She smiled faintly at that, but there was a challenge in it. “You seem to give many things reason, My Laird.”
He stopped a pace away from her. Close enough to see the rise and fall of her chest, the quick flutter at the hollow of her throat.
“And ye seem determined to test them,” he replied.
She did not retreat. That, more than anything, unsettled him.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the worktable as she shifted, and he caught her wrist without thinking when she reached for a heated tool. His grip was firm but careful, his thumb pressing lightly against her pulse.
“Hot,” he warned, more softly than he had intended.
“I noticed,” she murmured, though her eyes were not on the tool.
They stood there, too close. The fire crackled behind him, casting dancing shadows over her face. She tilted her chin up slightly, defiant even now, but something else flickered beneath it—curiosity, perhaps, or heat she did not quite hide.
“You look at me as though I am your enemy,” she said.
“And ye look at me as though I am a puzzle,” he returned.
“Perhaps you are both.”
He loosened his grip but did not release her. He could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric, the steady rhythm of her pulse that betrayed none of the composure she wore so carefully.
“Ye should go,” he said, though he made no move to step back.
“And if I do not?”
The question settled between them like a drawn breath.
He leaned closer before he could stop himself, drawn by the faint scent of herbs that clung to her, by the way her lashes lowered for just a moment before lifting again. His free hand came to rest on the edge of the table beside her, trapping her in a space that felt far smaller than the smithy.
Her lips parted slightly.
A heartbeat passed. Then another.
He could feel the shift in her stance, the almost-imperceptible lean towards him, as though she had forgotten herself. Heat curled low in his belly, darker than he liked, edged with restraint he was not certain would hold.
“Ye should go,” he repeated, his voice rougher now.
“And you should stop telling me what to do,” she whispered.
For one dangerous moment, he considered ignoring his own command. His gaze dropped to her mouth, then lifted again to meet her eyes. Whatever he saw there made his jaw tighten.
Slowly, deliberately, he released her wrist.
She did not move at first. Then, she stepped back, breath uneven, composure gathering around her like armor.
Without another word, she turned and walked out of the smithy.
He felt her absence like the sudden loss of heat.
Kayden remained where he was, staring at the doorway long after her footsteps faded.
14
Lilliana took special care with her appearance before going down to supper that evening. Betsy was all too happy to buff her cheeks with rouge made of safflower and then pat it down with talcum powder.
“I had no idea that we bought beauty accoutrements,” Lilliana commented.
