He stepped inside, still grinning, and closed the door behind him. “Well, first of all, I’m here to apologize for… for last night.”
Emma didn’t miss the way his gaze darted around the room before he finished that sentence, as if afraid he might be overheard. Somehow, she just knew that heknew that Delphine was not here.
She folded her arms across her chest, conscious of her untidy hair, freshly green-stained fingers, and herb powder dusting her clothes and probably her face.
“Apology accepted. Is that why ye are here?”
“Not just that. I wanted to assure ye that it won’t happen again, aye?”
Emma rolled her shoulders, eyeing his face for… well, she didn’t know what she was looking for. She ought to be reassured that he wouldn’t try to kiss her again. It was a mistake, they both knew that, so why did it hurt that he admitted it?
“I’m glad to hear that,” she said, although she was sure of no such thing. “It certainly won’t happen again.”
He nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on her face. The air between them crackled with something, although Emma could not have said what. She felt that as soon as one of them spoke, shifted, or even breathed, the moment would be gone, and there was no telling what would happen after that.
She broke away first. She dropped her gaze, turning back to her pestle and mortar. There was a pile of yellow-green herbs inside, half pounded into powder. They would need to be ground finer and then finer still so that they could be stirred into a mug of hot water and easily drank.
“What else can I help ye with, Laird MacPherson?” she asked, not looking back at him.
He was still there, she knew it. Not only had she not heard the tell-tale sound of the door opening and closing, but she couldfeelhis presence.
It was the strangest thing. Delphine might have told her to listen to her gut, but Emma had no idea what hers was saying, only that it was insistent.
“My arm is stinging again.”
She did glance over at him at that. Sure enough, his forearm was pink and angry, which was to be expected after all those nettle stings.
“Please tell me ye didn’t go rifling around in the nettles again.”
He snorted. “No, I didn’t. I took a hot bath only an hour or two after I left here, and I think that washed away some of the salve.”
Emma sighed, rolling her eyes. “Aye, that’ll do it. That’s my fault. I ought to have warned ye. Come here, Me Laird, and I’ll put some more salve on it.”
“Could you just… call me Thomas? I beg of you.”
She didn’t know what to do with that.
Emma hastily turned her back, pretending to glance through the shelves for burdock salve, when she really knew exactly where it was. She heard Thomas cross the room, settling himself into a seat. When she turned back with a fresh tin of salve, he was peering curiously into the pestle and mortar.
“It smells like sage,” he commented.
“We add a sprinkle of sage to make the taste more palatable. These herbs make up a tea, and it can be sour,” she explained. “Hold out yer arm.”
He obeyed, and she set about rubbing a good amount of salve over the reddened, nettle-stung sting. If she rubbed the ointment in more carefully, more gently, or took longer than was necessary, that was nobody’s business but her own.
Thomas didn’t speak while she worked, and she felt grateful for that.
“Do ye have a dress, then?” he asked as she was replacing the tin of salve.
Emma paused, glancing back over her shoulder. “What?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Do ye have a gown suitable for the event? For the thing I told ye about last night?”
She turned to face him, incredulous. “Ye cannae be serious.”
“Of course, I am serious. I am often serious.”
“I am nae going with ye to… to whatever this event is. I thought that was clear.”
