Page 42 of Laird of Smoke
She too dug in her satchel for foodstuffs to add to the offering.She had hard cheese and a sack of oats as well.A crock of butter.A neep.An onion.And a loaf of bread she must have procured this morn.
“Well, at least we won’t starve,” she said.“Too bad we don’t have a cauldron.We might make a decent pottage.”
“If ye wanted pottage, ye should have told me,” he said, stifling a grin.“I could have butchered the pair o’ hares we saw back—”
He hadn’t even finished the sentence when she gave his arm a chiding punch.
He cried out, gripping the injured limb with feigned pain.
“A gentleman,” she muttered, “wouldn’t have brought that up.”
“I ne’er said I was a gentleman.”
“Ye’re wearin’ the garb of a gentleman.”
“Guilty,” he said, clapping his hand to his chest.“In future, m’lady, I shall try to remain true to my disguise.”
She knelt gracefully on the linen and tore off a chunk of bread, slathering it with butter and offering it to him.
He sat cross-legged, unwrapped the cheese, and used his dagger to slice two thick slabs.He gave her one of them and added a dried apple.
No one spoke.They were too busy feasting.He was hungrier than he thought.He ate half of the salted beef and the last hunk of bread.
“We’ll have to replenish our supplies soon, aye?”she said after they were finished, licking a crumb off her thumb.
That innocent gesture—the coy lowering of her lashes, the parting of her lips, the glimpse of her tongue—sent a bolt of desire through him.For an instant, he couldn’t think.
Then, quickly replaying her question in his mind, he replied, “Aye, supplies, though we should get enough off o’ Pitcairn tonight to last a day or two.”
“Pitcairn?”
He instantly realized his blunder.He should never have named the clan at whose keep he planned to seek lodging.The less she knew about his acquaintances, the better.So he feigned uncertainty.
“Is that his name?Pitcairn?Pitfield?Somethin’ like that.I o’erheard a traveler speakin’ of a noble o’ that name with a place south o’ Dunnin’.Do ye know him?”
She shook her head.
That was fortunate.It would be challenging enough for a Rivenloch to sneak in under Pitcairn’s nose, disguised as an Irish noble.If she didn’t know the man, Adam could count on his beautiful Irish “sister” as a distraction.
Shewasdistracting.As she packed up what little food remained, he couldn’t help but steal glances at her vibrant skin, her lightly freckled face, her finely arched brows, her sweet bow of a mouth.He wondered if all Irish noblewomen were so lovely.Then he lowered his gaze, and his brow creased as he glimpsed her worn nails.
Curious, he reached out for her wrist.
Startled, she gasped.
Turning her hand palm up, he frowned.“These aren’t the hands of a noblewoman.”
Eve had to think fast.No one had ever studied her closely enough to discern that fact.They were usually too distracted by her coy looks and honeyed words to pay any heed to her calluses.
She grew instantly indignant, snatching her hand back.
“I’ve had to make my way as best I can on my own,” she said defensively, adding a note of hurt to her voice.“If my beauty has been dimmed by my efforts to survive, it cannot be helped.’Tis a price worth payin’ for my freedom.”
Her ploy seemed to work.
“I apologize,” he said, looking sincerely contrite.“I’m a fool.And ye… Nothin’ could dim your beauty, m’lady.”
His words took her breath away.Flustered and blushing, she stood and busied herself with the satchel, rearranging things that didn’t need to be rearranged, while she tried to regain her composure.
