Page 116 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

He cornered her near the far wall and she dodged left with a breathless laugh, made it almost to the door before he caught her around the waist, both of them thoroughly wet and neither of them particularly bothered by it.

She twisted in his grip, still laughing, pushing at his chest without any real intent, and he pulled her closer. He didn’t pull her roughly, just firmly enough that she stopped trying to get away and leaned into him instead, her forehead dropping briefly against his shoulder while she caught her breath.

"Ye're soaked," she said, muffled against his shirt.

"Aye." He looked down at the top of her head. "So are ye."

She pulled back just enough to look up at him, cheeks flushed, hair beginning to escape its pins in earnest now, and he was struck, as he sometimes was, by the particular way she looked when all her defenses were down — not absent, never fully absent with her, but quiet.

"Ye'll catch yer death," he said.

"I willnae catch me death from a splash of water."

"Ye're already shiverin'."

She wasn't, quite, but she wasn't arguing either. He reached up and brushed a wet strand of hair from her face, tucking it back with more care than the gesture strictly required.

"I ken how tae warm ye up," he said, low and quiet.

Her eyes narrowed, but her mouth was doing the thing it did when she was trying not to smile. "Is that so."

"Aye. There's a fire tae be laid upstairs and ye're standin' in a cold stable wearin' a wet gown." He stepped back, giving her room. "That's all I meant."

"I kent that was all ye meant," she said, with great dignity, wringing a section of her skirt out onto the straw.

"Of course ye did."

His room held the cold of the morning, the fire having been left untended since he'd risen before dawn.

Lachlann set about laying it properly while Alba stood near the window and wrung what water she could from the ends of her hair, her shawl abandoned over the chair already.

He worked methodically, kindling first, then the smaller logs angled to catch, the larger ones crossed above.

There was a particular satisfaction in this, in the physical directness of it, the way skill and patience produced something reliable and warm. He struck the flint and nursed the first small flame until it found the kindling and began to speak for itself.

"Ye're very precise about that," Alba said from behind him.

"There's a right way and a wrong way." He sat back on his heels and watched the fire begin to establish itself. "The wrong way ye spend half the mornin' coaxin' it along. The right way it takes care of itself."

"And ye always dae it the right way."

"I try."

He heard the smile in it and didn't turn around.

He added the last log and rose, brushing his hands on his trousers, and found that she had moved closer to the hearth, her hands extended toward the growing warmth.

The fire was catching properly now, beginning to push its heat into the room. Lachlann stood beside her and felt the welcome of it against his damp shirt.

"Here," he said, and when she turned he reached for the back closures of her gown, the ones he knew from experience were the most difficult to reach, and worked them loose without ceremony.

She let him, holding still, her eyes on the fire, and when the gown was loose enough, he lifted it from her shoulders and laid it over the back of the chair closest to the heat.

She settled onto the low stool near the hearth in her shift, her hands wrapped around each other, beginning to warm.

The firelight moved over her, and he pulled the second chair and sat close enough that their shoulders nearly touched when she turned.

Neither of them moved apart.