“Can ye shoot an arrow?” she asked, finishing up washing her bowl. “Practicing will strengthen yer arm,” she added when he shook his head.
“I am still considering helping ye, Mr. Cameron. But if I do, ye will have to do as I say in terms of practicing and healing yer arm.”
“Aye, Miss Woodburn, I will do as ye say.”
She wasn’t sure why when he spoke—or what he said—made her insides burn like the fiery pits of hell. Why his declaration, spoken on the soft whisper of a promise, made her want to promise him the same thing.
Mayhap it was not the best idea to ask him to stay. It was a selfish condition, made out of fear of being alone. She was a coward. She could have poisoned his family. Now she was dealing with the consequences.
“When we go back, ye will practice nocking an arrow.”
He nodded but looked doubtful.
“I have nae doubt ye will see it done in no time at all, Mr. Cameron,” she reassured him.
She didn’t realize he was staring at her, and when she did, she looked away, hiding her fiery cheeks.
“Miss Woodburn,” he said with a slow, salacious smile, “careful ye dinna make yerself vital to me.”
She felt her blood draining from her face. What was she to say to that? However would she make herself vital to him? She would be careful never to do it.
“Mayhap, we should head back.” She rose, gathering the bowls.
Her foot slipped on the wet rock and she flailed backward.
Before she fell into the water, she was caught in the crook of an arm, stopped instantly from disaster and left looking up into luminous, soulful dark eyes, a strong, straight nose, slightly, sweetly curved lips.
She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. It seemed he could not look away either. His gaze traced the contours of her jaw, her chin, and lips. When he looked into her eyes, she held her breath. Then, like one waking from a deep sleep, in which he was enjoying a pleasant dream, he smiled at her and then swung his gaze away and pulled her up.
Firmly on her feet again, he released her waist and stepped away.
Elspeth almost took a step toward him to stop his departure. Of course, she stopped herself instead, but the sudden cold that washed over her made her shiver.
“Ye are all right, lass,” he reassured gently, more confident in her inner strength than she was.
She nodded, agreeing with him. Still, she took a moment to gather her wits and not sway on her feet.
“Let us get back, aye?” he said, turning away before she answered.
She would not have stopped him. She followed after him slowly, using caution on the wet rocks. But the instant she left the rocks behind, she hurried forward and put the bowl she carried in his left hand, closing his fingers around it.
She didn’t stop but continued without a word, pleased that she didn’t hear the bowl crashing to the ground. She reached the house before him and went straight to her room.
She closed the door behind her and leaned back against it. She needed a private moment or two to regain her good senses. She cursed her memory. How was she supposed to gather herself when she kept reliving a moment of looking up into the warmth of his luminous eyes?
How was she to breathe steadily with the haunting feel of steel, warm and malleable, closed around her waist, pulling her close against his chest, invading her thoughts?
He knocked on the door. She propelled away from it and turned on her heel to stare at it.
“Miss Woodburn, are ye ill?”
“Aye, a little,” she called out, then gasped and touched her fingers to her chest. What if he left because she did not help him because she claimed to be ill?
Did he think being alone would do her good? Nonsense! When did being alone do any good for anyone?
The night she stepped out of Dunley Keep and into hell and found her family dead, she knew being alone was going to be the worst thing in the world. Worse even than being a servant.
“I will be fine soon enough,” she assured him quickly. “Get a bow and arrow ready fer yer practice.”
