"Water, lass?"
She blinked, tossing him his canteen. He drank greedily, then ran his forearm over his mouth. She loved it when men did that. And by "men" she meant "Hugh." When he tossed the canteen back, she was so busy staring at him that she missed, fumbling the canteen twice before it thudded to the ground. She could barely contain her yearning - indeed, she'd ceased bothering to hide the depth of it - yet Hugh still hadn't touched her. Again and again, she mulled reasons why.
With a frown, he released the leather trace over his shoulder, then scooped up the canteen on his way to the saddle. When he dusted it off and handed it to her, she gave him a sheepish smile.
He backed away from her with a guarded expression, then took up the traces again. The horse strained forward once more.
She'd struggled to broach the subject of staying married to him, but his eyes always seemed dark with warning - just like now. She felt as if she would be all but proposing to him, and she could admit her confidence was shaken. Men were usually tongue-tied, stumbling over themselves to give her whatever she wanted. Hugh was distant, his countenance shuttered.
She inhaled, grasping about for courage. There wasn't going to be a better time than now. Before she lost her nerve again, she quickly asked, "Do you want to know what I've been thinking about?"
He shook his head emphatically, so she waited several minutes before she asked, "Hugh, do you think I'd make a good wife?"
After a hesitation, he slowly answered, "Aye."
"You swear?"
"Aye."
"You're not just saying that to spare my feelings?"
"No. Any man would be proud to call you wife - "
"Then why don't you just keep me?"
He stumbled over his feet, falling to his knee in the mud.
"Iwant to keepyou ," she declared, as if her seemingly innocent question hadn't just sent his body and mind reeling.
He rose, inwardly cursing. Why did she have to start with the teasing once again? Damn it, all in all, he'd been having a good day. The unseasonably mild weather had held pleasant, and he'd been enjoying her company, as usual. As she'd chatted and laughed about this and that, he'd been sneaking glances up at her, marveling at how much Scotland was agreeing with her.
Her cheeks were pinkened, her eyes appeared, impossibly, a more vibrant green, and her auburn hair was even shinier, seeming burnished with gold.
The lass was growing so beautiful that at times, she rendered him speechless.
"It's a reasonable question, Hugh."
Now he felt himself growing cold. "This is no' something to jest about."
Earlier, the expressions flitting across her face had gone from thoughtful to panicked to fearful, then to the determined mien she wore now. "I'm not," she said in a steady voice. "At all. I want to stay married to you."
He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn't quite manage it when he saw that she was serious.Unbelievable. His voice hoarse, he finally said, "It will no' happen, Jane."
Shewanted to be his lover and his wife? Right now, he wished to God he were selfish enough to keep her.
"Why? If you give me a good reason, I'll desist from this. Otherwise..." She trailed off, as if in warning.
"I told you, I never wanted to be married."
"Butwhy ? Give me one reason."
"That is just no' the life for me," he said simply. "Never has been and never will be. You have to accept that some men are no' husband material."
"I think you are."
"You doona even know me anymore."
"Because you won't tell me anything," she countered.
"Take my word for it."
"Are you certain you don't want just totry staying married after all this is done? To see if we suit?"
"Aye, I'm verra certain," he said, making his tone cutting.
"Really?" she said slowly.Raaaally. As if she hadn't heard him, she slipped down from the saddle. "It's a big decision." She gave him a solemn nod. "I know you'll want to think it over." Before strolling off, she tilted her head and studied him, her bright eyes focused and clear.
It was, he thought, swallowing hard, the same way she looked at her arrow's target.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Having raised the subject of staying married, Jane returned to it over the next week with stubborn frequency.
As Hugh worked a Dutch block plane over a new column for the rickety portico, he waited for a glimpse of Jane and mulled over her latest campaign.
The night before, he'd been drinking scotch on a rug by the fire. She'd sat behind him, up on her knees to rub the sore muscles of his back, sharing sips of his drink. His lids had grown heavy as he'd relaxed against her.
The fire, the scotch, his wife easing his body after a hard day's labor.Bliss . He took a savoring sip -
"Any thoughts on our marriage, my love?"
He'd choked on his drink. She'd smiled innocently when he glowered.
This morning on her way out to the terrace to shoot, she'd said in a casual tone, "I noticed you didn't pack any reading material - except for that odd book - so I left a novel on your bed." As he stared after her, she tossed over her shoulder, "And I marked the scenes Iparticularly enjoyed."
He knew exactly what kind of novel she spoke of. As soon as she was out of sight, he bounded up the stairs, eager to see what she would like. Set on his pillow was a book with her false cover, and he tore it open. Five minutes later, he sank to the bed, running a shaking hand over his dazed face.
If these were scenes she enjoyed, then they would suitperfectly ....
No, damn it, this was just the latest battle in her insidious campaign. Her continual sallies never let him forget that every day, here for the taking, was the woman of his dreams. He was like a stallion around a mare in heat - he couldn't concentrate, couldn't keep his mind on anything but how her hair smelled and how her skin tasted.
His eyes followed her everywhere. When she worked, she'd taken to wearing a bandanna over her hair, and she'd begun unbuttoning her blouses to beat the heat of the kitchen or whatever chore she'd undertaken. It seemed to Hugh that her dampened br**sts were always on the verge of spilling out. Jane, usually so elegant, looked like a lusty barmaid, and he loved it.
In fact, he couldn't decide which version of her he liked best: the clever beauty in London, the archer with her leather-tipped hunting gloves, or this carefree temptress.
His need for her was unrelenting. He wasn't thinking clearly. He was constantly hard during the day and couldn't sleep a night through without having to spend. The other night, after dreaming about her riding him, he'd awakened soaked in sweat - and precisely three quick strokes away from ejaculating.
She'd wrecked him, weakened him. And when she began staring at Hugh with a mixture of almost innocent curiosity and blatant yearning, only one thing kept him from answering the plea in her eyes.
The book. He kept it out now, staring at it often. It reminded him of what he was....
He frowned when he realized that well over an hour had passed since he'd heard humming or seen a flash of her going by. Hugh hoped she'd decided to sleep for an hour or two, instead of her usual exhaustive toiling, even as he doubted it.
He laid aside his plane, dusted wood shavings from his trousers, then strode in the front door. He met Mòrag, returning to the kitchen with a basket of turnips.
"Where's my wife?"
She shrugged. "Saw English in the north wing last. Said she was going to wax the floors."
He nodded and grabbed an apple from a bowl, then dropped it as he caught an unmistakable scent.
The girl sniffed. "What the hell has she done now?"
"Paraffin, Mòrag," he barked over his shoulder as he took off at a run. "Think about it."
Mòrag gasped and dropped her basket to follow.
Paraffin wax was for floors.
And was easily confused with paraffin oil - another term for...kerosene.
He burst through the closed door and swallowed at the sight. Jane had coated thirsty mahogany wood with jugs of kerosene.
She tottered to her feet. "I wanted to surprise you and have this all finished." She rubbed her nose delicately with the back of her hand. "But I feel quite foxed." Shrugging, she picked up a chunk of sandstone and said, "I was just going to sand the dried area - "
"No!" he and Mòrag shouted at the same time.One spark...
Heart in his throat, he lunged for her just as Mòrag cried, "Are ye daft, English?"