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His beard intrigued too. Mostly because of what it hid.

Liam fairly beamed as he burst into the cottage. So excited was he, she wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d kicked his heels together. “Lass, we leave on the morrow.”

Emeline ought to have been overjoyed, but dismay better described the emotion tightening her chest. Having him nearby day and night had taxed her nerves and her reserves to no end. Yet, the truth was, once they left this cottage and she accompanied him to his home, this camaraderie would end. That knowledge reinforced her loneliness and apprehension.

He knew what he returned to. Knew what to expect. She had no idea what her future held.

And always—always—lurking ominously in the shadows was the knowledge that someone wanted her dead. Someone desperate or determined enough to go to the extremes of locating her while she was on holiday in the Highlands and replacing the drivers with hired cutthroats.

Until that matter was solved, she’d never be at ease. Her gut instincts told her she couldn’t solve the mystery without help. And she didn’t even need the fingers of one hand to count the number of people she could impose upon to assist her.

However, Liam’s grin proved contagious, and she smiled in return. All the while making certain her gaze didn’t stray to the tempting dark hair peeking from the opening of his unlaced shirt.

Upon spying the poker in her white-knuckled grip, he elevated a raven eyebrow. “Did ye mean to clobber me with that or run me through?”

“I dinna ken who approached.” Self-conscious and feeling ridiculous, she returned the poker to the holder on the hearth.

Still grinning, he held up a good-sized kettle filled with water. “I found this in the lean-to’s loft. I thought ye could wash yer hair tonight, if ye wanted to,” he said, striding to the fireplace and hanging the pot on the hook.

Must he be so blasted giddy that they were finally leaving? And was her appearance so hideous, he wanted to make sure she was presentable when they arrived tomorrow? Nonetheless, making a good impression couldn’t hurt and that was better accomplished with a well-scrubbed scalp.

“That would be wonderful. Thank ye for suggestin’ it.” Despite the uncharacteristic peevishness that had swept her, her response was sincere. The offer was simply too welcome to resist. It had been over a week since she washed the mass tied at her nape.

He waved toward the door. “I thought we could put a chair outside, and ye could lean back. Then I can help wet it and wash it.”

She gawked as if a trow had parted his beard, poked its ugly head out, winked, and brazenly waved. God save her, but the suggestion was far too intimate. Far too tempting. If he touched her—

“Ye dinna have to help me,” she hastily declined. “I’m accustomed to washin’ my hair myself.”

He cupped his nape and gave her a boyish half-grin. “Aye, but I’ll wager ye’re no’ accustomed to doin’ so from a kettle outdoors.”

And that was why, fifteen minutes later, she stood uncertainly outside the cottage.

The evening had turned cool, but not unpleasantly so.

Deri whickered for his master and shifted his feet.

“Ye’re a glutton for attention, lad,” Liam called to the horse. “There’s a lass requirin’ my consideration at present.”

Deri snorted and rolled his big brown eyes as if to say, Just wait until ye wish to ride me again.

“Have a seat, lass.” Patting the chair back, Liam pulled a face. “I dinna think I can manage with ye standin’.”

He assuredly could too. He stood a foot taller than she.

“I told ye, ye dinna have to do this.” Having already untied the strip of cloth holding her hair back, Emeline obediently, if somewhat reluctantly, plopped onto the chair as he’d indicated. Acutely aware of the handsome man who’d soon be touching her hair, she swallowed around the constriction in her throat.

She had nothing to be nervous about, Emeline strongly admonished herself. Nevertheless, there was something so very intimate about allowing him to wash her hair. It unnerved and thrilled at the same time. She clasped the linen cloth about her shoulders tighter, as much for something to do with her hands as from nerves stretched taut as bow strings.

“I’ve never washed a woman’s hair before.”

All the more reason for him not to wash hers.

Instead, she softly said, “No’ even yer wife’s?”

His low chuckle surprised her. She’d expected anger at the mention of his wife. “Nae, Kristin preferred her lady’s maid perform the task.”

So her name had been Kristin.