“Nonsense. Sit and eat,” he cut in, leaving no room for protest.
The food did smell good.
And it wasn’t porridge.
I gingerly lowered myself into the chair—only to gasp when he suddenly leaned down beside me, hands gripping the back of the chair as he lifted me—me and the chair both—and pushed it in, trapping me between the table and his chest.
His cheek brushed mine.
His whiskers scraped my cold skin.
My breath caught.
Then his mouth was near my neck.
His warm breath drifted down over my skin in a slow, devastating sweep. Time stopped. I froze entirely—every muscle locked—as he inhaled.
Deep.
Long.
So close his exhale tickled my ear and hair.
“What happened tae the parlour window?” I croaked, eyes squeezing shut.
That scent—musk and earth and him—rolled off him in waves. Before I could draw another breath, he stepped away, composed, as though he hadn’t just devoured the air around me.
“Probably some vagabond trying to break in,” he said smoothly, settling into his seat.
I squinted at him.
“The glass lay outside an’the broken wood pointed outward. Looked more like someone was tryin’tae break oot, no’in.”
He kept his eyes on the teapot as he poured two cups, not a single flicker of emotion anywhere about him.
“You know,” he said lightly,“I have always admired that about you, Miss MacDonald. You are ever so intelligent.”
Miss MacDonald?
Civil?
Complimentary?
Had he taken ill?
“Did you mayhap hit your head in a struggle last night?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.
He chuckled.
A rich, warm sound that slid straight down my spine and made me swallow hard.
He nudged a platter toward me, and my eyes widened.
Meat. Cheese. Eggs. Bread. A whole pie. A slab of butter the size of my fist. A pot of marmalade.
It was more food than a feast day.
“What was I saying?” I murmured, momentarily stunned by the abundance.
