Acerbic contempt laced his words, and he spoke with such vehemence, she recoiled, as if struck. He had delivered a verbal blow. Fierce and below the belt, the overbearing bounder. Taking an involuntary step backward, Emeline glared as her own wrath burst into a wild, unrestrained conflagration.
“I am no’ a simpleton. I understand perfectly, Baron. But ye should ken that I’m no’ so desperate or lackin’ in self-worth that such a despicable thought would’ve ever crossed my mind until ye mentioned it just now.” She looked him up and down, from his impossibly untamed mane to his too-big feet, permitting her upper lip to curl the merest bit as her focus came to rest on his face. “No’ all women are connivin’ vipers, and ye’ve nae right to be insultin’.”
Astonishment, or perhaps bewilderment, flashed across the planes of his guarded features. “Em…? I…” Liam abruptly snapped his mouth shut.
What? No barbed rejoinders now that he’d spelled his intent out in terms a deaf and dumb lackwit could understand?
Reputation shredded or not, there’d be no marriage proposal for her. Which was just as well since no power on earth—or in heaven either, for that matter—would’ve induced her to marry a cantankerous barbarian like him.
They were strangers thrust together by a series of unfortunate events. Nothing more. She expected nothing from him and most assuredly, he should anticipate the same from her.
“My name is Emeline, no’ Em,” she replied, with enough starch and frost Aunt Jeneva would’ve applauded. Brow arched, she touched her chin. “Do ye really think every woman finds ye so irresistibly desirable, they’d welcome such an absurd offer if ye made it? Ye can rest easy on that account. I’d never accept. Never.”
Chapter Six
Four excruciatingly long days trudged past, and Emeline and Liam settled into a loose routine. Each morning, he hunted while she bathed and prepared breakfast. When he returned, they’d share their simple meal. Afterward, he’d clean his kill, muck out Deri’s lean-to, and chop wood. She straightened the cabin, washed the dishes and the few towels and cloths, and put bread on to rise.
He hadn’t deserved it after his callous behavior, but she’d made an apple pie and a berry tart, too. Not a bite of either treat remained. The man ate as if he were hollow to his toes, and more than once, she suspected he’d been hungry despite her efforts to prepare enough food. Accustomed to cooking for two slight women with small appetites, she’d been hard-pressed to determine how much food to prepare.
In addition to hares, he’d harvested three grouse, and had caught several fish yesterday and today. A less than understated way of letting her know to cook more. She’d obliged without complaint, for it wasn’t her nature to be churlish or hold a grudge for his oafish behavior that first day.
Those that held on to rancor and resentment only hurt themselves. The became bitter and toxic to be around.
In the afternoon, they shared another meal, and then she’d go for a walk while he chopped more wood.
How much confounded firewood did they need?
And must he perform the task shirtless? Displaying his delicious, sun-kissed sculpted back, chest, and arms that no mere mortal women could possibly ignore or cease to surreptitiously ogle? Or yearn to caress that glistening, muscled form?
Torture. That was what it was. Sheer torture. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear he did so to deliberately put her off her stride.
Twice, she’d returned from a lengthy outing to come upon him glistening with sweat, muscles rippling in an animalist grace as he swung the ax. She’d turned on her heels and made directly for the creek to cool her toes. And the rest of her, though she only waded to her knees.
Though the brook ran high, it had a wide shoreline and hadn’t flooded as the river had.
Later, while she prepared dinner, he’d take Deri for a ride and scout the terrain to determine if it was safe for them to leave on the morrow. Each time, Liam returned perceptibly disappointed that they must wait another day to depart.
She refused to examine why his disappointment piqued her. It wasn’t as if she relished remaining here. Nevertheless, his eagerness to leave stung.
After dinner, he took himself off to bathe in the cold brook. Emeline studiously read Paradise Lost and tried, unsuccessfully for the most part, not to think of the naked man behind the cottage. She either read this tediously long, and rather depressing poem by Milton, or The Essays by Sir Francis Bacon.
Neither book was particularly entertaining or uplifting.
Most assuredly, Liam and his friends hadn’t spent their leisure reading. Honestly, she suspected the only reason the books were here was that one of them had wanted to rid their library of the works.
When Liam returned from his evening ablutions, he sharpened his sword and dirk. True to his word, he hadn’t laid a hand on her and had treated her with utmost respect and courtesy since his outburst. Impossible as it seemed, he’d reinforced the already impermeable walls he’d erected.
Nevertheless, she often caught him watching her, his smoky-gray eyes inscrutable slits. She couldn’t count the number of times she covertly studied the bewildering man as well. It had been insulting and humiliating beyond endurance when he’d growled he’d not be making an honest woman of her. As if she anticipated any such thing or had in any way hinted that she did.
“Bonnie as a rose in the morn and a shape to make a goddess jealous,” indeed.
She pressed cool hands to heated cheeks admonishing her capering pulse and vivid imagination to behave themselves. Eyes and attention trained upon the yellowed page, she worried her lower lip.
So forcible within my heart I feel
The bond of nature draw me to my own,
My own in thee, for what thou art is mine;
Our state cannot be severed, we are one,
One flesh; to lose thee were to lose myself.
Flames licked her cheeks once more. Good heavens. Was she destined to burn cherry-red all evening?
Cheery whistling interrupted her attempt to immerse herself in the poem. Head tilted, she raised her attention from the tome. Did Liam whistle? Or…did someone else approach the cottage?
Alarm flitted through her and, once she’d grabbed the fire poker, she crept to the window. The sun hung low on the horizon. Faint streaks of purple and pink pastels feathered the dusky blue sky between the tree branches.
Liam’s mane of wet ebony hair bounced upon his shoulders as he marched up the slight incline. Whistling. Relief swept her. She hadn’t known exactly what she’d do if someone else besides him had been outside.
She adored his hair, and she itched to thread her fingers through its silky lengths. She’d never seen a man with more magnificent hair. Many of the females frequenting Aunt Jeneva’s shop would’ve gnashed their teeth for locks half so lovely. The shiny tresses were wasted on a man.
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.