His gaze flicks to my upper body. My skin burns hotter.
“I—” I clear my throat. “I was wearing an undershirt when I came here. I’ve got it on now, under my dress, to keep me warm. It’s still pretty clean, so I can cut fabric from that. But you can’t look.”
“You’ve my word,” he says gravely.
He stares. I wait.
“You can shut your eyes now.”
“Oh. Aye.” He shuts them.
My hands are trembling, though I don’t know why I should be so nervous. It’s just a strip of cloth.
With a deep breath, I loosen the neck of my dress and tug it over one shoulder. I reach in, but it’s not wide enough. “Crap,” I whisper.
He opens an eye. “Ready?”
I yelp and swat at him. Unfortunately, I still have his knife in my hand.
He laughs, ducking. “Mind the blade, you wee savage.”
“I said don’t look!”
He shuts his eyes again, this time lifting his face skyward like he’s praying for divine intervention.
Holding one strap taut, I saw the knife along the piping at the neckline. The cut is sloppy, but by the end, I have a strip of pale purple fabric, and miraculously, neither of us is bleeding.
“You can look now.” I straighten my dress and hold out the bandage for his inspection.
His eyes widen. “What other treasures do you keep hidden under your kirtle?” I swallow and feel my neck flush. He goes rigid, realizing too late how that sounded. His face floods with color. Quickly, stiffly, he adds, “’Tis a bonnie color. Like bluebells.”
The way his own innuendo embarrassed him only embarrasses me more. I latch onto the safer topic. “This is more purple. Bluebells are probably blue.”
His head snaps up. “You’ve nae seen a bluebell?”
I shrug. “No, I guess not.”
He makes a small, incredulous sound. Then, very gently, he rubs the fabric between his fingers.
His hand mesmerizes me. I hadn’t known fingers could look strong. But his do.
There’s a strange crackle in the air, and I realize he’s spoken.
“Huh?”
“I said, you cannae give me this.”
I shake my head. “Of course I can.”
“It’s too fine.”
His scrutiny embarrasses me. The shirt came in a three-pack from Costco. The notion that it’stoo finefor anything is preposterous.
“Just shut up and let me bandage you.” I barrel ahead, focusing on the task at hand. But as my fingers skim his bare skin, that focus wavers like a mirage. Touching him like this is so strangely intimate, and yet I have to, if I’m going to wind the dressing around his arm.
Clearing my throat, I shift my hand lower. Away from that solid bicep.
Only now it’s grazing a satin-smooth valley under his arm.
