Page 33 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

He arched his brow. “Friends isna’ the word that comes to mind.”

Did he mean enemies still? Or lovers? She nibbled her lip. His sights trained on the gesture.

“What do ye suggest, then?” she breathed.

He shifted down to the hull of the boat, folding one long leg beneath him, laying the other one out so it extended the length of the oars and rested against her thigh and rear, caging her in. He slouched back on his elbows like a king overlooking his dominion.

“A question asked and answered with each turn,” he drawled.

“And for the winner?”

He picked up a wedge of cheese and a few berries, bringing them to her lips, teasing them to open. She parted for him. His gaze darkened as she took the offering on her tongue and pulled a bite into her mouth, nibbling it.

“I think ye ken what I want if I win,” he murmured, popping the remains of her small bite into his mouth and chewing again so his jaw muscles bulged. “And ye, lass? Are ye going to ask for a boon again? Or mayhap just ask for what ye really want.”

She couldn’t stop biting her lip, so much so that he reached out and plucked that lip from her teeth like he’d done before, tucking her tickling wisps of hair behind her ear.

“I want the same,” she whispered, looking askance toward the water as those telltale starbursts burned upon her cheeks.

“Good lass,” he whispered as if to himself.

She’d always hated how easily she blushed, but Tormund seemed to relish each chance he got to splotch her cheeks pink, as if splashing paint upon them.

“But ye have to keep the purse.”

He paused, chuckling, “We canna’ have that,” then moved his pawn beside the one she’d moved, pinning her, going on a swift offensive.

“If ye grew up on the continent, how then did ye learn to sail?” she asked, clearing her throat, feeling his boot hook gently around her rear. He eyed her warily. “Is that too personal? I’m sorry—”

“My Uncle Niall taught me when I was four and ten. Necessity warranted that we either sink or swim.” Delivered bluntly, surprising her. “Owe and I chose to swim.”

“What does that mean, necessity warranting it?”

He nudged her rear with his boot. “One question, mon ange.”

She smirked at him.

“What’s in yer locket?” His question.

She smiled fondly, fished it out from between her breasts, and held it upon her palm, opening it. “My sister.” She showed it to him, caressing the tiny miniature with a fingertip. “She and I were best of friends, and when she lay abed, dying”—she cut herself off and cleared her throat—“I prefer to remember her like this. Smiling. I remember when the original portrait was commissioned. She tried to sit still like the painter requested, but Jamie and I made silly expressions the whole time, and she continued to giggle. My mither scolded us, but I knew Marjorie was uncomfortable in her stays sitting straight for so long, and so every time Mither turned her back, we’d push up our noses or stick out our tongues.”

Her smile fell.

“But that’s when Mither snapped, and she swatted James and worse all the way from the chamber, for he’s my sire’s bastard and she always hated James for it…” She shook her head to clear her thoughts and smiled again. “Sakes, I ramble. It’s just, it made me realize that when the time came for me to have my own babes, I’d never allow another to be cruel to them. As ye can see, mitherhood never happened to me. But James’s first will soon be born and I cannae wait to become an aunt.” She smiled. “I wish Marjorie could have had at least one, so there was still a piece of her to love…”

She clicked shut the locket and moved her next pawn. “What’s in Inverness? Ye mentioned going there.”

He cleared his throat. His jaw ticked. Eyes deadened. For a moment, it seemed as if the blackguard had returned and shoved her demon back beneath his armor. Was that a personal question?

“A massive boc-hord I’ve used at will for years. It houses everything from prose, to poetry, to clan histories.” A library. “The Blackfriars of St. Bartholomew’s and I have an agreement on a particular matter, for which I tithe generously.”

“So I’ve heard!” she exclaimed with a grin. “I’d hoped to visit before returning home, for I have documents I wish to verify, but I fear James willna let me go alone. Mayhap I can go with ye.”

He said nothing else on the matter, and for a moment she sensed him pull away. But the strange tension eased as, in turn, they continued to play. He was marching for her king, which she’d moved out of the central cross to attempt her escape to the board’s edge and he had her pinned on two sides, though her pile of his pawns was mighty.

She smirked and taunted, “In one more turn, my king will win. How does one stay on course whilst sailing?”

“With an astrolabe.”