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“A picnic,” she repeats, flat. “With you?”
“Aye.”
She measures me with that wary, feminine sort of sense.
“Why? Have you made good use of the fortnight?”
Because I’m crazed for you. Because I can’t keep pretending I’m not. Because you’ve been under my skin for so long, I’ve stopped remembering what peace feels like. Because I’m a grown man who turns into a fool and counts the seconds between one of your glances and the next.
Because I can’t lose you, and I’m near mad at how far away you are, even when you’re standing right in front of me.
Instead, I say, “Because ye told me to do it properly, and I have.”
“Hm,” she says, as though determined not to make this easy on me. “That is rather better.”
“I can do ye one better,” I offer.
Ellen’s eyes flick down to my mouth for the briefest heartbeat, then back up as if she’s furious that her gaze betrayed her.
She glances once more at the closed door, and I can see her confirming that she’s truly been left with no immediate excuse, no ally to hide behind. She exhales through her nose.
“Well,” she says, voice dry as peat smoke, “since you’ve gone to the trouble of asking properly…”
I wait, breath pinned in my chest.
“I daresay I could be persuaded.”
My heart kicks like a startled horse.
“Aye?” I manage.
Ellen’s chin lifts. “Dinnae look so shocked. It’s unbecomin’.”
I seize the opening before it closes.
“And if I told ye,” I say carefully, “that I’ve convinced Cook to pack—”
I pause, because if I choose wrong here, she’ll bolt purely out of spite.
Ellen’s brow arches. “Pack what?”
I allow myself the barest smile.
“Shortbread,” I say. “Petticoat Tails… the good kind.”
The way her eyes light up says more than words.
“I dinnae have a sweet tooth,” she retorts.
I hum, unconvinced. “I have it on good word that ye do.”
Ellen’s gaze sharpens. “James.”
“I’ve also,” I add, pushing my luck, “got a wee tin of gingerbread rounds.”
That does it.
Her composure wavers, barely. A glimmer of genuine interest slips through the cracks.
