conversation!” He sounded, she thought, as though he belonged to the gentry. He was a tenant, she guessed—not a servant. She folded her arms tightly around her.
“Move closer,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“Move closer,” he said again. “You are cold. Sit close to me for warmth.” When she made no move to do so, but gaped at him, he put his arm around her waist and pulled her closer to him.
Fiona made a sound of surprise; he removed his arm.
But that didn’t remove the feeling of him. Their bodies were touching, her shoulder to his arm, her thigh against his large one, her lower leg against the smooth leather of his boot. She was aware of every inch of their bodies that cametogether. She did indeed feel warmer; in fact, she felt a deep warmth at the very core of her begin to spread, sliding out to her fingers and toes and tingling across her scalp.
It took her a moment to notice her fingers were digging into her palms.
Duncan glanced at her, and Fiona would have sworn he knew precisely the titillation she was feeling, because his eye seemed to glow with it. “Continue, then,” he said.
“Beg your pardon?”
“You were telling me of your life. Carry on, if you will.”
“Oh!” Her face felt flushed. She must sound perfectly absurd to him. “There’s really very little to say, actually. My life has been utterly uneventful.” She looked at him. “What of you, sir? How long have you been at Blackwood, if I may ask?”
She felt an almost imperceptible stiffening in his body and rather imagined it was because conditions at Blackwood were as bleak as she imagined, being under the thumb of such a reprehensible laird. He probably treated his tenants with complete disdain, walking over them as if they were objects instead of people and demanding exorbitant rents, whereas she had always taken care to treat her servants admirably. If Sherri were here, that bloody stupid girl, she would vouch for Fiona’s fair treatment, she was certain.
She looked at Duncan. “It’s quite all right—you may speak freely, you know,” she said. “I am well acquainted with the character of your laird,” she said with a slight roll of her eyes.
Duncan looked as if he wanted to inquire, but being a Buchanan man, he just clenched his jaw and stared straight ahead. Highlanders were notoriously loyal.
“Tell me, Duncan, is Mrs. Nance still in the laird’s employ? I—”
Her question was lost when the wagon hit something hard, sending it skidding behind the team and riding very rough.
“Ho, there, ho, ho !” Duncan shouted at the horses, reining hard. When he’d pulled the team to a stop, he quickly unwrapped the reins from his left hand and jumped off the bench in one fluid movement. He strode around the back of the wagon and around to Fiona’s side. With his hand on his hip, he stared down at the wheel, then muttered a Gaelic oath that, fortunately, Fiona could not make out.
“The wheel is damaged,” he said with a hard kick to the offending wheel.
She gasped and leaned over, bracing herself against the wooden armrest as she peered down at the wheel. She could see one of the spokes jutting out, perpendicular to the wheel. “Oh no.”
Mr. Duncan squatted down to have a closer look. Fiona could only see the crown of his hat and the wide rim. The hat was dark brown, and when the first fat snowflake fell and landed on the brim, it was so large it made her think of dandelions. But when another followed it, and another, she looked up to see that snow had indeed begun to fall.
“Oh, look!” she said with all the brightness one typically feels at the sight of new snow. “It’s begun to snow!”
Duncan lifted his head and looked up at the sky and said something in Gaelic that, if Fiona’s memory could be trusted, was loosely translated to mean Bloody, bloody hell .
Chapter Six
T he sight of the broken spoke was bad enough, but when snow began to fall, a very bad feeling invaded Duncan. It likely would be
“Move closer,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“Move closer,” he said again. “You are cold. Sit close to me for warmth.” When she made no move to do so, but gaped at him, he put his arm around her waist and pulled her closer to him.
Fiona made a sound of surprise; he removed his arm.
But that didn’t remove the feeling of him. Their bodies were touching, her shoulder to his arm, her thigh against his large one, her lower leg against the smooth leather of his boot. She was aware of every inch of their bodies that cametogether. She did indeed feel warmer; in fact, she felt a deep warmth at the very core of her begin to spread, sliding out to her fingers and toes and tingling across her scalp.
It took her a moment to notice her fingers were digging into her palms.
Duncan glanced at her, and Fiona would have sworn he knew precisely the titillation she was feeling, because his eye seemed to glow with it. “Continue, then,” he said.
“Beg your pardon?”
“You were telling me of your life. Carry on, if you will.”
“Oh!” Her face felt flushed. She must sound perfectly absurd to him. “There’s really very little to say, actually. My life has been utterly uneventful.” She looked at him. “What of you, sir? How long have you been at Blackwood, if I may ask?”
She felt an almost imperceptible stiffening in his body and rather imagined it was because conditions at Blackwood were as bleak as she imagined, being under the thumb of such a reprehensible laird. He probably treated his tenants with complete disdain, walking over them as if they were objects instead of people and demanding exorbitant rents, whereas she had always taken care to treat her servants admirably. If Sherri were here, that bloody stupid girl, she would vouch for Fiona’s fair treatment, she was certain.
She looked at Duncan. “It’s quite all right—you may speak freely, you know,” she said. “I am well acquainted with the character of your laird,” she said with a slight roll of her eyes.
Duncan looked as if he wanted to inquire, but being a Buchanan man, he just clenched his jaw and stared straight ahead. Highlanders were notoriously loyal.
“Tell me, Duncan, is Mrs. Nance still in the laird’s employ? I—”
Her question was lost when the wagon hit something hard, sending it skidding behind the team and riding very rough.
“Ho, there, ho, ho !” Duncan shouted at the horses, reining hard. When he’d pulled the team to a stop, he quickly unwrapped the reins from his left hand and jumped off the bench in one fluid movement. He strode around the back of the wagon and around to Fiona’s side. With his hand on his hip, he stared down at the wheel, then muttered a Gaelic oath that, fortunately, Fiona could not make out.
“The wheel is damaged,” he said with a hard kick to the offending wheel.
She gasped and leaned over, bracing herself against the wooden armrest as she peered down at the wheel. She could see one of the spokes jutting out, perpendicular to the wheel. “Oh no.”
Mr. Duncan squatted down to have a closer look. Fiona could only see the crown of his hat and the wide rim. The hat was dark brown, and when the first fat snowflake fell and landed on the brim, it was so large it made her think of dandelions. But when another followed it, and another, she looked up to see that snow had indeed begun to fall.
“Oh, look!” she said with all the brightness one typically feels at the sight of new snow. “It’s begun to snow!”
Duncan lifted his head and looked up at the sky and said something in Gaelic that, if Fiona’s memory could be trusted, was loosely translated to mean Bloody, bloody hell .
Chapter Six
T he sight of the broken spoke was bad enough, but when snow began to fall, a very bad feeling invaded Duncan. It likely would be
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