Page 24

What kind of woman had she been?

From the little Liam had shared, not a very admirable one.

Emeline knew she’d been English, of course, and she and Liam had two children together. His wife hadn’t liked the Highlands, and his caustic remark about being duped gave Emeline reason to wonder if the union had been entirely by choice.

Moving behind the chair, he carefully lifted her long hair over the back. He ran his hands down the tresses a few times before gathering the mass together.

“Let me ken if I accidentally pull yer hair. Ye’ve quite a lot.” He cleared his throat, and she ducked her chin, smiling.

Had he bitten off more than he could chew?

Did he now regret his gallant offer? Hadn’t he said he wasn’t a gallant?

What else did one call a man who went out of his way to treat and assist a woman?

“I shall,” she murmured. “I confess, this is rather a treat. I’ve never had a lady’s maid before.”

He poured the first bowls of warm water over her hair, running his big hand down the strands. Two more scoops followed. The distinct aroma of Castile soap wafted past her nostrils. After drawing the bar over her hair from scalp to the ends several times, he added a bit more water and worked the soap into a frothy lather.

She’d expected he’d use the same soft soap in the jar she’d been using for bathing. This must be his personal bar. He’s used it all over his body. And though it shouldn’t have, the thought sent another burst of excitement pelting along her nerves.

Unable to resist relaxing as he gently rubbed her scalp and washed her hair, Emeline closed her eyes. Now she understood why fancy ladies might enjoy this on a regular basis. When she’d washed her hair at home, it had been a quick process.

Well, as quick as it could be with hair hanging to her waist.

“How does that feel?” Liam’s voice held a slightly husky note.

She mustered a lazy, closed-mouth, ghost of a smile. “I fear, I could get quite accustomed to this pampering.” Her bones felt the consistency of warm wax and her eyelids weighted by bricks.

“Ye’ve beautiful hair,” he said, scarcely above a whisper—almost as if he unwillingly spoke his thoughts aloud. “The color’s unusual. No’ quite auburn and no’ quite sable.”

His was black as a moonless, starless night. Except for the silver. Those were the stars glittering in the midnight sky.

She chuckled and, arching her neck, opened her eyes, peering backward at him. “Nae one’s ever described my hair that way. I simply call it dark brown, as did my aunt.” She scrunched her nose. “Although, now that I think on it, I believe she mentioned an auburn-haired female somewhere in the family tree.”

“Nae, nothin’ so common is dark brown for ye, Emeline.” His voice sounded a soft caress as his fingers stilled. “Chestnut. Bronze. Treacle. Whisky.”

“Whisky? I’m no’ sure that’s a compliment, Liam.” She chuckled, slightly shaking her head.

“If ye ken how much I enjoy whisky, ye’d have nae doubt, leannan,” he replied in that spine-caressing deep brogue.

Such an innocent comment shouldn’t have sent thrills rippling from breast to knees, but—God save her—it did. She was reading too much into his actions and words. That was what inexperience wrought. He was a man of the world and no doubt hadn’t a second thought about his rascally speech.

“Och, Emeline. Close yer eyes and dinna move. A bit of soap is drippin’ down yer forehead.” A moment later, he bent close, so near she smelled the Castilian soap scenting his still-damp hair. He swiped the soap away, and at his touch, a tremor rippled through her.

She might blame it on the cooling evening, but she knew it for what it was.

Desire. For him.

“I’m goin’ to rinse now,” he said, a queer inflection in his tone.

Did he know? Was she so transparent?

“Keep yer eyes closed,” he said.

As if she dared open them and have him read in her gaze what she’d been hiding since they’d first met. He might be an untamed Scot with no use for women—och, only one use—but from the instant he’d plopped her on Deri, her body had been much too aware of him.

Several more tepid bowls of water flowed over her head and hair. With each, Liam combed his thick fingers from her scalp to the ends of the tresses. She’d never been more relaxed or felt more indulged in her entire life. There was something very nice about having one’s hair washed. That, she couldn’t deny. Particularly by a startlingly virile man.

After gathering her sopping wet hair and twisting it into a rope, he wrung the water out. He smoothed his big palms from her forehead, over the back of her head and then raked his fingers through her long tresses several times.

Now that the sun had sunk below the horizon, a slight breeze had kicked up. The evening had grown chilly, and she shivered.

“Let’s get ye inside before the fire, and get yer hair dry.” He patted her shoulder, his voice neutral once more. “We dinna need ye catchin’ a chill.”

Aye, because that would delay our departure.