The Making of a Highlander (Midnight in Scotland #1) - Elisa Braden Page 0,80
aching. Everything was aching. “English,” she said louder.
His head turned. They locked eyes. He blinked then fixed upon her. Brilliant hazel began to glow. “Annie?”
She nodded.
Slowly, he came toward her, swimming through deeper water with strong strokes then standing. And rising. And—oh, dear heaven—all he wore were drawers. Probably Cleghorn’s finest linen. The kind one could see through when it was wet. Which it was. Very wet.
She tried to breathe. Then tried to look away. Then decided that was foolish, as he was not bothering to hide anything. So, she looked. And gasped. And wondered whether a caber that size made riding more difficult.
“Enjoying the view, are you?”
Aye, that she was. When she finally forced her gaze up to his face, he was grinning. No modesty, no shyness, no hesitation. He behaved as if he stood mostly-naked before lasses every day of his life.
Arrogant, seductive Englishman.
“I—I brought ye somethin’.”
He glanced down at himself as he retrieved his trousers and shirt from a pile on the bank. “Likewise.”
Heat flooded her cheeks. Her entire face prickled like it had been stung by midges. “A gift, ye devil. I brought ye a gift.”
His grin was a wicked taunt. “Your gifts are most welcome.” He eyed her breasts and ran a hand through his hair before shrugging on his shirt. When he pulled on his trousers, a wee little part of her mourned.
“I’m nae talkin’ about my bosoms.”
“Pity.”
“I made ye somethin’.”
“Bread?”
“No.”
He strode closer, taking his time, looking at her like she was his favorite meal. “Butter?”
She blushed harder. “No.”
He stopped a breath away, both hot and watery-cool. “Honey?”
“God, English.”
“I missed you.”
“Ye saw me yesterday.”
His smile was the most riveting, sensual thing she’d ever seen. “Too long,” he rasped. “Where’s your chaperone, love?”
“She’s wanderin’ about collectin’ herbs and such.”
“Have I ever mentioned how much I like Mrs. MacBean?”
Annie snorted. “Well, she likes ye back, that’s for certain.”
He cast a glance around them before crowding close and lowering his head. “How long do I have?”
She swallowed. “An hour or so.” Heavens, his mouth was close. And so, so tempting. “But I must … I must give ye yer gift.”
He sighed and stroked a knuckle gently down the side of her neck. Shivers shook her. “Very well,” he said, nose flaring. “What did you bring?”
She closed her eyes and rested her free hand on his chest. He felt damp and hot and hard. Gathering her strength, she stepped back and held out her package.
He quirked a puzzled smile before unwrapping the brown canvas she’d used for covering. Inside, the blue-and-green tartan lay folded neatly beneath a handsome belt she’d asked Rannoch to purchase for her in Edinburgh. He had an eye for fine leather goods. Angus had helped choose the sporran, of course, which was black with silver trim and white fur tassels. It was embossed with a proud stag’s head that resembled the one from Glendasheen Castle’s new windows. Campbell had selected a dirk with a similar design etched on the blade, and Alexander had fashioned a sgian-dubh with a stag’s antler handle.
The kilt itself was entirely Annie’s creation. She’d agonized over every stitch. She’d sized it from memory, picturing her Englishman over and over as she’d measured the wool and sewn the pleats. She only hoped it fit properly. And that he liked it. And that he would say something.
Instead, he stared at the items as though he didn’t know what to do with them.
“’Tis a kilt,” she said helpfully.
He blew out a breath. Nodded. Ran a hand over his jaw.
Oh, blast. Did he hate it? He must hate it.
“Ye—ye’ll need one if ye still wish to compete. In the Glenscannadoo Games, I mean.” Her stomach sank when he wouldn’t even look at her. “It doesnae have to be this one, of course. I only thought ye might—”
His hand cupped her nape and brought her mouth up to his. The kiss was a fierce claiming rather than the gentle caresses or the sensual seduction of their past encounters. By the time he finished with her, she was reduced to little more than butter and honey and desire.
“I love it,” he panted against her lips.
“Ye do?”
“It’s the best gift anyone’s ever given me, Annie.”
She grinned like a pure dafty. “Aye? Well, let’s put it