Page 41 of The Highlander's Virgin Widow
She watched the curve of his side, the V of his waist, and the way his back flexed even if subtly.
She let herself wonder for a brief second what it would feel like to trace those lines in his back with her fingertips. His back was broad and carved, like stone. She watched him grab the hammerone more time and begin to pound at the post, the muscles shifting beneath his skin with each strike.
His shoulder blades flexed as well, and sweat glistened along his spine. It gathered in tiny droplets at the small of his back, before disappearing beneath the waistband of his trousers.
His movements somehow made the knot in her stomach twist even tighter. She hated the rawness about him. From here, he looked completely relaxed and quite unguarded. There was no tartan or title to him. Just skin, sweat, and silence, and Keira hated how long her gaze lingered.
This wasn’t her. This was completely far and different from her, and she needed to do something about it. The last thing she needed to be doing was imagining what it would feel like to run her hands down some man’s back despite how callously he had treated her over the past few days.
He spoke to the goat again, maintaining the soft cadence he had used earlier.
“I reckon this is coming well together, do ye nae?” he asked, gently stroking the back of the goat’s neck.
The small creature gently rubbed its head against his leg.
Keira gritted her teeth. She shouldn’t find this amusing. Shewouldn’t. She hated herself for lingering this long in the first place.
The man had claimed her home, her lips, and now he wanted to claim her goat? She must do something to protect herself.
He had kissed her and hadn’t brought it up ever since. He didn’t deserve any form of apology from her, and she wouldn’t offer any either.
She took one last look at his back, the goat, and the posts he was erecting—which were now beginning to take a shape—inhaled shakily and walked back the way she had come, leaving him behind.
She moved across the castle, past the courtyard, and back to the safety of the dining hall. She had lingered for too long, and she decided to make sure that it would never happen again, no matter how tempting he looked in any light.
He had refused to speak to her. She was well within her rights to do the same to him.
“Almost ready, Thistle. Ye’ll have yer home in nay time,” Evander whispered to the goat.
He drove another post into the ground, pounding hard at the surface with his hammer. The baby goat let out another bleat, and Evander felt the sun rays warming his skin further.
A mild smirk crossed his face. He hadn’t become the Laird of one of the major clans on this side of the Highlands without becoming a powerful warrior. And one of the very first things he had learned was to always know what or who was around him, even if he had his back turned.
He could sense Keira the entire time she stood there and watched him build the small house. Half of him wondered if she was going to come up to him and deliver one of her saucy remarks, and possibly even poke some fun at the activity he was engaged in. But she didn’t.
He could tell she wanted to, but held herself back at the last minute. He didn’t blame her. Their kiss still lingered in the air, and as long as none of them was ready to talk about it, it would only continue to linger.
He drove some nails into the plank, feeling beads of sweat gather on his forehead.
“M’Laird?” Rory’s voice rang out behind him, and his grip on the hammer slackened.
“Do we have any fruits?” Evander asked, not turning to look at his man-at-arms.
“Fruits?”
“Thistle hasnae eaten anything this morning, and I suppose he is feeling famished.”
“Thistle?”
“’Tis what I named the goat,” he grunted, deciding to turn around with those words. His eyes landed on Rory, whose body partially blocked the sunlight. “I dinnae reckon ye have a problem with that?”
“Nae at all, M’Laird.”
“Good. Now, fetch me some fruits.”
“I came here to inform ye about the?—”
“Is someone dying?”
