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“And leave you to work until you’re dead on your feet?”
He himself had toiled all day on the rebuilding of Caitlin’s cottage. Certainly, he would be tired, too.
Moira stifled a sigh, summoning patience to deal with the overbearing laird. “I’ve been doing it since my late teen years. I’m quite used to it.”
His hand extended to take the jar and replace it with the pencil, clearly with the intention of counting the preserves while she took note.
For a while, they worked in silence, though her insides were anything but. His presence and the cramped space proved to be a lethal combination. It seemed summer had overrun spring to install itself in the pantry. The effort to concentrate on the task at hand used all her energy.
“Your mother passed a while ago, I remember,” he started.
Her eyes darted to him; the topic was unexpected. Standing before a shelf, he held a jar of pickled carrots in his large hand, inspecting the label.
“I was ten.” Quickly, she lowered her head to the parchment, though it did nothing better. Her reaction to him continued to thrum through her even if she did not stare at him.
“And you’ve been managing the house since then?”
“Only a little. Our former housekeeper undertook the task until I was out of the schoolroom.”
“My mother passed when I turned nineteen,” he volunteered.
“I heard she had been the beauty of her time.” Not surprisingly, he and his siblings inherited the trait.
“True,” a faint smile came to his perfect lips. “There’s a painting of her in our drawing room.”
“I guess your father did not remarry because he had an heir and two spares, am I right?”
“Perhaps. He didn’t need to. Besides, he had been happy with my mother.” He clasped his coffee eyes on her, and a heat spread throughout her. “And yours?”
“Considered his duty done, too, without the spare. As a lad of thirteen, my brother promised to become a robust man.” Sadness blanketed her expression at the thought of Malcom and how he had proved to be a worthy Laird.
“And you?” he replaced the cheese on the shelf and returned his look to her.
“Me what?” Without really meaning to, her attention remained on him, wrinkled tartan, dishevelled hair, and the shadow of tantalizing stubble on his square jaw.
“Why have you never married?” Lasses used to make matches at eighteen or nineteen.
“Busy helping father and then Malcom,” she evaded. “But when I showed an interest, I got no reply,” she needled playful.
“And as a good Highlander, you kidnapped the candidate instead,” he jested.
“Yes, well, you know, a lass has to make her wishes count,” she tilted her head with a half-smile.
“And what are your wishes?” The question came low and hoarse.
Forgotten, the pencil fell on the table and she could almost feel the heat from his expression.
And how on Earth had he come so close? The scent of him—man, pine and building materials—entered her nostrils. Suddenly the atmosphere changed to something sultry and forbidden.
Her pupils widened and she took several seconds to harness an answer. “To take care of my clan.” Her own silky tone did not escape her.
He gave one step towards her as their locked gazes burned on each other. “This is your duty, not your wish.”
Her wishes had nothing to do with any clan or Highland’s politics. Worse, it was an answer she could not give.
A gulp of air arrested in her lungs. “I have no…wishes.” The blatant evasive did not fool him.
“Liar,” he drawled.
