to soak her up; it went from her eyes, to her nose, and then he stared at her mouth for the longest time.
There was a flash of naked longing in those dark eyes of his. She doubted he even knew it was there.
But she did and she lifted her face toward his.
His lips touched hers, just barely, lightly, as if he had to test the feel of them, as if she would crack in two if he kissed her too hard.
As kisses went, it wasn’t a long one or a passionate one. It wasn’t practiced. He didn’t rub his lips on hers really hard like William did.
It was just a gentle intimate touch of their lips.
Calum broke off the kiss and looked down at her, his expression suddenly confused and almost angry-looking.
She placed her fingertips to his lips. “You kissed me.
“Aye.” His voice was little more than a rasp, as if admitting what he had done was difficult for him.
“Are you angry?”
“No. But I should not have done that, Amy-my-lass.”
She liked it when he called her that. It sounded special and different, something that was only for her. “Why shouldn’t you have kissed me? I was willing.”
He didn’t answer.
“Oh.” She looked away, stared down at her bare toes. “You didn’t like it.”
