In Scot Water - Caroline Lee Page 0,28
most of the weather, and the device would be lighter. In fact, with the leather doing the work against the rain, ye could have fewer slats—mayhap as few as four or six.”
Malcolm gaped at her.
When she noticed, she immediately drew her hand back, her fingers curling into a fist against her stomach. “I’m sorry. I should no’ have—”
“Nay!” he interrupted, then blinked and shook his head. “Nay,” he repeated softer, and turned to look at the sketch once more. “This is…this could work.” He drew a few more lines. “The oiled leather is brilliant, Evie. ‘Twould need to be maintained—”
“ ’Twould be simple though,” she offered shyly.
He shot her a smile. “This solves both problems.”
Impulsively, he reached for her hand, and stood. She had to back up a step to allow him space, but he was content to be so close to her, their clasped hands between them.
“Evie, ye are brilliant. Ye grasped the problems in the design right away.”
She flushed—in embarrassment, or pleasure?—and dropped her gaze to his chin. “ ’Twas no’ so complex,” she whispered.
“Nay, but ye understood, and…” It was hard to explain. But when he squeezed her hand, she met his eyes once more. “Evie, my whole life, I’ve been teased—and worse!—for my sketches. My inventions, which might never be made. My family appreciates my ideas, I ken, but none of them truly understand them.” Ducking his chin, he held her gaze, hoping she realized how serious he was. “Ye did.”
She’d not only grasped his design in a moment, and understood his intention and the problems, but had improved upon it, instead of mocking him.
She was the only person he’d ever known like that. She was the only woman who not only understood, but cared.
“Ye have a brilliant mind, Malcolm,” she whispered, staring up at him. “Thank ye for taking the time to teach my son.”
Our son.
He wanted to correct her. To tell her in a few short days, Liam had worked his way into Malcolm’s heart as surely as Evie herself had.
Instead, he kissed her.
Kissed her until her arm snaked around his neck, kissed her until she moaned against his tongue. Kissed her until she melted against him and he had to brace his arse against the sandy table to keep them both upright.
By St. Thomas’s blessed kidneys, she felt good!
She felt…perfect.
The rain had become a dull sort of background noise.
Tonight though, Evelinde could hear the roar of the burn in the not-quite-distance. As soon as she’d seen the home Robert had built, she’d known there could be problems, but they’d never experienced this much rain before. Now he was gone, and she was here alone with his sons, and she would have to do something soon to keep them safe.
Nay, not quite alone.
Very much not alone, actually.
As she climbed down from the loft where she’d just kissed a sleeping Liam goodnight, her eyes drifted to the door. Earlier, Malcolm had grabbed her cake of soap and ducked outside, leaving his kilt hanging on the peg by the door. Any moment he’d be back, and her heart was pounding in anticipation.
That kiss they’d shared earlier had done naught more than whet her appetite. She remembered the bliss she’d found in his arms, and the aching, wanting sensation she’d been left with. He hadn’t found his own release, hadn’t even mentioned it. But she wanted him to. She wanted to be the one who helped him find it.
She wanted him to use her body the way she’d used him?
Nay. Nay, ‘twas more than that. He was kind and gentle and kissed her like he cared for her. And she was most certainly coming to care for him.
She wanted Malcolm, because he was Malcolm.
And because he made her body sing.
Since he hadn’t yet returned, she hurried through her evening ablutions. She’d only known the man three nights, but could no longer stand to sleep apart from him. Tonight, she’d invite him to her bed.
That kiss had sealed their fates. That, and how perfectly wonderful he’d been while teaching Liam that afternoon. And after dinner—now that the sausage was gone, they were reduced to eating oatcakes again—while she’d cleaned, he’d held wee Tomas. She didn’t think she’d ever forget the way he’d looked, his bare feet propped against the hearth, the bairn straddling his thighs while he held the lad under his arms and bounced him about, humming a tune she’d heard Father Ambrose sing at Mass.
Her son had chortled in happiness, reaching for the stubble on Malcolm’s