Emeline had never doubted it. Liam MacKay seemed most capable at fending for himself and those under his care.
“I have tea and porridge ready and bread risin’, too.” She swept a hand toward the hearth. “Would ye like to eat first, and then perhaps, ye can show me how to skin and clean the hares?”
His gypsy dark eyebrows shuffled high onto his noble brow. “Ye want to learn to clean hares?” He appeared so astounded, she might’ve asked him to dance a jig naked in the snow while playing the bagpipes. His blatant amazement stirred unexpected resentment and chagrin.
“Ye dinna have to teach me if ye dinna want to.” She wasn’t exactly keen to learn to skin the animals in any event. Nevertheless, for some unfathomable reason, she wanted him to understand she wasn’t cosseted or pampered. Wishing to steer the conversation in another direction, she said, “I assume ye snared them?”
“Aye.”
“I’d like to learn how to set a snare, too.” And with that imprudent candidness, she’d trod right back into the quagmire.
He placed the hares on the floor and still eyeing her curiously, also set aside his sword and dirk. Befuddlement reshaping his countenance and three lines creasing his forehead, he shook his head slowly. “I think perhaps, Miss Emeline LeClaire, ye’re the most unique woman I’ve ever met.”
Not altogether certain he’d meant the observation as a compliment, she pinched her lips together. “Why, because I asked ye to teach me to clean the hares?” She hitched a shoulder, feigning a nonchalance she was far from feeling. “Honestly, I think it’s a skill that I might have use of someday. One never kens what life might throw at ye”
Hadn’t they seen that firsthand yesterday? And today as well?
His eyebrows scuttled higher as he settled himself into the chair opposite her. “Forgive me for bein’ obtuse, but I canna imagine the need ever arisin’.”
Because she wasn’t quite a lady of station, but neither was she a farmer’s wife required to kill and pluck her own chickens? He didn’t know that though. Stifling the terse retort tapping her teeth, Emeline turned her attention to breaking their fast.
She had no quarrel with him. She was grateful for all he’d done for her. It wasn’t his fault she found herself in this impossible situation. He’d been all that was gallant. If he believed the chore too distasteful for her to learn, then she wasn’t going to kick up a fuss about it.
After using a cloth to bring the porridge and tea kettle to the table, she settled into a chair, her hands on either side of her bowl. She was famished, not having eaten since yesterday morning.
“Never mind. It was a foolish thing to ask,” she said, dropping her gaze.
Liam placed one hand over hers, giving her fingers a minute squeeze. He then turned her hand over and traced his forefinger over the pads. A jolt of sensual awareness traveled from her palm up her forearm to her shoulder, and heat blossomed across her chest before hurtling up her neck and face.
A simple, innocent touch. Tantalizing. Tempting.
The inarguable physical attraction to him bewildered and alarmed her. No man had ever set her, sensible and reticent Emeline LeClaire’s, pulse to cavorting. This wasn’t wise. He was married. They were unchaperoned.
Her heightened senses were due to the scare she’d suffered yesterday. The primitive need to survive. Wasn’t it normal for people thrust into dire circumstances together to form a connection? A bond borne of forced company? It didn’t mean it accounted for anything.
With his next words, all of her rational arguments scattered like thistledown in a gale.
“Ye’re a gentlewoman. These soft hands are no’ meant for menial labor, lass. Neither are they meant to be covered with blood and gore.” He slanted his arresting blue gaze to the now empty clothes line. “Ye were wearin’ gloves yesterday. Women who skin hares and set snares dinna even own a pair of gloves.”
The last held a measure of steel and censure, and she wasn’t altogether certain he still spoke about her. Nonetheless, smothering a barbed response, she snatched her hands away as if scorched. Scowling, she lifted her forearms and spread her fingers.
“These hands are for whatever I need to do to survive, Baron.” She speared him a reproving glare, not quite understanding why his words had angered her. “I’ve been sewin’ with these hands since I could hold a needle at the age of five. I kept my aunt’s house, cooked for us, ordered her supplies, and maintained the books for her business. True, I’ve no’ done much menial labor, but I am no’ above soilin’ these hands. My life has been neither easy nor pampered, and after the events of yesterday, I have nae doubt it has become vastly more difficult.”
“Emeline, I meant nae offense.” He looked taken aback, and a hint of remorse turned his firm mouth downward.
A mouth she very much would like to kiss. That realization shocked and thrilled.
“Didna ye?” she said, spooning porridge into his bowl then hers with short, terse movements.
“Nae, and I beg yer pardon.” He sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I only meant ye dinna have to lower yerself to such a task. ’Tis nae pleasant, even for a seasoned hunter such as me.” He accepted the cup of tea she shoved his way then pointed a thumb over his shoulder.
She tracked her attention to the hares before quickly looking away.
“I saw the way ye looked at the wee things,” he said. “Ye’ve a soft heart, and there’s nothin’ wrong with that. Ye’ve been through a terrible trauma. I’d no’ add teachin’ ye how to skin and clean an animal to yer burden right now.”
Despite her stern admonishments, she felt her ire and humiliation melting away. She could almost believe him genuinely concerned.
Imprudent warmth bloomed in her heart.
“Ye need time to heal.” He winked, and her heart stopped for a full beat. “At Eytone Hall if ye’re still of a mind to learn, I’ll teach ye.”
Chapter Four
Liam ran a hand over his beard. Of late, he’d actually contemplated shaving it off. Kristin had despised facial hair, and after she’d scarred his face, he’d grown the beard, partially to conceal the scar, but primarily to rile her.
With deliberate intent, he shoved thoughts of his unhappy, dead wife aside. She’d haunted his dreams and memories long enough. From beneath half-closed eyes, he watched Emeline pick at her breakfast.
What in the name of the wee man had possessed him to tell her she wasn’t meant for menial tasks? He’d sounded like an arrogant, condescending arse. Anyone with eyes in their head could see she wasn’t a pampered lass in manner or appearance.
The color still high on her cheeks, and what he suspected was hurt shimmering in those gorgeous big doe eyes of hers, she gave a slight shake of her dark head. “Let’s no’ argue. Ye’re right. I dinna want to perform the task. I just wanted to show that I was capable and have nae need to be waited upon.”
Lifting the cup, he took an appreciative sip while studying her. Why did she feel a need to prove herself? He hadn’t paid her much mind at Kennedy’s gathering, but from what he had observed, she appeared timid and retiring.