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A simple, innocent touch. Tantalizing. Tempting.
The inarguable physical attraction to him bewildered and alarmed her. No man had ever set her, sensible and reticent Emeline LeClaire’s, pulse to cavorting. This wasn’t wise. He was married. They were unchaperoned.
Her heightened senses were due to the scare she’d suffered yesterday. The primitive need to survive. Wasn’t it normal for people thrust into dire circumstances together to form a connection? A bond borne of forced company? It didn’t mean it accounted for anything.
With his next words, all of her rational arguments scattered like thistledown in a gale.
“Ye’re a gentlewoman. These soft hands are no’ meant for menial labor, lass. Neither are they meant to be covered with blood and gore.” He slanted his arresting blue gaze to the now empty clothes line. “Ye were wearin’ gloves yesterday. Women who skin hares and set snares dinna even own a pair of gloves.”
The last held a measure of steel and censure, and she wasn’t altogether certain he still spoke about her. Nonetheless, smothering a barbed response, she snatched her hands away as if scorched. Scowling, she lifted her forearms and spread her fingers.
“These hands are for whatever I need to do to survive, Baron.” She speared him a reproving glare, not quite understanding why his words had angered her. “I’ve been sewin’ with these hands since I could hold a needle at the age of five. I kept my aunt’s house, cooked for us, ordered her supplies, and maintained the books for her business. True, I’ve no’ done much menial labor, but I am no’ above soilin’ these hands. My life has been neither easy nor pampered, and after the events of yesterday, I have nae doubt it has become vastly more difficult.”
“Emeline, I meant nae offense.” He looked taken aback, and a hint of remorse turned his firm mouth downward.
A mouth she very much would like to kiss. That realization shocked and thrilled.
“Didna ye?” she said, spooning porridge into his bowl then hers with short, terse movements.
“Nae, and I beg yer pardon.” He sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I only meant ye dinna have to lower yerself to such a task. ’Tis nae pleasant, even for a seasoned hunter such as me.” He accepted the cup of tea she shoved his way then pointed a thumb over his shoulder.
She tracked her attention to the hares before quickly looking away.
“I saw the way ye looked at the wee things,” he said. “Ye’ve a soft heart, and there’s nothin’ wrong with that. Ye’ve been through a terrible trauma. I’d no’ add teachin’ ye how to skin and clean an animal to yer burden right now.”
Despite her stern admonishments, she felt her ire and humiliation melting away. She could almost believe him genuinely concerned.
Imprudent warmth bloomed in her heart.
“Ye need time to heal.” He winked, and her heart stopped for a full beat. “At Eytone Hall if ye’re still of a mind to learn, I’ll teach ye.”
