Ann Lethbridge - Regency Proposal

‘If we hadn’t been seen, I’d risk it, but they might come back once they catch Beau.’

They would have to make do without heat, then. They had one blanket between them. Sadly, the other had gone with the horse. Although he did have his kilt, which had dried over the course of the day.

‘Why did your family abandon the still?’

He grimaced. ‘The gaugers get wind of them and destroy them. See, the kettle’s been split with a hammer.’

She stared at the odd-shaped stove. ‘How does it work?’

‘This metal kettle here is a wash still, and when it is heated up over the peat fire, the steam containing the alcohol passes up the chimney and then down the worm, the coiled pipe there, and into a spirit still. All that’s left here is the first part of the process. Father used to prepare the mash in a local farmer’s barn and then bring it up here to turn it into whisky. Good whisky, too. We’ve a dram or two left in our cellars.’

There was pride in his voice. Over illegal whisky. It was a world in which she was a foreigner. The thought made her feel rather dismal.

‘We should eat now, while we can still see.’ He glanced upwards and she became aware of just how much the light had faded.

He unwrapped the bannocks and handed her one. They were surprisingly tasty. Or was she so hungry that anything would have tasted good? There were six altogether. She ate two. When he had wolfed down three of them he eyed the one remaining. ‘Do you want it?’

‘Oh, no,’ she said lightly. ‘I couldn’t eat another bite. You finish it.’

He didn’t speak.

She looked up to see him watching her. It was hard to fathom his expression, his eyes looked so dark. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Why do you do that?’

‘Do what?’

‘Lie to me in that stupid little voice. Eat the bannock.’

She flashed hot. ‘You need it more than I do.’

‘Right, and I am the kind of man who takes the food out of the mouths of women and children.’ He stood up and bent to rake around in the rubbish in the corner. A grunt of satisfaction told her he’d found what he was looking for. When he stood up, she saw he had an old and bent metal pot in his hand. She couldn’t understand why he looked so pleased.

He must have sensed her puzzlement. ‘I recall using it the last time I was here. If it had been gone, we would have had to use the flask for water.’

‘And thrown out the whisky,’ she said.

‘Never.’

‘You’d rather do without water, than waste the whisky. I should have guessed.’

‘ Uisge-beatha , lass. The water of life.’

She watched him leave, a smile on her lips, then tackled the last of the bannocks.

By the time he returned with water, their dwelling was pitch black and a chill permeated the air. Perched on the stool, wrapped in her blanket, she really wished they could light a fire. She forced her teeth not to chatter, though stilling her shivers was harder.

The sound of Ian’s breathing filled the small space. She sensed him fumble around, heard the clang of metal on rock and guessed he’d set down the pan of water. ‘I’d forgotten how dark the night can be out here,’ he muttered.

And how cold, she wanted to add. She shivered. ‘Are you sure we can’t light a fire?’

He hesitated, then sighed. ‘It would be a mistake. I think we can light one of the candles, though. Its flame is too small to be seen at any great distance.’

The sound of steel striking against flint only made her think more of warm fires. Yet when the wick caught and the small light flared, putting shadows in the corners of their small den, it did seem a bit warmer.

Then she noticed his grimace and the way he flexed his left hand.

She got up from the stool. It was a rickety old thing and did not sit flat on the ground, but it was all they had. ‘Sit down and let me look at your arm.’

‘Getting a little bossy, aren’t you?’

‘Sit.’

He sat.

She took a deep breath. ‘Perhaps you should take off your jacket, so we can see how bad the wound really is. It won’t help us if you become ill.’

‘Aye, I suppose you are right.’

‘I wish we had some basilica powders.’

Looking surprised, he eased first one arm out of his coat and then, wincing, drew it slowly off the other arm. The fabric was dark with blood.

She gasped. Her stomach rolled. The blood seemed to drain from her head and the small space spun around. His coat had hidden the extent of the wound.

‘Oh, Ian,’ she whispered, ‘you need a doctor.’

‘It is not as bad as it looks,’ he said through gritted teeth as he pulled the fabric away from the wound. He cursed softly.

Throat dry, she swallowed. ‘We should clean it.’

Looking up, he raised a brow. His eyes gleamed with amusement. ‘We?’

She took a deep steadying breath. ‘Me, then. Look, it is bleeding again. Take off your shirt.’

Now he really looked surprised. ‘All right.’ He fumbled at his collar with his good hand.

She brushed his hand away. ‘Let me.’ Standing this close to him, with the light coming down from above making every sinew and bone as sharp and clear as a portrait as each breath expanded and contracted his chest, she could feel his warmth against her skin. Unnerved, she felt her hands tremble. Indeed, her very bones shook with a force she couldn’t quite grasp. When she breathed in to steady herself, it was like breathing in his air, his essence.

A shock jolted through her. How could that be?

It couldn’t. She was being stupid, just as she had been as a girl. In real life, they stood on the opposite sides of a line drawn on a map.

She forced the inappropriate sensations aside. The man was hurt and patiently waiting without complaint with his chin raised for her to undo the darned knot.

It came free and she cast the cloth aside and went to work on the buttons. Undressing a man—never in her life had she done anything so daring.

The collar fell open with each button she freed from its mooring, slowly revealing the hollow of his strong throat, his collar bones, a wedge of chest lightly furred with dark crisp curls that brushed against her knuckles as she released the final fastening, enticing to her fingertips and her gaze.

Such feelings led in only one direction. Down a path that would do her no good.

She let her hands fall to her side and stepped back. She glanced up to find his gaze fixed on her face. Intense. Heated. He was breathing faster than before.

He also felt desire.

It hung between them, hot and heavy. Terrifying. With effort she made a small gesture with her hand. ‘You should be able to take your shirt off now.’

The fire deep in the blue of his eyes flared, then died.

‘Aye. I can do that.’ He pulled the shirttails free and with his good arm pulled the shirt off over his head, unveiling the body of a Norse god she’d only dared to peek at in the sea cave.

The muscles of his arms were carved and hard, his chest vast and sculpted beneath its smattering of hair. In the face of such magnificence, breathing was nearly out of the question.

But breathe she must. ‘Hold out your arm.’

She knelt close to his knee. He held his arm steady with his other hand, bending his head to look at the wound.

Their foreheads collided.

A nervous giggle escaped her lips. Heat fired her face. The schoolgirl was back. She felt giddy, and not from the sight of his blood.

He grunted. ‘It doesn’t look too bad.’

‘I can’t see.’

He leaned sideways.

A nasty gash scored his arm. Bile rose in her throat.

She swallowed it down. ‘You are right, it seems to be nothing more than a flesh wound.’ She controlled a shudder. ‘I will clean it and bind it.’