True to the Highlander(71)

She jerked around, a startled look on her face. “Oh crap.”

“Oh crap indeed. What are you wearing?” He couldn’t take his eyes from her. The blue trews she wore fit her like skin, showing every feminine curve right up to the juncture of her thighs. Her chemise was no better. Clinging to her as it did, he could see the contours of her breasts and the dark outline of her nipples right through the fabric. The thought of other men seeing her garbed thus enraged him—and this had been going on for weeks. “You are finished here,” he ground out through his clenched jaw.

“No.” She turned her back to him, arranging a hide over a tripod of branches.

“You insult my hospitality and think to defy me?” He took a step toward her. “I bade you remain behind the curtain wall until my return.”

Facing him, she straightened and met his scowl with one of her own. “This has nothing to do with insulting your hospitality or defying your commands. In fact, this has nothing to do with you at all. You left me.”

Her words were spoken without rancor, yet they fell across his skin like a lash, leaving behind an angry welt. “Nay, lass. I—”

“Yes, Malcolm. You left me.” She fed the fire under the hide, her back to him once again. “I’m grateful, because it forced me to take stock of my situation.”

Her calmness disturbed him, though he could not put his finger on why. “Your situation?”

“What would become of me if you hadn’t returned? At what point do I cease being a guest and start pulling my own weight?” She lifted her chin. “It’s time I make a place and a life for myself.”

“Alethia…” The welt her words had opened became a gaping wound.

“In my world, I knew where I belonged. In your world, I have no place. Things aren’t so different between your country and mine. A woman must be provided for and protected by a father, a brother, an uncle…a male relative…” A husband. She shrugged her shoulders. “Here I have no one. Don’t you see? I must make my own way, earn my keep.”

Her shrug nearly undid him. Her vulnerability was like salt in the wound her words had opened. Such a wee thing to be so all alone in an unfamiliar world. “’Tis all my fault.” He stepped closer, taking her hands in his. She tried to tug them free. He held tight, examining them front and back. They were chapped, raw and callused. He swallowed hard. “Do you remember the day I found you?”

“Of course.”

“I took note of your hands that day. They were so soft and smooth, with nary a callus to mar their perfection. I knew you were a gently bred lady.”

She snatched her hands from his grasp. “Nothing is your fault, Malcolm. Don’t you think I realize how fortunate I am that you took me in?” She shuddered and rubbed her arms. “What would have happened if someone like Hugh had found me first?”

“It is my fault. You’re my responsibility.” His words came out in a hoarse rasp.

“Where did you get that idea?” She snorted. “You’re not obligated to me in any way. I’m not your responsibility just because Giselle left me on your path.” Her chin lifted, but her eyes didn’t meet his. “I am grateful for the roof over my head and the food I have eaten at your table. Now it’s time I stopped acting like your guest and start repaying my debt.”

This had naught to do with defying him and everything to do with her uncertainty. And her pride. He gazed around the camp, noting for the first time the neatly stacked furs and skins, the strips of meat drying over a second fire.

He’d failed her. He had left her—alone, frightened and uncertain about her future in a foreign land. The insight laid him low. He was the worst kind of churl. Not only had he neglected to see to her needs, he’d neglected to let her know her place in his life—and in his heart. He took their future together for granted while she had no inkling they even had a future. Overcome, he moved away from her, needing distance to gain control of his roiling emotions.

Did she still care for him? He certainly didn’t deserve it if she did. Yet, every night she came to tend to his wound, and every day her tea eased his aches and pains, helping him to heal. He knew what he had to do, what he should have done from the very start.

His sister had said Alethia feared being taken from them at any time. Her pride and independence were important to her. It would be best to secure her future without her knowing what he intended. She’d object. Or worse, she’d bolt.

“Would you feel better if you were a MacKintosh, Alethia? ’Twould give you a measure of security, would it no’?” He returned to her side as she continued to work. “You’d have a place.”