Jamie was tending the fire, wearing nothing but the borrowed breeches.
She must have emitted some kind of sound because he turned to look at her. “Let me have those,” he said as though nothing were wrong.
Mari swallowed, unable to take her eyes off his bare chest. In the dimly lit room, the flickering flames caught every nuance of his sculpted shoulders and hard-ridged belly. The fire cast his skin in bronze. He could have been chiseled out of stone, like one of those statues in Abigail’s art books. Mari was beginning to develop an appreciation for those books herself.
And then her statue grinned, the golden glow in his eyes matching his skin as he held out his hand. She wondered if he meant for her to take it—and why—but she stood stupefied, watching the light reflect on the smooth curves of his well-developed biceps. She’d known how truly muscular Jamie was, but she’d never been this close to him in his present state of undress. The tartan suddenly felt too warm, but she could hardly remove it wearing only the flimsy chemise.
“Your clothes, lass,” Jamie said in a tone she’d heard him use when calming a skittish horse. “Let me hang yer wet things by the fire.”
His words snapped her out of her reverie. “Why are you not wearing your clothes?”
A look of amusement swept his face, and he gestured to where his things already hung. “Mine were wet too.”
“Oh. Well, I guess that makes sense.” Mari handed him the riding habit and tried to focus on something other than the fact Jamie was practically naked. Dear Lord.
He took her things and turned, the muscles in his back flexing as he bent to drape the clothing over the other chair and table. She must have made another sound because he looked back at her.
“Did ye say something?”
“Nae. I mean, no.” When he straightened, the illumination from the hearth caught the ripples over his broad shoulders again. Mari licked her lips, her mouth suddenly dry. “You really should put something on.”
His brow rose again. “What would ye like me to don? The other plaids are damp as well and, if ye noticed, I draped the second one to form a wall of sorts to keep the warmth closer to the fire. ’Twill be a cold night.”
She managed to force herself to look where Jamie pointed. He had pulled the old bed frame with its high metal posts and bulky trunk closer and hung the second plaid over those. Along with the first plaid he’d placed for her curtain, the two did indeed form cozy walls holding the heat in.
“I would not have thought to do that,” she said, hoping the topic was safer than talking about Jamie’s clothes—or lack of them.
He shrugged and sat down on the floor. “We learn to make do.”
“I am obviously not good at survival,” Mari said as she joined him. “I want to thank you for finding me. If you had not—”
“Dinnae fash. ’Tis over,” Jamie said quickly as he began taking food out of the other bag.
“Just the same. When I was reading Malory to Jillian the other day, she mentioned you reminded her of Sir Gawain. I think she may be right.”
The tips of his ears turned pink—or at least she thought they did. It was hard to determine in the firelight, but she thought it was rather attractive. “And you even brought food like a truly gallant knight.”
“Bridget reminded me to take it,” Jamie muttered, busying himself with laying out the dried venison, hard cheese and a loaf of oat bread on the towel it had all been wrapped in.
“’Tis nae fancy, but ’twill fill yer stomach,” he said.
“It looks delicious,” Mari replied and realized she meant it. She had not eaten since the morning, and now she was ravenous. She bit into the bread Jamie had torn off for her as he removed a small knife from his sporran lying nearby. The knife looked almost delicate in his powerful hands, and she watched in fascination as those calloused fingers handled it with precision, slicing the meat and cheese into small, even pieces. His regularsgian dubhlay near where his boots were drying by the fire. Mari smiled. Trust him to have more than one knife.
“What are ye smiling about?” he asked as he removed a wineskin and two tin cups from the sack.
“Just you and your weapons,” she answered as she accepted a cup of wine, “although I do not suppose you consider that one to be of much consequence.”
Jamie held up the small knife. “’Tis interesting what a wee knife like this can do, especially if a mon is nae expecting ye to be carrying it. ’Tis sharp as a razor.” He laid it down. “I always carry an extra blade or two.”
“I know, not to mention that huge sword of yours.” She smiled again. “The one no one would notice.”
Jamie’s eyes widened as he stared at her and then he shook his head. “Och, ye mean my claymore.”
“Yes.” Mari frowned, wondering what had caused him to react like he was shocked. As ifanyonecould miss that huge thing sticking up behind his shoulder. She took a swallow of wine and then licked the corner of her mouth where several drops lingered. “I do not know much about swords, but I have never seen an Englishman with such a large one.”
Jamie choked, sputtering on his own wine, and Mari leaned forward and put a hand on his arm. “Are you all right?” She felt the muscles of his forearm clench, and then he withdrew it slowly.
“I am fine,” he said and began digging in the saddlebag again. A look of relief spread over his face as he withdrew a small flask. “Bless ye, Bridget,” he murmured.
