Growling aloud, Callum dragged himself to his feet and stamped over to the firewood basket. He carefully selected a piece of wood about as long as his forearm and roughly as thick. Crouching down before the hearth, he withdrew his knife. It was a short knife, good for little else beyond whittling. He kept it sharp, though. The blade glinted in the firelight, the flames’ reflection shimmering along the worked silver handle, revealing the inscription there.
Callum knew what it said, of course. He’d read the words over and over again.
He’d had those words put there, hadn’t he?
Fletcher
With Love From Your Brother
How old had he been when he made this knife? It was one of the first weapons he’d ever constructed in the forge. Any laird worth his salt had to know how to make a good sword and a decent dagger. He’d stuck to a simple design, with a plain hilt and short, ordinary blade. Fletcher had tried to make something more complex, with a carved vine crawling along the hilt, and a serrated blade. Fletcher’s inscription, addressed to Callum, had caused the metal to crack in places.
It didn’t matter, of course. Callum no longer had the knife.
Clenching his teeth, he applied the blade to the wood, carving away strips almost at random. Long curls of rough wood began to pile up at his feet, and the block of wood gradually grew smoother, with curves and divots appearing here and there. Whittling could be a strange thing. You might start out wanting to create one shape, only to find halfway through the project that the wood had other ideas. You simply had to go along with it. It was only fair that the wood had the final say in what it became. People were like that, too.
Is she like that? Will she refuse to allow herself to be carved into the shape I want?
Byshe, of course, he meant Melody. Who else? And he suspected that the answer to his question wasyes. She was not afraid of him; that was clear.
Well, that’s good, is it nae? Why would I want a betrothal, even a fake one, with a woman who was afraid of me?
There were times when he could see Melody drawing back, her learned habit of shyness and fear rising close to the surface. At other times, however, he caught glimpses of the fire within her. She returned his gaze fearlessly and refused to buckle when he applied pressure.
I should nae be so hard on her.
Now, where hadthatthought come from? That was his grandmother’s voice, plain and simple.Shewas the one who wanted him to go easy on Melody.
Closing his eyes, Callum let his knife flicker over the wood, twisting his wrist to gouge out a lump here and there. He could see Melody in his mind’s eye, leaning up against the wall, staring up at him with a line between her brows.
She wasn’t afraid of him, even though he’d dragged her out of the Great Hall and into a quiet, secluded corridor. Weren’t delicately bred English ladies supposed to be easier to frighten? Not her, though. Not her.
He could still feel the warmth of her skin beneath his fingertips. Her eyes had blazed when he touched her chin, forcing her to look up at him. Her breath had come hard, throat working, the swell of her breasts pushing against the dangerously low neckline.
Callum’s mouth turned dry. In his fantasy, the memory took a different turn…
He leaned forward, fitting his mouth roughly to hers. He’d always felt that kissing was a means to an end, but there was something different about this. Her lips were warm and soft against his, and he heard her draw in a ragged intake of breath. She did not know how to kiss; that was clear, but her hands fluttered up his arms, curling around his shoulders. She did not want him to pull back. She did not want the kiss to stop.
She wants me.
He leaned further forward, placing his forearm against the wall by her head as if to fence her in. He pulled back, breakingthe kiss, and she gave a ragged sigh of disappointment. He wasted no time, however, bending his head to touch his lips to her throat. A pulse point pounded under his lips, and he imagined that he could feel her heart quickening. What did she feel? Did the stubble on his chin scratch her soft skin? Yes, he imagined it might. She was breathing raggedly now, chest heaving, and Callum let his lips slide lower, lower, until he reached the impossible softness of her breasts, delicately giving beneath his touch.
“Callum,” she breathed, her voice catching, and he allowed himself to smile against her skin.
The fire spat loudly, and Callum flinched, eyes flying open. He had stopped whittling and was simply sitting like a loose-minded simpleton, clutching the butchered wood in one hand and Fletcher’s knife in the other.
He was, of course, alone. The kisses were a fantasy. Melody did notwanthim to kiss her; she had made that abundantly clear.
And now here I am, sittin’ here alone, half-choked with arousal, havin’ left me own betrothal party horribly early,Callum thought grimly, clenching his jaw.
He could not decide who he should be angrier at, himself or Melody.
He decided not to answer that question, not even in his own head. Not tonight, at least.
11
The bedroom door flew open with a crash, startling Melody out of a strange and not unpleasant dream. She had been dreaming of Callum, but it was one of those dreams where she wasnakedand trying to hide the fact.
She had found herself fleeing through the drafty corridors of the keep, shivering with cold. Callum had been pursuing her for some reason, and while she kept trying to hide, in the dream, she could not shake the unsettling knowledge that shewantedhim to find her.
