His entire body, so tall and well-proportioned, was packed with ridges of hard muscle. She became transfixed by the way it rippled and flexed beneath his skin with each tiny movement. The whiteness of his skin surprised her. There was a touching vulnerability to it, though belied by the many old battle scars her wore on his body, which showed him to be a hardened warrior. These silvery, serpentine shadows of old injuries occasionally snaked through the beautiful, swirling patterns wrought in deep blue ink across his broad shoulders and brawny arms. To Isla, he was a revelation, unexpectedly beautiful, while yet formidable and deadly.
As she continued to watch, she could not help recalling the illustrations of great sculptures from antiquity which she had secretly admired in books in the castle library when alone. In physical form, Ewan seemed to equal the exquisite masculine beauty of, say, an Apollo, or an Adonis, like those skillfullyrendered in marble in ancient times.He's a living, breathing work of art,she thought, a hot flush running all over her body. She was so lost in the moment, she forgot they were enemies and that she was there on a mission to destroy him.
But when he took her by surprise by suddenly shucking off his trews, giving her a flash of a pair of high, round, powerful-looking buttocks, modesty overcame her along with harsh reality. She looked away. Feeling strangely feverish, she made sure to focus her gaze on anything in the tent that was not the naked Laird Ballentine.
“Eat,” Ewan commanded gruffly thirty minutes later, now sitting opposite her at the table, fully dressed. This was her first time seeing his face in daylight, and it proved to be as disturbingly braw as the rest of him.
His strong, tan, chiseled features, darkly stubbled chin, and piercing, deep-set, dark-brown eyes were framed by equally thick, slightly unruly, shoulder-length curls so dark as to be almost black. His lips were firm, their contours finely cut, with laughter lines at each side and at the corners of his eyes. Isla shifted in her seat, finding it harder to face him head-on like this than when she had spied on him naked.
“Eat, damn ye!” he repeated more forcefully, about to dig into the bowl of steaming oatmeal in front of him. He shoved the other bowl across the table in Isla’s direction. She held up her wrists and showed him the bindings still around her wrists. He had untied her feet earlier to allow her to walk to the table.
“How shall I eat?” she asked simply, scarcely daring to meet his eyes out of a mixture of fear and the peculiar sensations coursing through her
He sighed heavily. “All right. I’ll untie yer hands, but just until ye’ve finished eatin’.” He leaned over and, with annoying speed, undid the knots she had found so impossible to get out of during the night. “Just dinnae try anythin’ stupid,” he added darkly, shooting her a warning look as he sat back in his chair and began eating.
“What d’ye think I’m gonnae dae? Stab ye with me spoon?” she asked defiantly, picking it up and hungrily shoveling spoonsful of the hot, salty porridge into her mouth.
“I wouldnae put it past ye. Are ye plannin’ on eatin’ the bowl too?” he said, clearly taken aback by how enthusiastically she was polishing off the oatmeal. He sounded vaguely amused, and it annoyed her.
Though she knew she should fear him, she was unable to curb her sharp tongue. Swallowing her mouthful, she retorted, “Go ahead and laugh. Ye’d be hungry too if ye’d nae eaten a morsel since yesterday afternoon. Believe me, this is the best oatmeal I’ve ever tasted.”
To her surprise, he laughed, which eased the lines of strain from his face and made him appear almost boyishly handsome. “Well, it seems like ye’re easily pleased at least. Most of the lads think camp porridge is more suited tae plastering cottage walls than eatin’,” he said.
Isla’s irritation with him transferred to herself when she found herself smiling around her spoon.
What, are ye laughin’ at his jokes now?
“But it sticks tae yer ribs and fills ye up when ye’ve got a long day ahead of ye,” he added, finishing his porridge and throwing the spoon in the bowl before pushing it aside.
Isla’s curiosity rose once more. “Oh, have we got a long day ahead of us?” she asked, determined to learn everything possible about his intended strategies for attacking her home.
“Aye, we’re packing up and moving out today,” he told her, picking up a billy can of hot tea that had been brought in with the oatmeal and pouring the contents into two metal mugs, one of which he pushed her way.
“Thank ye,” she murmured, scraping up the last of her porridge, her curiosity piqued. “Where are we goin’?”
He paused before answering. Isla could feel his eyes burning into her as she waited, feeling certain he was going to say, “Castle Galbraith.” But he surprised her when he finally replied in a low tone, “Tae right a grave wrong.”
“Oh,” was all she could think of to say in response to the cryptic answer, regrettably no wiser than before.
“Obviously, ’tis vital that ye hide the fact ye’re a lassie from the men and try tae look like a proper soldier,” he told her. “So, make sure yer disguise is a good one. Have ye thought about what name ye’re gonnae go by in the camp?”
“Aye, I thought I could go by the name of Harris,” she replied.
Ewan nodded his approval while he sipped his tea. “Harris it is then.”
A silence fell between them, of the kind that could be cut with a blunt knife. Isla was almost painfully aware of the tension crackling in the space between them as she perched on the edge of her seat and drank her tea.
She was thankful when Ewan rose to his feet, which were now shod in black, high-top boots. Holding the length of rope in his hand, he stood looking down at her for a moment, his tall, powerful figure looming above her menacingly. “Are ye done?”
Eyeing the rope, Isla quickly swallowed the last of the tea, which almost burned her tongue as it went down. She coughed and spluttered, not expecting it when Ewan suddenly reached over and thumped her on the back. The air rushed from her lungs, making the coughing worse. When she got her breath back, she looked up at him and exclaimed indignantly, “What the hell did ye dae that fer?”
“I thought ye were chokin’,” he replied, a hint of amusement playing about his lips.
“Ye almost killed me!” she burst out in irritation, sure he was laughing at her and, in the heat of the moment, not realizing what she was saying.
“Well, I figure that makes us about even then,” he replied with an air of calm satisfaction before adding, “And dinnae act like such a weaklin’. Ye’re one of the lads now, so ye’d best toughen up and start actin’ like one.”
Though embarrassed by her slip-up and knowing he was right, Isla could not help scowling at him.
