His eyes drifted downward. “Ye’ll catch a chill without yer fichu.”
“My what?” Aila slapped a hand against her bosom to cover the flush that rose under his gaze. “Oh, that scarf thing?”
* * *
Her peculiar response hardly registered. Through the gap at the front of the cloak, full breasts swelled against the low, squared neckline of Mistress Marshall’s gown with each breath. The light smattering of freckles dancing over her fair skin left him wondering how thoroughly they covered the rest of her.
She’d left him wondering about many things since they’d parted a couple of hours before.
At himself and his unusual reaction to her, to say the least.
Her hand rose to block his view and Finn blinked, lifting his eyes to her face. She stared not at him, but rather past him down the hall. Her expression one of patent impatience, waiting for him to step aside and allow her to pass. He should let her be on her way, leaving as he hoped she would.
“Ahem?” The prompt from her lips indicated she, too, was eager to leave this cursed place behind. He had no place keeping her.
Even so, he didn’t move.
Her hasty departure wasn’t prompted by the same good sense that had driven his rejection earlier. It was an emotionally motivated withdrawal that left him overcome with shame. Employment was scarce these days. Like anyone else, she likely needed the position he’d yanked away from her. She’d called him an arse. He’d become precisely that over the past few years. Today, it had been readily apparent. He’d meant to apologize for his abrupt dismissal, along with the other he still owed her, if and when he saw her again.
Neither leapt to his lips now. Her presence had a way of diminishing his good sense. Which is why he’d sacked her to begin with.
“Ye see, how it works is ye move out of the way so I can get around ye.” Mixed with the exasperation clear in her voice was a hint of amusement. As if the world were a game she played. One she enjoyed. Though she had yet to display anything close to a smile on her full, pink lips, he couldn’t help but think she was enjoying this. Him. Despite everything he’d said.
And that intrigued him, too.
“Is that how it works?”
“Generally speaking.”
A touch of humor softened something deep inside of Finn, something deep that light hadn’t touched in a long while. Yet she had managed to reach it twice in the space of hours. He should let her go rather than grasp at whimsy.
How many times had he told himself that thus far?
With a sigh, he relented to common sense. “Allow me to carry yer trunk down for ye.”
She acquiesced with a murmur of gratitude. “Only because it’s getting heavy.”
Another ping of fleeting amusement. Finn took the coffer from her. Middling size, it was moderately weighty. More than a lady should bear, yet all evidence indicated she’d carried it from one end of town nearly to the other. Tall as she was, she was willowy of build. He couldn’t imagine where she found the strength. She brushed by, and the seductive scent of fruit and spice tickled his nose, the combination as contradictory as she.
Like a dog on a leash, he followed her down the hall to the steps he’d come up moments before in a much calmer state of mind. The brass banding that crisscrossed the fine leather dome of the trunk flashed in the light of the sconces dotting the spiral staircase. The reflection undulated against the stone wall as they descended. Narrow then broad, the glare could be likened to a beacon, drawing one closer. Or like that of a lighthouse, warning one away from peril.
He’d be wise to take it as such. He didn’t have time to spare for what she represented.
Intrigue. Curiosity.
His plate was nigh heaping with responsibility already. The burden of waking each morning. Rising from his bed had become a chore. Caring for his children. Earning enough to put bread in their bellies and a roof over their heads. Working a job he hated for a man he loathed. A man who had helped send his clansmen to an early grave and supported those who had destroyed half of Finn’s own manor. The home where he wished to be. A place to raise his bairns. To live in peace.
He didn’t have time for any interruption that might prolong his return to that way of life.
Distraction. Temptation.
Like that strand of hair that had fallen from the loose knot at the base of her neck. His fingers itched to catch the silky length and wind it back into place. Or around his finger. Long and straight, it followed the slender line of her neck then frayed into knots as it caught on the embroidery along the back of her dress. Frayed like his thoughts when it came to her.
She’d been right in her accusation that he’d personally consider her a distraction, perhaps more than any of his men, as he would be expected to work closely with any assistant the architects sent to aid him. Having her close at hand would make concentration impossible. Already he’d spent valuable time dwelling upon the lass. The way she looked him boldly in the eye. Where she hailed from that her speech patterns matched none that he knew in his homeland or abroad. How she might look splayed against the walls they were building with her skirts hiked up high around her hips while he stood between them….
Nay, he didn’t have time to consider everything he wondered about when it came to this unusual lass, however pleasant the diversion from the hell of his reality might be.
Och,his mind nagged.Better the fires of passion rather than those of hell, aye?
