I looked down at the food supplies. “Is that a chocolate chip peanut bar? Can I have it?”
There was no mistaking his frustration. It practically vibrated off him. But eventually, he replied gruffly, “Aye, knock yourself out.”
Unwrapping the bar, I studied my companion as he took a swig of water. With his beard closely trimmed, I could see the bob of his throat as he swallowed, and I didn’t know why the sight was so erotic. My eyes roamed over his broad shoulders. The Henley he wore hugged his muscular biceps, the sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. He had great hands. Long fingered, but big knuckled. I’d bet my life his fingertips were covered in callouses that would rasp across my skin like sandpaper.
I shivered again and looked away, reminding myself I was mad at the Scot.
And yet …
He’d risked his life crossing the channel between here and Glenvulin.
For me.
He might say it was for Cammie … but it was for me.
“Thank you for coming,” I murmured. My eyes returned to him, and I realized it was against my will. I couldn’t not look at him.
The handsome bastard that he was.
His silver-gray eyes gleamed in the low light. “You’re welcome.”
It wasn’t the response I’d expected. I’d anticipated something sarcastic and disapproving.
If he was still frustrated at my inability to confide my troubles, he didn’t show it.
Instead, he held my stare as if he too found he couldn’t look away.
I could feel my breathing grow shallow with awareness. Afraid of the intensity of my attraction, I sought to break the silence. “You know, I once camped in the Amazon Rainforest for a week when I was twenty-one … and yet, I think I was more scared to be alone in this little bothy tonight.”
He quirked an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have taken you for the camping sort.”
I grimaced. “Then you’d be wrong. But I’d be lying if I told you I did that tour alone. I had the best guides money could buy. My parents insisted.”
“I’d have insisted too.” Again his response surprised me.
Wondering if this time, forced to be with each other, he might actually open up a little, I tried once more to get to know Ramsay McRae. “Would your parents have insisted?”
He searched my gaze thoroughly. I didn’t know what he was looking for … but to my surprise, he replied, “Probably. I think. They died when I was eight so …” He shrugged. “I’m an orphan.”
The word clanged through me.
It conjured images of sad-faced little children, not tall, broad-shouldered capable Scots whose hands were almost twice as big as my own.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, shocked.
Ramsay shrugged. “It’s my reality. I don’t think my life has been worse or better than most because of it.”
“So … were you adopted?”
“No. It’s difficult at that age. I spent the rest of my childhood in the foster system and stayed with foster parents across the north. Inverness, Aberdeen …”
He was talking.
Ramsay was talking.
A surge of triumph moved through me even as his truth caused dismay. I hated that reality for him. As heartbroken as I was without my parents, I wouldn’t trade those years together just so I didn’t feel the pain of their loss. Ramsay had such little time with his. How lucky was I to have had the time I did?
“And you ended up in the Royal Marines?”
