where she’d bitten it, and he was suddenly and annoyingly filled with another unwelcome urge—he wanted to bite that plump lip. Suck it in between his teeth and thread his fingers through her gold hair.
“Thank you,” she said.
He removed his gaze from her lush mouth and moved his hand to her wrist, holding it lightly but firmly as he began to wrap her hand with the handkerchief. “You should have it looked after, aye? There is a healing woman in Balhaire.”
“Where?”
“What, then, did you put yourself on a boat and a coach knowing nothing?” he asked.
“Well, yes,” she admitted. “Oh, of course. Balhaire. Where is it?”
“Follow the loch to the sea,” he said. “That way,” he added, pointing. “Ask for Marsaili. And when she’s treated it, ask after passage to England. Enough ships come round—someone will take you.”
She seemed momentarily confused by that, but then something sparked in her eyes. “Why would I do that?” she asked.
“Because you donna belong here,” he said. “It’s only a matter of time before you admit it, aye?”
Her gaze narrowed. “So you’ve said, more than once. But I like it here.”
Barmy and daft and stubborn to boot. He didn’t believe for a moment that a lady of her obvious stature enjoyed rough hands and living without all the comforts her title brought her in England. “This sort of life is no’ for refined ladies,” he said.
“How would you know that? Are you some sort of master of refined ladies? I really don’t care for your opinion, sir, for I think it’s starkly beautiful here,” she said emphatically, surprising him somewhat. “It’s rugged and strong and...vast,” she said, nodding as if she’d found the right word. “With a bit of hard work, we might be very happy here.”
“With no society?”
Her face darkened. “Society? You cannot know what a relief it is to escape London society.”
He was ready to question her about that, but she continued. “I like everything about this place, with perhaps the exception of the mist.”
“The mist,” he repeated.
“The mist,” she said, gesturing with her free hand to the sky. “I keep dreaming that I’ve lost my son in it. There he is, and the next moment, poof, he’s disappeared into it,” she said, her fingers fluttering toward the forest.
Cailean might have laughed, but when he was a child, Vivienne used to fear the mist. It rolled in quickly, covering everything. “What color was the mist in your dreams?” he asked as he continued wrapping the handkerchief around her palm.
“The color? White.”
“Sea mist,” he said, and recited an old schoolroom poem. “‘When the mist comes from the hill, foul weather doth it spill. When the mist comes from the sea, fine weather it will be.’ You son will be quite all right in the mist, aye? Many Scottish children before him have found their way home in it.”
Lady Chatwick didn’t immediately respond to that; she kept her intent gaze on him, and Cailean could feel heat spreading in him like a spill of water. It was the sort of heat that stirred all things male. He wanted to kiss her, to lick the perspiration from her breasts. To take them in his mouth, one by one. The heat wended its way down to his groin, and Cailean felt another heat—anger.
He dropped his gaze to her hand. He was angry with himself for having such lustful thoughts for this Englishwoman. He wondered how long it had been since he’d felt lust stirring in him in quite this way, but he couldn’t recall it. He quickly finished tying the handkerchief across her palm. But when he had tied it, he impulsively, cavalierly, lifted her hand and kissed the back of it before letting go. Her fingers slid lightly across his palm, then fell away.
“I beg your pardon, my lord, but are you now trifling with me?” Her gaze slipped to his mouth, and that bothersome heat in Cailean flared again. “Have you forgotten that you do not roundly esteem me?”
“No’ for a moment,” he said and peeled away a bit of her hair that had glued itself to her cheek. “Mind that you clean the wound, aye? A cut to the hand is slow to heal.” He picked up his fishing pole and propped it against his shoulder. “Tiugainn,” he called to his dog, commanding her to come, and walked on from the Lady Chatwick.
“My lord!” she called behind him.
Against his better judgment, Cailean paused and looked back.
“I’ve been—I mean to invite my neighbors to dine. Not a garden party, mind you, but a proper supper. Will you come?”
She was gripping the side of her apron, he noticed, the leather bunched in her hand. “Your neighbors,” he repeated, uncertain just whom she meant, as the sort of neighbors who would be invited to dine with her were quite far from Auchenard and few between besides.
“Yes, my neighbors! I should like to make their acquaintance, naturally. You are my neighbor, are you not? You wouldn’t say, but as you are walking with your fish, I assumed.”
Did she mean to make the acquaintance of the poor crofters? No. She meant to parade eligible bachelors before her. Perhaps she might invite a few of the Jacobites to her table and determine their suitability while she was at it. Or perhaps she meant to start a war.
Cailean abruptly retraced the few steps he’d just taken. “I will speak plainly, madam. You are no’ welcome in these hills. Aye, there will be those enticed by the promise of your fortune, but I’ve no interest in it. I willna vie for your hand if that’s what you seek.”
Color flooded her cheeks. Her brows dipped into a dark V above her eyes. “You flatter yourself quite incomparably, Arrandale! You presume too much! You may think you know something of my situation, but whatever you’ve heard, I assure you, it is not accurate. I invite you only as a neighbor. I thought you might even be my friend!” she exclaimed, throwing her arms wide. “Now I shall be just as plain—no matter if you come or not, you need not remind me of your lack of desire for me ever again. You’ve made it quite clear.”
Cailean didn’t flinch at her dressing-down of him. “Donna look so astounded,” he said. “A friend? Most women who befriend men they scarcely know mean to attach themselves to his purse. Or, in your case, attach him to yours.”
Her mouth gaped open. Something sparked in those green eyes, something hot and glittering, and Cailean could not look away—or ignore that the hot, glittering thing was waking something just as hot in him.
“Ah, I see—you are the prize catch of the Highlands, are you? You must be utterly exhausted from escaping the clutches of so many women. You need not fear my clutches, my lord, for I would never join the chase,” she said and leaned forward, her gaze narrowing slightly. “Never,” she articulated, her voice deadly in its softness. “I live as I please, and it pleases me to trifle with gentlemen—with all gentlemen. Don’t flatter yourself that you are the only one. Don’t imagine that your purse is so fat that I should be tempted by it, for I assure you, mine is much fatter, and I don’t wish to attach anyone to it. If that scandalizes you, then perhaps you should stay away. But if it doesn’t?” She settled back and shrugged insouciantly. “You will be most welcome in my home.”
Cailean was surprised and a wee bit impressed with her admonishment. He couldn’t help but chuckle.
That inadvertent chuckle seemed to vex her even more. “You shouldn’t put so much stock in gossip,” she said, and angrily whirled around, marching away from him, her chin up, her braid bouncing above her derriere with the force of her stride. She stopped at the wall and shouted over her shoulder, rather crossly, “Thank you for tending my hand!” and then disappeared into the break in the wall.
It was perhaps the first time in Cailean’s life that he’d found indignation in a woman so wholly appealing.