“I do not ogle.”
She sniffs. “As you say. He was just here, but didnae stay to eat. He didn’t care to speak to you. Lad lost his bed because of you.”
It stings.
“Well, it’s because of you that I’m here in the first place.” I cringe at my lame reply and turn my attention to the porridge. It’s tepid and lumpy, but I choke it down. I’ll need all the energy I can get to face this day.
Despite a full belly, I feel no less dejected as I make my way to the barn.
I’m completely alone in this country. In thiscentury. Sharing a cottage with a woman who, for all I know, could turn me into a toad.
When Callum tried to help, I ignored him. I smacked him, shouted at him, then got him beaten and relegated to a barn.
I falter when I spot the barn roof. The satchel of food is heavy in my palm.
Maybe he won’t be there. I could just leave it and go.
But if he is there, I could apologize again. I should apologize. If I’m ever going to get out of this place, I’ll need to rely on his help.
What if he’s too angry and has changed his mind?
Bad scenarios ping through my brain, then it hits me. There’s a worst case: getting beaten for being late to the kitchen. Which is apparently where they’re expecting me.
I break into a jog. Donag told the cook I’d be there after breakfast, and I’m not entirely clear what time “after breakfast” is. How would I know, anyway, without a watch to tell me? Was there a rooster I missed this morning? Is that what had me dreaming of Poppa’s farm?
I’m deep in thought and practically flying past Callum when I hear him shout, “Where’s the fire?”
I stutter to a halt, speechless. Nothing about this is what I expected.
Callum is grinning like he might actually be happy to see me. Even with a face full of bruises, his smile is wide, the light crackling in his eyes as if I just told him he’s won a month’s vacation.
The depth of my relief surprises me. Warmth spreads through my chest, like a sip of hot chocolate after a morning of winter chores.
Then my smile falters as I realize what he’s wearing. Or rather, not wearing.
“Your shirt,” I mumble. “Is gone.”
An old leather apron is the only thing between my eyes and his upper body. He’s covered in sweat. His arms, shoulders, and chest glisten with it, like a cover model on some men’s health magazine.
I look down so fast, you’d think my retinas were getting burned by the sun.
Bad idea.
Because oh, wow, my eyes land on his kilt instead.
I don’t know what it is about that strip of wool, why it has this effect on me. The brown-and-yellow plaid skims his knees, and—wait. Can knees bemuscular? Because his actually look strong.
The rest of him is leather. Low, worn-in boots. A scarred leather belt cinching the kilt at his hips. And from the side, I glimpse…
Oh no.
Is that the little pouch he carriedyesterday? I can’t tell with the apron covering the front of him. Is he wearing that tiny man-purse now, slung from his hips to hangright there, where a girl is definitely not supposed to look?
Or is the belt meant to hold up his kilt? Because the way all that heavy fabric hangs from his waist is making me nervous. What if the kilt slides off? I’m pretty sure there’s no such thing as seventeenth-century boxers. These guys almost definitely went commando. Which means…
Volcanic heat spreads from my chest, racing up my neck and burning my cheeks.
He cocks his head. “Are you all right?”
