Page 27 of Tempted By a Highland Beast
“Rowena?” Constantine’s voice came from the doorway. “Are ye all right? I heard something?—”
He stopped mid-sentence as he took in the scene before him. Rowena sat hunched, needle suspended in mid-air, her face flushed with embarrassment and frustration. Scraps of thread littered the floor around her, evidence of her multiple failed attempts. Her shift was showing through the tear in her gown.
Ah, the object of her ire.
“I am well enough, dinnae trouble yersel’,” she said quickly, not looking up. “Only mending me gown. I tore it, is all.”
Constantine stepped into the room, his eyes taking in the disaster of her sewing attempts, then landing of the exposed chest.
“So I see,” he closed the door behind him and cleared his throat. “‘Tis nae going well, is it?”
“Nae. ‘Tis going wonderfully,” Rowena replied through gritted teeth. “Can ye nae tell?”
Despite her obvious distress, Constantine’s mouth quirked in a small smile. “May I help?”
“I dinnae need help,” Rowena said stubbornly. “I can manage perfectly well on me own.”
“Aye, I can see that,” Constantine said again, gesturing to the mangled fabric. “But perhaps ye might allow me tae assist anyway?”
Rowena looked up at him, her eyes bright with frustration. “Ye ken how tae sew?”
“I dae,” Constantine said simply. “May I?”
After a moment’s hesitation, Rowena nodded for him to proceed, giving him the needle and the gown. Constantine examined the tear with the same careful attention he’d given his sword, then settled himself on the floor beside her stool. His movements were economical and sure as he began to work.
“How did ye learn? ‘Tis an unlikely skill fer a man tae have, ye ken.”
“Things dinnae mend themselves when ye grow up alone,” he said quietly, his fingers moving with practiced ease. “Ye learn tae dae whatever’s necessary tae survive, including sewing cuts.”
The comment was delivered without self-pity; it was simply a statement of fact. But Rowena felt something clench in her chest at the casual way he spoke of his childhood. She wanted to ask what he meant, wanted to understand the experiences that had shaped him, but something in his tone warned her away from the subject.
Rowena studied his profile as he worked, noting the concentration in his features. “Aye, but there’s a difference between cobbling a wound closed and... whatever it is ye’re daeing there. That’s proper needlework.”
Constantine’s eyes wandered back at her, a smirk on his face that made Rowena blush. “Are ye suggesting I’m too refined in me stitching, lass?”
“I’m suggesting ye’re making me look like a lass who’s never held a needle,” she said dryly. “Did survival include embroidery lessons?”
“Would ye believe me if I said I’m naturally gifted?”
“Nay.”
“Then perhaps I’ll keep me remaining secrets.”
Rowena laughed and watched in fascination as he worked. His stitches were small and even, far neater than anything she’d managed. His hands, so powerful and deadly when holding asword, moved with surprising delicacy as he guided the needle through the fabric.
His fingers brushed against her leg as he worked, the contact brief but electric. It was nothing deliberate, just the natural result of mending a dress while someone was wearing it, but it sent heat racing through her veins.
She tried to ignore it, tried to focus on anything else, but she was hyperaware of every accidental touch, every brush of his knuckles against her skin.
“There,” Constantine said finally, holding up the piece of fabric for inspection. “Good as new.”
Rowena examined his work, amazed by the neat, nearly invisible repair. Unable to help herself, she leapt at him and drew him into an awkward hug.
Rowena felt Constantine stiffen against her, and she gasped. She had forgotten herself. As she moved to release him, his hands wrapped across her waist and he drew her in tighter.
“’Fergive me, but ‘tis perfect,” she managed to say. “Thank ye.”
“‘Tis naething,” Constantine said, but he made no move to release her or leave, and Rowena made no move to dismiss him.
