Page 66 of Bonetide

He’s been waiting, I can see that much. Though his expression as calm as always, there’s a gleam of impatience in his eyes, in the way his hand comes up to the doorframe like he is steadying himself before he steps back. He’s wearing an olive green dress shirt, dark pants, the collar of the shirt a little damp like he just washed his hair, and judging from the shine, I’d say he had. Or gone for a swim.

“Iris,” he says softly, and that low deep voice combined with my name makes my stomach flip a few times.

“Hey,” I respond, as if I’m all cool and casual.

“Come in.”

He steps aside, and I cross the threshold of the castle.

He closes the door behind me and the latch falls into place with a soft small sound. I am inside the warmth of the castle, the birdsong of the forest and the waves of the shore outside now muffled. In the background, I hear the fire crackle.

“You’re earlier than I thought you’d be.”

“I tried to wait but…” I shrug. “I’m not very good at that.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.”

He gently takes my cardigan from my shoulders and hangs it up on a brass hook by the door, the brush of his hands over my bare skin sending shivers up my spine. The heat of the fire is already reaching here, so the shiver is all him.

I turn to face him and he gives me the once over, a long quiet look that results in the faintest of smiles.

“Nice trousers,” he finally says.

I let out a small laugh. “Thanks. The diaper look is in, you see.”

“Aye. I see. Well, you make everything look lovely, though I think I prefer you in the kilt.”

“It was just a plaid skirt,” I tell him. “Or are all plaid skirts kilts?”

“Now you’re testing my fashion knowledge, of which I have none. Come.”

He takes my hand, his fingers closing around mine, a strong grip, his skin cool. He leads me through the front hall and into the room I sat in last time, the room with the leather chairs, the fire, and the books. The candles are lit on the long table, the candles down to perhaps half their height since the rainy afternoon, the wax pooled in the brass. The room is warm.

It feels like it’s been waiting.

The thought makes my stomach do another flip, though this time it’s tinged with apprehension. I might be nervous.

“Do you have a kilt?” I ask him.

His brows go up and he gives me an incredulous look. “Do I have a kilt?” His accent thickens as if to make a point and he gestures around him. “You’re asking if a man of the Highlands has a kilt?”

“I take it you do.”

“I have several.”

“Well, I have yet to see you wear them.”

“Aye. Well, perhaps you’ll see them one day.”

“So what clan are you?”

“Tea?” he offers, ignoring the question.

“No, thanks.”

“Whisky?”

“Not yet.”