“Here in Scotland, ’tis a bit different. Ye’ll see the other girls letting their hair down once the day’s work is finished.”
Ula took only a small amount of her hair at the front and made thin braids of it that she looped around her head and tied at the back. The style kept her hair out of her eyes while the length of it still flowed down her back to her waist.
“Come on now.”
Ula didn’t give her a chance to protest being seen with her hair loose. The housekeeper grasped her hand and pulled her out of the bathhouse. Jemma fought the urge to giggle because it had been a long time since she had played about with her hair flowing behind her. It brought back memories of spring festival and dancing on the green when her father had been ruby cheeked and jovial.
“Well now, lass, yer a right agreeable sight.”
Jemma gasped and pulled her hand away from Ula. The housekeeper didn’t resist the motion; in fact, Ula released her hand and stepped behind her in one motion. Ula dropped a quick curtsy to her laird before the woman disappeared in a flip of her wool skirts. A tingle crossed Jemma’s nape again, but this time it was much more intense. Facing Gordon Dwyre instead of just her recollections of the man was to blame.
He was more imposing than her memory recounted. Too large for her comfort, because for some reason she was fixated by his broad shoulders and the fact that her head only reached his chin.
His dark-blue eyes moved to her hair, tracing the unbraided mass and flickering with something that looked like enjoyment.
“A right agreeable sight to greet a man indeed.”
“I didn’t dress for you.” But she liked the look in his eyes. Liked it too much really, for it sent a flicker of excitement through her, and the sensation was unsettling.
He shrugged, and the ends of his shoulder-length hair left tiny wet spots on his shirt. She looked closer to notice that he must have just bathed, too, because his hair glistened with water and he wore only a shirt with his kilt. The cuffs of that shirt were rolled up past his elbows, displaying hands and forearms that were clean and without a streak of dust.
“Well, I’ll be enjoying it all the same, lass. I’ve never been a man to pass up something I like because it was not intended for me.”
“I wouldn’t say that, exactly.” The words were past her lips before she considered whether or not it was wise to confess her inner feelings to him.
“What would ye say then, lass?”
There was a hint of challenge in his voice that pricked her pride. Jemma raised her chin and returned his stare without flinching.
“I would say that your housekeeper took delight in preparing me for you as though I was some sort of... of —”
“Gift?” His lips curved up in a mocking grin.
Jemma pressed her lips together, refusing to rise to the bait he was dangling in front of her nose. He chuckled softly and moved closer to her, his gaze roaming over her hair once more. There was a flicker of something in his eyes that made her tremble. He reached out and touched a lock of her hair, his fingers making the briefest of contacts before she twisted away from him, hissing at herself for retreating but unable to conquer the urge to do so.
“I am not your gift.”
“So do nae touch ye? Is that what ye are saying, Jemma?” He moved back and considered her. “Ye enjoyed being touched this morning.”
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what, lass?”
“Bait me. Do you truly desire to bicker, or is it simply a way to outmaneuver me and gain what you wish without my true consent?” Jemma shot him a hard look. “Needle me until I slap at you, and then claim that touching me was my fault. Is that your game, Barras?”
He drew in a stiff breath and released it while he crossed his arms across his chest. The pose was intimidating, but Jemma refused to bend beneath his scrutiny.
“Many a lass has fallen to such tactics, but in truth I have placed a bit more polish on tonight.”
He turned and extended his arm behind him, where candles illuminated a table with their yellow glow. The table was set with silver dishes that sparkled with the candlelight, and a salt cellar held expensive white salt.
“I thought we might dine together.”
Her throat went dry once more as her suspicions with Ula proved true.
“Since I’ve made an offer to yer brother for ye, I believe it is proper enough for us to learn a wee bit more about one another.”
Someone cleared their throat behind her, and Jemma turned to see a line of musicians entering. She wasn’t even sure what chamber she was in, only that it was lovely with arches on the ceiling and windows that allowed a soft breeze to blow through the room. The musicians disappeared behind a wooden screen, and she could hear them sitting down. Music began to drift over the screen, soft melody constructed of mandolin strings and flutes, while the screen provided privacy.
It was a scene set for courting the most highborn lady. But in her deepest thoughts, she didn’t care for it. Gordon did not belong in the courtly setting. Disappointment actually rose up inside her for the stately manner in which he was conforming to society and its rules.
“Or I could send them away if ye prefer to continue as we began yesterday.”
