The lass was infuriating.
He glanced at the rumpled bed where she had slept away most of the day.
When she had passed out in his arms once again—she seemed to do that a lot—the only place he could think to take her was his bedchamber. When he had stomped through the great hall, no one was about. Not even Jamie who tended to lurk about looking for trouble, drinking ale, and pestering Roslyn for more oatcakes.
He’d kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot and placed her on the bed. Her head had lolled to one side as she slept, her face in beautiful repose. She had long lashes that curled upward and the most perfect, smooth ivory skin. He had resisted touching her face.
He had left her for only a moment to collect clean bandages and a dram of whiskey. She’d never made a move as he unwrapped her hand and revealed the shallow cut along the burned image of the stone in her palm. The slice had been red and angry with the first sign of streaks pulsing outward from it. Perhaps she had used a dirty knife when she cut her hand, but why she would cut her hand in the first place, he didn’t know.
Using the dram of whiskey, he had dribbled it over the cut. He’d paused to see if she had any reaction but she didn’t. Then he’d dabbed the blood with a clean bandage until it had finally stopped bleeding and rewrapped it, tying it loosely. He’d placed her hand on her chest, pulled the covers over her fully clothed body, and stepped away.
Only when he had realized the hour was late did he leave to find food. He had sweet-talked Roslyn into giving him a tray for the lass. When he’d returned, she was sitting up in the bed, looking confused.
There was something about her rumpled look, the way her tangled, messy hair framed her face, and the way she blinked her big, green owlish eyes that had sent him over the edge. In that one moment, he knew had to find a way to have her.
He did not regret kissing her. Not one bit.
Now, he stood in the center of his bedchamber peering at the empty bed after her sudden departure. What was he going to do about her now? He simply could not allow her to fling those words at him and then leave. He was convinced she enjoyed the kiss, too.
And he was going to prove it.
But how?
Then he found his answer.
She had left the keystone on the table beside the bed. When she passed out, he had pocketed it to keep it safe. After he’d bandaged her hand, he had placed it on the table for her. He didn’t want her to think he intended to keep it from her. She was the one with the power, after all, not him.
He ran his hand over his beard, his skin whispering against the coarse hair.
Perhaps the lassie was on to something. The hair on his chin had become thick and unruly over the last few months. He hadn’t properly groomed himself like he should have and hisbeard was getting a bit out of hand. After all, he didn’t want to look as though he didn’t care.
He made the decision. He would shave it off and in the morn, he’d find the bonnie lass and return the keystone to her.
And perhaps, if he were lucky, he’d get to kiss her again.
CHAPTER 18
At the first sign of dawn, Chloe bounced from the bed, shoving away the blankets. She regretted leaving a mess of clothes in her wake when she readied for bed. It took her way too much time to gather everything together and dress herself.
It wasn’t easy, either. She was used to Evie helping her. But this morning, she didn’t want to wait around for her sister to show up and help her.
She pulled the overdress on over her head and fumbled with the laces, finally tying them with her arms at awkward angles. She stuck her feet in her shoes and hurried toward the door.
She cracked it open to peer out into the hallway. Everything was still and silent.
Good. Then everyone was still asleep.
Her heart throbbed against her ribcage as she pulled the door closed with a soft snick. She stood there a long moment, her back against the aged wood, as she took a deep breath to gather her courage.
This was either going to be the best idea she ever had or the worst.
She hoped for the best.
Creeping down the hall, her slippers silent on the stone flooring, she made her way to the stairway. She recalled Malcolm’s room was around a corner. At the end of the hallway, she turned left. With her hands clenched into fists at her sides, and her cut hand throbbing, she paused as she peered down the corridor.
There were several closed doors ahead of her. Which one was Malcolm’s room? She didn’t want to guess wrong and enter someone else’s room. Indecision flashed through her. This was a bad idea. She turned to head back to her own room when she heard the scrape of a door opening.
She halted and pressed her back against the cool stone wall as she waited, holding her beath, to see who it was. A moment later, the youngest brother, Jamie, exited his room. He stomped down the hall, his boots echoing around him, and then stopped short when he saw her. His brows lifted in mild surprise and he grinned at her.
