Then gritted my teeth and pushed deeper until the water met my waist.
No one got the better of Euphemia MacDonald.
I scrubbed fast, vigorous, determined. My body shook, but pride kept me steady. I lathered my arms, my neck, my legs. By the time I reached my hair, my fingers were numb and my teeth were chattering loud enough to frighten the fish.
I’d just worked the suds into my scalp when a branch snapped on the bank.
I spun so fast my foot slipped on the slick rock beneath me—and I went under.
Cold swallowed me whole.
I kicked off the bottom, breaking the surface with a loud gasp.
The soap, thank God, was still in my hand.
I shoved my wet hair out of my eyes, heart pounding, scanning the reeds.
Nothing.
Only rippling water and the whisper of wind through the trees.
I glanced toward where Uncle Callum waited, but he was still out of sight behind the shrubs.
Probably a deer.
Or a fox.
Or the spirits Flora swore watched over the land.
My teeth chattered again.
I turned back to washing.
I’d do this every night if I had to.
Even when the snow came.
Even when the loch froze around the edges.
No one—not the Laird, not the winter, not the whole damned world—got the better of Euphemia MacDonald.
Chapter 9
Thaddeus
She was gone—but her scent still lingered.
God help me, it lingered.
I closed my eyes and inhaled, deep and greedily, dragging it through my lungs like a starving man. Wildflowers warmed by summer sun. Winter pine. And beneath it all, something sweet—dangerously sweet—something that made my mouth water as though I were… hungry.
My cock stirred in my breeches.
Again.
I dropped my head back with a low, miserable groan.
This was torture.
