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.
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.