Kenneth stopped dead and blatantly ogled – yes, ogled – her.
Silence cracked through the room like whiplash. Selene froze in a mortified half-twist, the bodice collapsed at her waist, her breasts exposed to the cold air.
And to Kenneth’s gaze.
He stood rooted in the doorway, eyes widening, then narrowing as if he meant to look away but his willful eyes had failed to receive the command.
Selene squealed. Heat flooded her face in a sudden rush so violent she was surprised the room didn’t steam up with her ire. She snatched the fabric of her gown from her waistline where it now hung, and hauled it up over her chest.
To add to her humiliation, she was aware of the way the cold had caused the delicate nubs of her breasts to pucker in a most unseemly manner.
“Get out!” she barked, clutching tightly to the bodice, as if doing so was the only thing that could keep her alive.
Kenneth’s mouth opened, yet no sound emerged. He clenched and unclenched his fists by his side, looking absurdly like a warrior ambushed on his own battlefield – startled, braced to retreat, yet entirely unwilling to do so.
“Out!” she repeated. A hot blaze of anger replacing the harsh sting of embarrassment.
He swiveled as if to obey while she tugged feverishly at the disobedient laces. To her chagrin, the ties slipped even further. She clutched at the bodice, a strangled sound of pure despair escaping her.
“Ow.” She glanced up at the frozen figure of the laird. “Don’t just stand there. Help me with this hateful thing.”
Kenneth took a tentative step toward her.
“For the love of—” She threw her head back, her hair tumbling over her shoulders and down her back like an errant, turbulent cloud. “This gown is the devil incarnate.”
A heartbeat passed. Then came his voice, low and strained. “Ye should keep still. Ye’re making it worse wi’ yer wriggling.”
She whipped around, fixed him with a thunderous glare, the bodice held tight to her chest. “Well, will ye assist or not?”
“Och. Lass. Ye dinnae ken what ye’re asking of me,” he muttered through gritted teeth as he strode toward her, a tiny grin quirking his lips. “Ye ken ye’re asking me tae toss propriety aside?”
She huffed. “Where will propriety be if I am forced to walk the castle with the bodice of my gown unlaced?”
“Selene.” His tone was clipped. “If ye pull at those laces again ye’ll tear them clean off. I’ll assist ye if ye hold still.”
His fingers brushed the bare skin of her back.
The devil take the man.
She should never have asked him to help her. She should have ordered him out again. She should have done anything but stand frozen as he stepped behind her and helped position the fallen bodice back into place.
And she should never, ever, have delighted in his touch the way she did.
It was the merest, feather-light touch – but it might as well have been fire. Her breath caught sharply in her throat. Behind her, Kenneth inhaled once, slow and ragged, as though he was in the midst of fighting an unseen battle.
His hands moved with delicious care – straightening the fabric along her ribs, guiding the wool over her shoulders, drawing the laces firmly into line. Each pull tightened the air around them until the room itself seemed to hold its breath.
“There, ‘tis done.”
She wrenched herself from his reach as if his touch scorched her flesh. “Next time…” She gulped in a deep breath, “…you should learn to knock.”
A faint, traitorous smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Next time,” he returned, “ye should remember ye were the one asking fer help.”
“I did not?—”
He lifted one brow and she closed her mouth with a snap.
They stood gazing daggers at each other in charged silence, their breathing far too loud in the narrow room. Her heart was pounding. She was furious with herself for asking for his help – for letting him touch her. Yet she was more furious still because some wild, reckless part of her had reveled in his touch and not wished him to stop.
