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He greeted her with a kiss. “I can’t make it through the day without you … the sight of you, like a cool stream, refreshes me. ”
She twined bold fingers through his hair. “And yet, you enflame me. You, a fire which cannot be doused. ”
“I’ve been mucking through sheep shit all day. The beasts need to spread out more. How far does your pasture reach?” He pointed away from their cottage into the distance. “Does your father own just the glen, or does he have rights to that hillside beyond?”
“Oh …” She followed his line of sight. “He … I … we maintain the house, down across the glen, just to the base of the hill. ”
He scowled. “It’s narrow, your valley. ”
She needed no reminders of how little she claimed in this world. “I know. ”
He turned to get back to work. Leaving too soon.
“I have milk,” she blurted. She stepped up behind him, and he almost knocked into her as he spun back around.
He stared at her cup as though she’d offered a mug of hemlock tea. Her cheeks burned hot, realizing she was a naive fool. A dangerous man like him—he was nearly a pirate, after all—was surely only interested in harder drink, like whiskey or rumbullion.
“It’s just I thought you must be thirsty. In this heat. ” Backing away from him, she stumbled on a clump of dirt, spilling some of the milk onto her hand.
Elspeth recovered her footing and masked her clumsiness by spinning and heading straight for the old paddock. It had the side benefit of concealing her furiously blushing face as she wiped spilled milk onto her skirts.
She felt him follow her, making her intensely conscious of her every move. They kept a barrel of rainwater outside the gate, and she busily retrieved the dipper. “We also have water. Unless you don’t drink water. ”
He reached beyond her, grabbing the dipper from her hand. “I drink water like any other man. ”
His voice had been brusque. Was he annoyed? Simply thirsty? She had no way to know.
She watched his throat work as he guzzled the water. It spilled from the corners of his mouth, dripping down his chin and onto his chest. Damp bloomed across his shirt, making it translucent. The fabric stuck to him, and she couldn’t pull her eyes from the carved muscle of his torso and the dark halo of hair leading from his chest down the line of his belly.
When he came up for air, their gazes caught. He looked like a wild man, a true rogue, dirty and panting, his sweaty hair skewed every which way. She’d never seen a more handsome man. Remembering herself, she closed her mouth and swallowed hard.
“That’s better,” he said.
For a split second, she thought he referred to the way she’d been gaping like a fish, but then realized he was merely referring to the drink. “Yes. It’s water. I mean, rainwater. It’s fresh rainwater. ” She cringed.
Something softened on his face, and pointing at the cup in her hand, he asked, “Might I really try that?”
“Oh. ” Nodding eagerly, she held out her cup. “Aye. ”
“I don’t remember the last time I tasted milk. As a boy, I didn’t think of it. Until I couldn’t have it. ” As he reached, his sleeve inched up to reveal a wide braid of skin, paler and smoother than the rest, wrapping around his wrist like a bracelet.
Or a shackle. She stifled her gasp with a fake cough.
Aidan was scarred. Of course he was. That was why he never pushed up his sleeves. What other atrocities did that thin layer of linen hide?
He brought the milk to his lips and, shutting his eyes, drank slowly, savoring it like he hadn’t the water. Finishing, his eyes opened, and he met hers with a smile. “All those years, all those sheep, and never a cup of milk. ”
Elspeth’s heart had been cracking since she’d first laid eyes on him, but those words marked the moment it broke for good. The sight of him relishing such a simple pleasure had her mourning the childhood he’d never known. One like hers, with ladlefuls of fresh milk, and innocently snatched apples, and rare sunny days in the glen, narrow though it may be.
She vowed to steal him an apple the first chance she got.
“Do they have apples?” she asked abruptly. “In the Indies, I mean. Did you eat apples?”
He gave her a puzzled look, but didn’t seem annoyed, and that struck her as a small triumph. “No, no apples. Cornmeal boiled with sheep scraps, salt bread, salt meat … not an apple in sight. ”
She ached for the chi
ld he’d been, living on cured meats and scraps. Glimpsing his scar had made her blood run cold. Had he been shackled as a child? Had he been in and out of shackles his whole life?
