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Her brows knit into a frown. “I don’t race about like a dog. ”
“Then how do you herd them?” he asked, trying his damndest to look serious.
She wrung her hands. Poor chit appeared to be summoning all her dignity, which was a tall order considering the ring of muck about her skirts. “I … whistle. ”
He couldn’t help it any longer. He let free a broad smile. “You whistle?”
“Aye. I whistle. ”
“Luvvie, I’d pay my last bob to hear you whistle. ”
Her answering shrug was meek, but the smile in her eyes wasn’t, and it brightened her, transforming those delicate features into something luminous and deep. She shuttered herself just as quickly, but not before Aidan had spotted it: like him, this Elspeth was more than she pretended to be.
Days later she found them: a pair of shears, sharp, shining, and new, nestled atop the paddock gate, with only a blue ribbon tied in a neat bow to tell Elspeth they were a gift meant for her.
Chapter 8
They’d had nearly a dozen lessons, and each had meant a visit from Aidan to her family farm. Elspeth treasured each one, waking early on days she expected him, getting well on top of her chores so that she could spend more time watching him by the sheep pasture.
And watch was all she could do, for he truly was doing a man’s work, cordoning off proper pastureland and building a low stone wall to fence it in.
Their old paddock, originally built for a pair of ponies now long gone, had been a good way to keep their few cattle penned and safe from reivers. But Aidan claimed it wasn’t large enough to accommodate twenty head of sheep. He said if the beasts could roam, they’d give better milk.
Elspeth didn’t care a whit either way. All she knew was it meant Aidan showed up to haul fence stones, and that she got to watch him.
Not that his magnificent physical presence was all she appreciated about him, though his taut, sweaty maleness was a shock indeed to her body. But more than that, more than his roguish appeal, and even more than what she liked to think of as his unexpected moments of thoughtfulness, she’d been taken aback by just how bright Aidan was.
And it wasn’t just that he knew about farms and could speak with authority on the tending of sheep—though how reassuring it was to have a man speak with confidence on things about which she felt so at sea. It was that he was not merely world-wise, but quick too, with a sharp wit and ready understanding. It was clear in his words, in the way he expressed his thoughts.
He was a torch that burned brightly, but crudely yet, like a great, unruly blast of flame, his mind ablaze with opinions and questions that, though he didn’t always give them voice, she could read in his eyes.
She’d spent the past hour dithering about what excuse she could devise that’d bring her out of the house to see him down at the pasture. As she dabbed a fine sheen of sweat from her brow, it hit her. It was an unusually warm day, with no wind to cool the bright sun, and the man would be thirsty.
The shade of their tiny cottage had cooled the morning’s milk, and before she could change her mind, she filled their best pewter cup and set out to find him.
The sight of him stole her breath, as it always did. Stole her breath, and broke her heart. He hauled the heavy rocks with such ease, placing them with the skill of experience, and the overly masculine display set her heart tripping. But it was heartbreaking too, to think how he’d come by that experience, how he’d earned the thick cut of those muscles on his arms and torso.
He must’ve sensed her there, standing across the glen, because he looked up. Shading his eyes, he gave her a mute nod. Even from the distance, she saw the exertion writ plain on his body.
The day was uncharacteristically clear, with no clouds to shield the sun. Aidan wore his plaid, which must’ve felt like a blanket around him, and his linen shirt was soaked through with sweat.
He nestled a stone into place, and using a sleeve to wipe his brow, he came and met her halfway. She watched his stride, so powerful and sure. Was this how he’d looked aboard ship? She imagined his mouth curling into a cocky grin. He’d call out to his men, and with a nimble leap, would race up the rigging as graceful as a cat.
She blinked hard to clear the image from her head.
As he got closer, she saw he really was soaked through with sweat. Even so, he refused to take his shirt off like other farmhands she’d seen.
The tropics had turned him a burnished brown. She’d tried and not been able to find any end to that tanned skin through the V of his collar. Did that mean he’d shucked his shirt while he worked?
And yet here he was, the fringe of his brown hair slicked black with sweat, and he hadn’t even pushed up his sleeves. Why would he choose to stay covered in such heat?
Was it because he was branded? She’d heard rumors he had been, and fretted over where the mark might be and what it might look like. Were they initials? An image? Was it on his buttocks, or chest, or back? The thought of him undergoing such suffering chilled her.
The cup was warming in her hand, and she cursed her foolishness. She’d brought him milk when what he really needed was water, and an entire bucketful at that.
“I’m glad you’ve come,” he said, reaching her.
“You are?” Her heart swooned.
