Her eyes were still trained downward when Jason’s nice toes marched into her field of vision. She squinted up at him. “Where is the food you bought yesterday? I’ll be wanting a chitterin’ bite.”
“A what?”
“A chitterin’ bite. Do you not eat something after a swim, to keep from catching cold?”
“No.” He stared at her as though she’d left her head in the water. “Is that another of your Scottish superstitions?”
“It’s not a superstition—it’s a health precaution. And I don’t care for the way you say Scottish.”
He raised a brow. “Will an orange do?”
“Aye. Sweet is preferable to savory.”
“I will file that information.” He fetched an orange from the portmanteau and handed it to her. “You’ll have to wear the red dress,” he said, pulling it out as well. He draped it over the log, a jarring splash of crimson against the green of their forest surroundings.
“Nay.” Ignoring it, she bit into the bitter skin of the orange and began peeling. “I won’t wear that dress again.”
Ignoring her in turn, he shrugged out of his surcoat and took dry breeches from one of the leather bags.
“Crivvens!” She jumped up, scattering orange peel all over the ground. “You’re not going to undress right here, are you?”
“There’s nobody around. What would you have me do, ride around the countryside soaking wet?” In one single lithe motion, he pulled his shirt free from his waistband and off over his head. “And I can’t be the first fellow ever to undress in your presence—not when you’ve had children.”
A small part of Cait registered fury that he still imagined her a parent despite her firm denial; the rest was transfixed by the sight of Jason’s chest. Lightly defined muscles rippled beneath a sprinkling of silky black hair. She had seen men’s chests before—Da’s, Adam’s, Cameron’s. But never a stranger’s.
And most certainly not a stranger who looked like Jason.
When he started unlacing his breeches, she made a strangled noise and spun away. “I’d rather not have to watch.” Her heart was beating fast from rage—and something else. “Indulge me in my false pretense of innocence,” she added sarcastically, moving away.
His laughter followed her. “Come back and take the red dress. I won’t have your skirt drenching my nice dry clothes as we ride.”
The skirt in question was dripping on her nice dry shoes and stockings. In disgust she turned back and snatched the red gown from the log.
“Here,” he said, digging in the portmanteau. “You’ll be needing this as well.” He held out the sheer chemise that had come with the dress.
Instead of arguing, she took it, though she had no intention of wearing it. Plunking the half-peeled orange on the log, she made her way through the trees, far enough that she was sure he couldn’t see her. She checked thoroughly for boars before ripping at the laces of her soggy bodice.
Goose bumps sprang up on her skin as she undressed. From cold, or confusion? This vexatious and misguided Englishman couldn’t even take her word on her own name…but he never hesitated to come to her rescue. He was overbearing and rigid…yet oddly compassionate and honorable in his way. And though she’d never been as angry with anyone in her life—the arrogant cur regarded the exploits of her womb a matter for his opinion?—his slightest touch sent her heart to racing.
That last point didn’t bear thinking about. Her current predicament only confirmed that she didn’t want to be with Jason or any other man. She wanted to find Adam and get back to Leslie where she belonged.
She realized she’d been wrong in her assessment of men, however: they weren’t all the same.
They were each oppressive in their own, uniquely awful way.
And Jason was right, curse him—her shift was entirely too soaked to wear beneath the dress this time. Handling the indecent chemise with distaste, she dropped it over her head and yanked the garment into place. Its gossamer fabric might as well be air for all the concealment it offered. She stepped into the gown, laced it up, and attached the stomacher with fumbling fingers. Covering her low neckline with both hands, she made her way back to the streambank.
She was sure her cheeks were as red as the gown.
Thankfully, Jason was fully clothed. But when his gaze trailed from her burning face to her hands splayed on her chest, he burst out laughing.
He noticed the murderous look on her face rather quickly. “Sorry,” he said, digging in his pocket and pulling out a handkerchief. “Here.”
She only looked at it.
“To fill in the neckline.”
“Oh. My thanks,” she mumbled, and shoved the cloth down the front of the dress, tucking it in as best she could. It felt like a peace offering. She reached for the orange. “You should have a chitterin’ bite as well.”
“Why? So I won’t catch cold?”
“Aye.” She sat on the log and divided the fruit, handing him half. “So you won’t catch cold.
He stuffed a section into his mouth and dug out some fresh stockings before joining her on the log. “I thank you for your concern,” he said. “I was under the impression you’d just as soon I caught consumption and died.”
Wheesht, what a thing to say!
How had she ever thought she could make friends with him?
“Not until you get me to London,” she snapped.
THIRTY-SIX
AN HOUR LATER, Caithren dismounted at the Haycock Hotel and followed Jason into a charming courtyard with stone archways and mullioned windows. “A hat?”
“Yes, a hat. While you were busy provoking the boar, I checked on the map, and this is the only sizable village between here and Stilton. Should we ride all that way on a day like today with but a single hat between us, one of us will end up sunburned and suffering.” He nodded at his hat, which was perched atop her plaits. “I’d as soon it not be me, though common decency dictates it will be.”
“Oh.” She slowly drew off the hat and held it
