I stared into the parlour, dumbstruck.
“What happened here?” Uncle Callum asked, rubbing his beard before he stepped inside for a closer look.
I could see his mind working before he spoke.
“We’ll need tae patch it up. I’ll order fresh panes o’glass. There’s enough timber fur me tae rebuild the frame.”
“Oh, jolly good,” Arthur breathed, relieved.
“Miss MacDonald,” the Laird’s voice sounded behind me.
I turned—and my mouth fell open.
He wore black breeches tucked into matching boots… and a white shirt.
Just a shirt.
No cravat.
No collar.
No waistcoat.
No coat.
The top buttons were undone.
In the snow.
My eyes dropped before I could stop myself.
The sinew. The defined muscle.
The dark hair covering his chest.
Where in God’s name had those muscles come from?
He looked indecent.
Half-dressed.
Half-wild.
Like he’d wrestled a bear at dawn and come out looking smug about it.
“A wee word, Miss MacDonald,” he said—and had the audacity to smile at me. A rakish, crooked thing that did not belong on a sane man’s face.
“Then you can go about your day.”
I tore my gaze away, cheeks burning, and glanced at my uncle to see if he’d noticed the state of the man behind me.
But Uncle Callum was far too busy butchering the remains of the wooden frame with brute force, as though hacking wood would spare him from dealing with whatever unholy calamity had caused this mess.
I followed him inside the house—into the foyer, down the hallway, past the ruined parlour and straight into the dining room.
“Sit,” he said, pulling the chair out for me.“Have some breakfast with me.”
“Oh, I cannot—”
