Highlander Undone by Connie Brockway

rearranging the hem of his long velvet jacket over his lap.
    “You were saying, Mrs. Hoodless?”
    “Ah, yes. The War. Lord and Lady Merritt have had an ongoing battle for years, their son Evan being the contested ground, if you’ll excuse my use of the military metaphor.”
    “Not at all. My family has military connections going back for generations. My father was an officer.”
    She frowned. More and more she found things they had in common. She could just about guess how a family of bloodletters would respond to finding an artist in their ranks. Particularly an artist without a mother to shield him.
    “But please continue, Mrs. Hoodless,” he said. “I’m all atwitter to discover how such a poor specimen as myself might be used as artillery in a domestic war. Does Lady Merritt mean to hurl me from her townhouse roof upon her unsuspecting spouse?”
    He blinked so innocently that once more Addie laughed. “No. I fear your part is much more enigmatic. You are to be sprung on the unsuspecting Cuthbert the first time he opens his mouth to pontificate on ‘pursuits fitting a real man.’ You are not at all what he has assumed—unless you toss cabers and dispatch wolves with your bare hands. Lord Merritt has depicted you as a tree-hurling, hairy-legged behemoth—”
    Abruptly, her hands flew to cover her face, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. Legged? Had she actually said “leg” to a complete stranger? Good Lord! He must think her a veritable romp.
    She peeped at Jack from between her fingers. He was smiling, pleasure lighting his elegant features. He was made for smiles, the tiny lines radiating in a sunburst of amusement from the corners of his brilliant eyes, twin dimples scoring his lean cheeks.
    Without a trace of self-consciousness, he leaned forward and gently dragged her hand down. His touch was oddly galvanizing, awakening a firestorm of conflicting sensations: fear, longing, curiosity . “I won’t tell.”
    “Tell what?” Addie asked, pulling her hands from his. His eyes narrowed in perplexity as her fingers fluttered nervously in her lap. She couldn’t help it.
    “I’ve heard the word before,” he stage-whispered, ignoring her discomfiture. “At least twice.”
    He was teasing her, she realized. No one ever teased her anymore—except for Ted who, as her brother, saw it as more or less his obligation. The impulse to respond in kind would not be gainsaid.
    “ ‘Heard’ the word, indeed.” She sniffed haughtily. “I suppose you account yourself very raffish because of it.”
    He nodded complacently.
    “But have you actually ever said it?”
    He leaned forward. On any other man his expression would be wolfish. But she considered his leer far too self-conscious to be taken seriously. “Leg.”
    She recoiled in mock indignation.
    He leaned closer still. “Leg.”
    She feigned a gasp but her attention was elsewhere. This close, she could see the soft thicket of his lashes, the smooth, clean texture of his skin, and was teased by a wild impulse to touch him. Madness.
    “Leg!” he pronounced with delicious deliberation.
    She fanned her face frantically with her hand. “Desist, sir, I beg you! I cannot withstand such an assault on my sensibilities. You artists are a reprobate lot!”
    The wicked grin froze on his handsome face. He scowled as though considering some momentous decision and, lifting his head, took a deep breath.
    “I am not an artist,” he said. His tone made his words a confession. He held her gaze with a deep, level one of his own.
    “I know,” she said.
    “You do?”
    “Yes.” She nodded then, breaching the distance between them, and gently captured his right hand. She turned it over and, with her forefinger, gently traced the ridges and scars that marred the tensile, sculpted beauty of his fingers and palm. “Paintbrushes don’t leave cuts, and a palette doesn’t raise calluses such as these. You have a workman’s hands, Mr. Cameron.” He stared at their