The air in the room felt thick with heat and the faint scent of soap and pine drifting from behind the screen. Her fingers tightened around the spoon. She tried to think of anything else—her sketchbook, the village, her paints—but her mind betrayed her. She saw him instead, the broad line of his shoulders, the rasp of his voice when he was amused, the look in his eyes when he wanted her.
She blew out a breath and dropped the spoon back into the bowl. “This is absurd,” she whispered.
“Something wrong?” His voice drifted lazily over the divider, already edged with teasing.
Scarlett jumped a little. “Nothing. Just me trying to finish me food.” “Good,” he said. “A woman needs her strength.”
Her stomach fluttered. “For what, exactly?”
The splashing stopped. His answer came low enough to raise the hairs on her skin. “For whatever the night brings.”
She didn’t reply. She couldn’t. Her throat felt dry, her thoughts scattering as she heard him rise from the water. The faint scrape of the basin, the rustle of a towel, and the sound of fabric against damp skin. It was too much.
When he finally stepped out from behind the divider, her spoon nearly slipped again. He was bare-chested once more, firelight catching on the ridges of his torso, water tracing down his skin. The towel around his hips hung low, far too low.
Her gaze snapped upward but not quickly enough. He had already caught her looking.
Robert’s mouth curved slightly. “Enjoying the view, are ye?” “I…” Scarlett’s voice came out thin and fast. “I wasnae looking.”
“Aye,” he said mildly, stepping closer. “Ye keep saying that, but I’ve yet to believe it.”
She turned back to her bowl, grasping for composure. “Ye should eat before it goes cold.”
“I will.”
He came to stand beside her, close enough that his shadow stretched across the table. Scarlett’s pulse leapt, but she pretended to adjust the quilt around her shoulders.
Robert reached past her, and his arm brushed her hair as he took a piece of bread from the tray. He tore a bite with his teeth, and she caught herself watching the movement, the strong line of his jaw, the way his lips closed around the bread, and wished she hadn’t noticed.
“Ye’re more obvious with yer stares now,” he said quietly, without looking at her.
Scarlett blinked fast. “Ye’re imagining things.” “Am I?”
His voice dropped lower, that rough tone that always seemed to find her heartbeat and twist it. “Tell me, Scarlett… are ye nae going to finish yer food?”
She lifted her chin. “Aye, I will.”
“Good,” he murmured, eyes steady on her face.
Her breath came quicker. “Are… are ye hungry?”
Scarlett had no idea why she asked that, seeing as he was obviously eating.
Gods, it’s like me mouth is disconnected from me head.
He tilted his head with a ghost of a smile at his mouth. “Aye, lass. It’s night. I’m definitely hungry.”
Something in his tone made her heart stumble. He wasn’t talking about food. The look in his eyes said enough… quiet hunger.
Scarlett’s fingers clenched around the edge of the quilt. “It’s one of yer nights, then?” she asked softly.
He moved closer. “Aye,” he said at last. “It is.”
Scarlett steadied her voice. “And if I said I wanted to sleep instead?”
His gaze locked on hers. “Then I’d let ye,” he said quietly. “But we both ken ye willnae sleep.”
Color heightened her cheeks, but she kept her head held high. “Ye think so highly of yerself, do ye?” “I think truth needs nay polish.”
