Court was nonchalant with her, concealing the fact that nothing chapped him as much as Annalía giving him orders. She did it because she believed herself above him. He found it intolerable that she still looked down her little nose at him, that she still perceived him as a lowly Scot.
He wondered if there was ever a worse situation than desiring a woman who didn't even consider you a man. Because she was meant for better. Wasn't that what she'd said?
If she would simply ask him for something…Even as he considered it, the possibility made him distinctly uneasy. He'd discovered in the last couple of days that he wanted to be able to provide her with things she needed or desired. If she figured out how badly he wanted that, and that the only thing stopping him was her inability to ask, she would be merciless.
Once they'd arrived at the town's inn and he was securing a room, she said, 'Perhaps we should have two rooms. I'm sure they have more than one and I'm recovered enough that—'
'No.'
She raised her eyebrows at his tone.
'This place isn't protected.' Everything about the inn that he saw as a liability she loved. The windows in their room were big and opened wide to a balcony. He didn't like balconies, especially not when thick, cloaking vines grew all along them.
But the desk in their room he could use. He called down for paper and ink.
'Are we going to write my brother?' She knelt atop the chair giving him an excited smile. 'And send it to The Vines?'
The chit had a smile that made poor misbegotten bastards like him want to see it again. He shook himself. 'Aye. I'm going to write directions in Gaelic, and I want you to copy them in your own handwriting.'
'Why?'
'They'll probably have a dictionary at the school, and if no' they'll be able to lay hands on one. Any Rechazado who might intercept this will no'. It must be in your handwriting, so he'll trust it.' After the maid brought writing supplies, he scratched out a missive, then watched as she nibbled her lip, struggling to decipher his handwriting and copy it. 'This is the oddest language I've ever seen.'
He gave her an incredulous look. 'You were bloody studying Greek.'
'Oh, that's right, you were in my room. Did you enjoy my things?'
'Aye,' he answered shamelessly. 'I did when I slept in your soft bed.'
She glanced down, blushing, then quickly said, 'Did you see all my clothes?'
He almost grinned at her segue. 'Forget it.'
'I don't understand why you are being so difficult.'
'You doona need to be out on the streets.'
'But you will keep me safe,' she answered, as though he'd uttered something foolish.
He strode for the door. 'No, you need to rest. I'll have a bath sent up and wait outside till you're done.'
Just as he had his hand on the door handle, she said, 'MacCarrick, would you please buy me just a few new garments?'
He froze. Christ, she'd actually done it. This was the beginning of the end.
She stood and lightly touched his elbow, an unnecessarily cruel and unfair tactic. 'I can repay you.'
He closed his eyes. He'd just have to deny her. Or put a price on them she wouldn't want to pay. He turned with a lecherous look. 'Lass, you ken they will no' come cheaply.'
No angry words, no scathing retorts. 'I also now know you won't take advantage of a girl under your protection with no money and no family here to care for her.'
He bit out a harsh curse under his breath. 'Do you no' need to rest?'
'Dresses, MacCarrick,' she reminded him gently.
Once the seamstress had finished up a quick hem on her new skirt and the vivacious shopkeeper had packed her purchases, Annalía crossed to the front of the store, where MacCarrick prowled outside, pacing back and forth, and called him inside to pay.
When he entered, he went no further than the tight doorway, standing there with her as he surveyed her simple blouse and skirt. He stared at her face and her breasts and all the way down and up again, unhurriedly. This wasn't the first time he'd examined her so rudely, but this time his lingering gaze didn't infuriate her. This time, it felt like a touch.
The shopkeeper murmured, 'I envy you the night you're going to have.'
MacCarrick must have heard her because he turned away from Annalía with a cough into his fist. But what kind of night did his look promise? Why would the pretty woman envy her that?
Both the shopkeeper and the seamstress had told Annalía she was lucky to have such a 'handsome Scot.' The seamstress had added, 'Scottish men are such lusty devils!' as if this were a good trait.
When MacCarrick went to the counter to pay, the shopkeeper bent forward to present the bill—and her cleavage—to him. If Annalía hadn't been here with him, would he have kissed the eager woman? Taken her into what would've been solely his room and bedded her? What an unusual, infuriating thought. She sauntered up to him, then took his arm, giving the woman a glare. She winked at Annalía.
The French!
On their way back to the inn, she was acutely aware of every woman who sneaked a glance at him. She'd never seen him around women like this and didn't like it, even though he seemed oblivious.
When in Paris, she'd seen gloriously handsome men walking by, and though she didn't sigh out loud like her girlfriends, she'd noted them appreciatively, but the looks these women gave MacCarrick were more sensual, more lascivious.
More…knowledgeable? They knew something about him that she didn't, which was maddening. So she kept his arm, and he didn't seem to mind. When she pointed out something and accidentally brushed him with her breasts, he hissed in a breath. His reaction to such a small touch was surprising and thrilling. She would make sure she did it often.
Now she gazed up at him, studying him as they walked along. He was exceedingly tall and broad shouldered. Of course, she'd known he dwarfed most men, but she'd always found his size intimidating, not attractive as other women seemed to see it. Though to be honest, there were things she did find attractive about him, now that she could look at him without…blinding hatred.
He had incredible eyes. Black like jet, but now she noticed they were flecked with silver. His face was hard, with rough features, but when these were put together, it was attractive, if one liked brooding and scarred. His hair was black as his eyes, and thick. She liked that, too.
She found herself asking, 'MacCarrick, why did you become a mercenary?'
He scowled at her question. 'What does it matter?'
'I'm curious about you,' she said. When he didn't answer, she added, 'I will answer any question you have, if you answer this one.' No response.
She squeezed his arm, and he finally said, 'Highland regiments were returning from far-off places talking about the money to be made abroad. After their service, some of the soldiers signed on with a foreign crew, and I joined them.'
'It didn't bother you? Killing for money?'
He tensed and grated, 'That's a second question.'
'Then ask yours.'
He pulled her into a shaded area and put his fingers under her chin. 'Do you think about the night I kissed you in the study?'
She could feel her face heating.
'Do you?' he asked again.
'I might from time to time,' she said, striving for an airy tone. 'It was my first kiss.'
'And when I touched you at the posting house? Do you think about that when you stare out the coach window?'
Her lips parted. How did he see so much? 'MacCarrick,' she began in a steady voice, though she felt anything but, 'that's a second question.'
'So it is.' He shocked her by brushing the backs of his fingers across her cheek before taking her arm again. 'But I have my answer now.'
