His intensity fades back into his usual good-natured friendliness. “If by ‘cool’ you mean will he have all the bitterness of a loch in January, then aye, he’ll be cool.”
I laugh weakly, agreeing. “Apparently, there are douchebags in every century.” When he doesn’t follow, I amend, “I mean, he’s an ass.”
Callum winces, like Hamish is somehow his fault. “I told you not to trust the rich lad.”
Trying to keep it light, I remind him, “Actually, what you said was not to trust a man with one eyebrow.”
The hint of a smile cracks his face, but he nods with all the seriousness of an old wise man. “That was verra sensible of me.”
He’s trying to be playful, but I can tell his mood has shifted. The Hamish thing troubles him. And I think it goes deeper than simple jealousy or male posturing.
I wrestle with the skirt of my dress until I’ve crossed my legs and am facing him in the grass. “Hamish might be richer than you are, but that doesn’t make him better. You know that, right?”
He nods, but it’s halfhearted.
“Right?” I repeat more firmly.
That gaze snags mine again, and this time there’s something raw there. An injury he keeps hidden. He looks deeply into my eyes as though he might discover a mirror buried deep within.
“Aye,” he agrees finally. With a subdued smile, he adds, “They say the king may make a duke, but God alone can make a Highlander.”
“Isn’t Hamish a Highlander?”
He opens and shuts his mouth before finally answering. “Hamish has been pampered from the cradle, his everywhim indulged. He drinks wine from France. Sleeps on silken pillows. Has servants”—he gestures to himself with a sweeping hand—“to do his every bidding.”
I lose Callum for an extended moment as he contemplates the scene around us, his eyes roaming from the grass, to the trees, up to the watery blue sky, ending down at his plaid.
He’s quieter as he continues, “Highlanders are made of sterner stuff. Our hearts are carved from these granite hills and just as steadfast. A true Highlander doesn’t need coin to be rich,” he says, picking up steam. “At day’s end, he’s content to rest with naught but heather for his bed?—”
I can’t help my giggle. “Okay, Mister Heather Bed. Now you’re just being dramatic.”
His eyes flash to mine with pretend outrage. “You doubt me, woman?” Before I can reply, he springs to his feet and scoops me up, sending the clouds whirling over my head. I make squeaking, delighted sounds like I’ve never made before, as he trips along, hoisting his feet high to storm over the uneven ground.
Callum halts, swinging his body right, then left, as if searching for the perfect spot. When he finds it, he drops to his knees. He slows his playful movements, becomes careful, deliberate.
“A bed of Highland heather,” he says softly, and with a gentleness that steals my breath, he lays me down.
Chapter
Twenty-Four
Callum kneels beside me, watching raptly for my reaction. “Feel how soft.”
But all I feel is my pulse hammering—in my throat, my fingertips, myeverywhere—each beat a thunderouswhump-whooshI’m sure he can hear.
Any other guy, and I’d think he was making a pass. But Callum just looks…earnest. He really does want me to feel this heather.
So I force myself to focus and tune into the ground beneath me. I shift my weight, rocking back and forth, wriggling side to side. And then I laugh. Because itissoft.
I look at Callum to tell him so, but the way his eyes shoot up to my face—just a beat too late—makes me realize that, yeah. Maybe hewasmaking a bit of a pass.
My gaze skitters away, like oil off a hot pan. A really hot pan.
Focus. We were talking about heather.
“It is soft,” I say, “but you’re right, I can’t imagine it’s soft enough for Campbell beds.”
“I suppose your mother would be the one knowing.”
