“Your sister?”
He nodded. “I have left her with much responsibility. ’Tis time for me to take it back off her shoulders.”
“Very gallant of you, indeed. Is there no one else?”
“I have not met any lass I have wanted to share my life with.” It wasn’t a lie, but Iain knew it was only a half-truth. Fiona wasn’t a woman he would choose to spend his life with, but sometimes people didn’t get to choose.
Abigail would understand such things. Her family might now be in talks for her own arranged marriage, so why didn’t he tell her about Fiona? He decided it was too much detail, and he and Abigail would part company soon enough, anyway.
He wasn’t sure if it was the light of the fire that colored her face, or a blush that reddened her cheeks. He pushed the stray tendrils of hair behind her ear so he could see her better.
She moved to stand up.
“Where do ye think ye’re going?”
“I have to, um . . . take a walk.”
His eyebrows shot up at that, and he laughed. “I’ll go with ye.”
“Ah, no, you will not.”
With that, she gently pushed him away, but even so, the jolt had him choking back a groan. The pain had returned without him being aware before that moment.
“Sorry, but some things are private.”
He let her go, but as soon as her back was turned, he stood up and followed her. She tottered into the forest, going further than she had need to for privacy, and then disappeared behind a tree.
“I know you’re there, so don’t go getting any weird ideas.”
He smiled. He liked the strange way she spoke. Turning his back to the tree, he called out, “I am a gentleman of honor and I have me back turned.”
She mumbled something about honor her butt, and he chuckled. He had come to enjoy her way of speaking, andespecially her throwaway lines that should have sounded disrespectful but somehow made him smile.
“Okay,” she said from behind, “we can go back now.” And she started picking her way out of the forest.
He stood in her path and pulled her into him—close. The scent of the herbal concoction Mary had put through her hair had his nostrils flaring. Even with their clothing between them, he still felt her warmth. “That isn’t the way, lass.”
“Oh.” She gazed up at him, her lips trembling. “Which way, then?”
He dipped his head to his left. “That way.”
She fit so perfectly against him, he didn’t want to let her go. He touched his lips to her hair.
Her body tensed. She was getting ready to flee.
Inanely, he said, “Yer hair has a hint of cinnamon.”
Pushing her hands between them, her palms against his chest, she moved back enough that he felt the loss of her touch. “That was probably in the shampoo Mary gave me.”
This was the most challenging conversation he had ever had, but he didn’t want to let her go. What was shampoo? He wanted to keep her there, and if talking nonsense did that, then he would talk nonsense. “Shampoo?”
She tilted her head back, her mouth tightening in irritation, but Iain didn’t miss the way her eyes darkened as they flickered to his lips and back again.
Without thought, Iain bent down, his lips a breath away from her mouth.
She stiffened and pushed her hands against his chest. “No.”
“No?” he grated through his constricted throat.
