Broc smiled to himself. That much was obvious. “So it seems.” God’s teeth, how the hell could he sleep when he knew she was lying so near? Without doubt, she was the loveliest woman he had ever set eyes on in his life, Sassenach or nay, and no matter that he tried not to see her as a woman, he could not suppress the images that had come to haunt his waking dreams.
But he didn’t want her to know he was awake, because it was easier to deny his desire if he didn’t have to speak to her and hear her voice—if he didn’t have to look at her face by candlelight and wonder how many other men had gazed into those lovely green eyes. He was becoming obsessed with thoughts about her.
“They call me Broc Ceannfhionn.”
“Broc... Kyonin,” she repeated, and was silent a moment, as though considering his name.
“It means Broc the Blond.”
“Well, that makes sense.”
Broc grimaced into the darkness. Was it a good thing to be fair? He wondered. Did she find him as beautiful as he found her? His face burned at the thought.
“Tell me about yourself, Broc Kyonin.”
Broc was unaccustomed to making idle chatter, particularly with highborn English lassies—and he was even less comfortable talking about himself.
“Well, let’s see… I dinna have fleas anymore,” he told her, and hoped she appreciated that fact. Thanks to Page, he no longer walked about scratching his head like some mangy beast. He had loved his Merry fiercely, but fleas were certainly one thing he didn’t miss about her.
He thought he heard her giggle, but it was so soft a sound he couldn’t be certain. He wouldn’t blame her for laughing. What an idiot he must sound like. Put him face to face with a woman he wanted to bed, and he suddenly became an imbecile.
“Well... I don’t have fleas either,” she countered, her tone slightly amused, and he understood she was mocking him.
He felt his cheeks grow warmer but grinned despite himself.
Wench.
He wanted to know everything about her. Who was her father? Who was her mother? How long was she to remain in Scotia? Was she in love with some fortunate man? Had she come to be wed? Had her father sent her to Piers to be bartered in marriage?
Broc winced at that thought. He hoped not.
Neither of them spoke for the longest time, and the hovel fell silent save for the chattering of the lass’ teeth.
Broc lay there, yearning for the sound of her voice, his body taut with desire. No simple longing was this. Nay. The more he tried to deny it, the more he hungered for the taste of her flesh, the more he thirsted for the sweet nectar of her mouth. He was glad for the darkness that hid the evidence of his desire. Had he a blanket, he would have easily erected himself a tent large enough to fit both of them beneath.
Her teeth continued to chatter.
“Are ye cold, lass?” His voice was thick with lust, he knew, but he hoped she wouldn’t notice.
“I never imagined a summer night could be so wintry!”
He chuckled at her lighthearted complaint. “’Tis the Highland winds.”
“I suppose.”
Once again silence fell between them.
Broc wondered what else to say. He didn’t really want her to go to sleep just yet. He wanted to know more. Where did she grow up? And what was her favorite color?
She saved him the effort of finding suitable conversation. “How well do you know Piers?”
“Not verra well at all.”
“I see.”
She went silent again, and Broc knit his brows, at a loss. Never had his palms sweated this much when Meghan spoke to him, lovely though she was. What was wrong with him? “So... then… have ye come to wed?” he asked far more bluntly than he’d intended.
“Me?” He heard her turn toward him upon her pallet, and he tried to imagine what she looked like lying there in the dark. “Oh, nay!”
