That catches my attention. Immediately puts me on high alert. “Fetch me where?”
“You’ll have to come with me to find out.” With a wink, he’s out the door.
I’m analyzing our conversation as I gingerly step into the tub, but the bath quickly distracts me. The tub is small and rusty around the edges, and the water is warm at best, but Callum left me several strips of linen to use as toweling, and the sliver of soap he’d tucked inside smells like roses.
I must enter some sort of timeless fugue state, because before I know it, the water is cold and coated with a gray, soapy film. But I’m pink and shiny and clean.
When I’m dry and wriggling into the dress, I have a flash of missing my old sack. This kirtle thing has so many layers, seams, and laces. I desperately hope I don’t have something on backward.
I finally make it inside all that fabric, and it’s time to deal with the vest. It’s cut low, and I’m horrified to realizeI’m not really sure where my boobs should go. Do I shove them under the vest, or should they rest over it?
I try to picture the women from last night. There was a lot of bouncing and jouncing, which means—yikes. They wore them pushed up, didn’t they?
Definitely that.
I think.
In the end, I smoosh them down into some strange hybrid position. The fabric provides a thick shelf that holds me securely in place, which is good. But my meager assets now resemble a couple of apples perched on a table.
I can’t decide if I feel mortified or like a fairy tale princess.
I’m still fretting over my hair—I settle on letting it hang loose down my back, drawing the front layers into a thin braid—when there’s another knock at the door.
“Just turn the wee knob,” Callum says. “In case you’re standing on the other side, unsure again what to do.”
I smirk as I open it. “I know how to open a door.”
He steps back with anoh, taking me in with wide eyes.
My stomach drops. All the blood in my body pumps to my cheeks. I must’ve done something wrong.
I smooth my hands down the front of the dress. “That bad, huh?”
“Aye, it’s that bad,” he says, but his voice is strange. Hoarse.
And when I look up, his hand is pressed to his chest, right where his heart is.
“You’re fair as a summer morning, Rosie-love. ’Tis enough to injure a lad.”
Rosie-love.
My brain short-circuits.
I don’t know what to do with my hands. I don’t know what to do with my face. I don’t know what to do with the entire rest of my body.
“Thanks,” I stammer. “You too.”
Duh.
Callum blinks.
I fumble. “I mean, you also look good. I like your kilt. And the hat.”
Great save, Rose.
Though, clearly, Callum could be half-naked in a dirty leather apron and I’d still find him attractive.
“Och, you wee misguided thing,” he says, amused. “I’ve told you the proper words to use. This is my plaid.” He rustles all that yellow and brown wool wrapped around his waist and flung over his shoulder. “And this”—he taps the cap on his head—“is my bonnet.”
