He’s pulling off his sweater - which admittedly is a lost cause - and he is… oh, sweet baby Jesus he’sjacked.His massive shoulders are decorated with cuts, bandages, and a beautifully inked rendition of wings spanning his sculpted back. His biceps are the size of my thighs and it’s completely unjust that his hips are as perfectly tapered as they are.
He turns around as he’s pulling on a clean henley from his bag and I realize I have my hand pressed to my chest like a swooning Victorian maiden, and based on this arrogant bastard’s grin, he sees it, too.
“Um…” clearing my throat, I try not to act like I’ve just witnessed the eighth natural wonder of the world. “I found some pre-made meals and fruit. No canned goods for the fancy likes of you, huh?”
His approving smile is irritatingly gratifying. “Clever lass, let’s get you changed.”
Looking down, I realize I’m still wearing the tattered remains of that purple vintage gown that started off the night with such high hopes. “My Dior was an innocent bystander,” I say sadly, “it didn’t deserve what’s happened to it.”
“I’ll buy you another.”
“It’svintage,”I say crossly, “there aren’t any more.” Still, I’m grateful for the hoodie and cargo pants he pulls from his bag. “Do you have any underwear?”
He leers at me in the most infuriating way. “Sorry, I dinna.”
“I don’t believe you. Also, you cut mine off me so you owe me a pair.”
Oh, he finds that terribly amusing, but he gives me a pair of black boxer briefs that fit, thanks to his lean hips and he takes one of the seatbelts to fashion a belt for me to keep up those giant cargo pants. Kneeling down, he rolls up the pant legs for me.
“I look like I flunked out of clown college in this getup,” I laugh, stopping with a wheeze when my broken ribs make themselves known.
“Ya survived a plane crash and you’re still a bonnie thing,” he says, tucking my hair behind my ear. He’s close enough that I can feel his body heat. It’s soothing and I want to burrow into him, so I step away instead.
“Let’s try to warm this food up, huh?”
By the time we finish our brie in puff pastry, beef stroganoff, and asparagus, full night has fallen and Ethan was right; it’s cold as hell.
“That’s the most gourmet meal I’ve ever had around a campfire,” he says, stretching his legs out with a groan. “Usually, it’s a catch and kill affair.”
“I’m really hoping you mean like, asalmon or a deer, right?”
“Of course.” He’s leaning against one of the seats, his hands behind his head and looking far too relaxed for a man who crash-landed us in the middle of the Scottish mountains. “I dinna eat humans, darlin’.”
“I wouldn’t put it past you.”
His black gaze sharpens, looking me over as he grins. “Well, if ya ask nicely…”
The memory of his mouth on my lady garden blooms in full technicolor and I scoot away from him, clutching my borrowed jacket around me. “Yeah, we did that once and look where we ended up. No, thank you.”
“But darlin’ I dinna get my full night with you.”
“Are you actually trying to look all innocent and wounded right now?” I ask, appalled, “Are you remembering the part where you kidnapped me?”
His laugh echoes over the field and the rock outcropping. “First things first. I must get ya out of these mountains and safely to the MacTavish estate. We’ll re-examine the rest after that.”
“There aren’t going to be anyotherthings, kidnapper.” Looking up at the night sky, I gasp. The Milky Way soars across the heavens like a river of stars, and I can see Cygnus the swan following the constellation, and further north, Cassiopeia. “It’s so beautiful…” I sigh rapturously. “My father - my real father - used to take me to a lighthouse out on Nantucket. He knew all the stars and constellations and he’d tell me stories until I fell asleep on his lap…” My throat closed up, and I looked at the fire again.
“It’s a grand memory,” he said gently, “how old were ya when he passed?”
“I was eight. I’m grateful to remember him, my brother Nate, he was only four, and…” Goddamn him. He’s sucking me in, listening so intently. Like he cares.
“Nate? Where is he now?” His voice is still deceptively casual, but I know better.
“He died. A drunk driver hit us on New Year’s Eve a year and a half ago. I lost my mother, too. The other driver barely got a scratch,” I say bitterly. “I’m tired and my ribs hurt. I’m going to lie down.”
He’s watching me, that unsettling stare that makes me feel like he’s stripped all my layers away to find my painfully bare, raw self. Finally, he nods. “A’course. I’ll lay out the pilot seat, you’ll rest better there.”
I nod, not trusting my voice. Ethan gently helps me up and settles me in the seat, covering me with most of the blankets. “I’m sorry about your Ma and your brother. It’s a heavy burden to carry.” Then he does something outrageous, almost vulgar. He tenderly kisses my forehead.
