The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,30

the meadow. “Start runnin’. But remember, it isnae speed ye’re after so much as a proper angle. Ye need thrust, English. Good, strong thrust.”

Bloody hell. His hands were sweating. Slipping. He wished he could blame the weight of the caber or the fatigue of his muscles. But it wasn’t that. It was her.

He started forward. The caber tilted. Began to overset.

“Now, English! Toss it now!”

Planting his feet and heaving the thing with all his might, he watched as it tumbled end-over-end before landing with a teetering thud.

At the three-o’clock position. It was supposed to land at twelve.

“Well, now, ye did fine, English. Just fine.” She huffed as she trotted over to stand beside him, her hands on her hips. Then, she patted his shoulder in a comforting fashion. “If distance were the aim, ye’d be a champion tosser.”

“Distance is not the aim.”

“No, indeed.”

Flexing his sore hands, he cursed. “It is harder than it looks.”

“Aye. Most things are.”

“What did I do wrong?”

She stroked his arm—short, soothing caresses of her fingers. “Nothin’ a thousand Scotsmen havenae done a thousand times. Dinnae fash.”

He frowned. He didn’t want to make the same mistakes other men made. He wanted to be better. Do better. Win. “Explain,” he demanded. “If you please.”

Sighing, she reached for his hand.

Her constant touching was a problem he didn’t know how to solve. He craved the pleasurable sensations she caused. Yet, he must maintain a proper distance if he wanted to keep his lust under control. Balancing the two urges was harder than landing a caber at twelve o’clock.

“When ye fight the weight of the wood,” she said, “all ye’ll do is lose. Instead, ye must use it to build the momentum ye need. It starts with yer grip.” She opened his fingers and demonstrated by clasping his hand. Then she tapped her knuckles against his midsection. “Dinnae hold the caber too high on yer body. No higher than yer navel, ye ken? Work with the weight, nae against it.” She tapped his shoulder next. “Position it here. Find which spot gives ye the most control. Betwixt these two muscles, perhaps, or against this bone.” Finally, she laid her hand on top of his shoulder blade, which, by necessity, meant her left breast brushed his ribs. “Ye’re grippin’ too tight at the beginnin’, which causes the caber to rise too high, which makes it a bit wobbly from the outset. When ye start yer run, ye’re wantin’ everything to go perfectly, but it doesnae, which means ye panic a bit and run too long. By the time ye toss the bugger, it’s tiltin’ every which way. So, ye add too much thrust at the wrong time, hopin’ to make up the difference. That’s why ye have no trouble with turnin’ it over but cannae control how it lands.”

She’d said much that was useful and helpful and wise. He knew that. But his head felt three feet thick.

“Are these errors solvable?” he asked.

“Aye. Mostly, ye must practice. That’s what everybody must do, even the MacPhersons. Practice until it feels like ye were born with a caber in yer wee fist.”

God, she smelled good. And she was so damned soft. And he loved the sound of her voice, with the trilling Rs and the long, rounded Os. He wanted to plant his shoulder in her belly, pick her up, and carry her off somewhere warm.

Perhaps he’d been in the Highlands too long. He was a civilized man, for God’s sake, not a barbarian.

“Och, ye’re hot as can be, English.” She squeezed his upper arm and patted him again, her fingers testing the hardness. “Get some rest. We’ll practice more tomorrow.”

Blast. She was right, but he didn’t want her to leave.

She pivoted and headed toward the boulder. “I left some stew for ye at the castle,” she tossed over her shoulder. “I noticed ye ate the bread already. I brought more loaves, but ye should hire a cook.”

Her voice might as well be the sound of the waterfall for all that he heard of it. His attention had riveted to her hips. The way they swayed with a captivating twitch. His blood pounded hot until he could feel it pulsing his skin.

She stripped off his coat and laid it across the rock. Her fingers traced the folds as though reluctant to leave it behind. “Perhaps I should have