Page 50 of A Hot Scot for Christmas

The beating he took... all in the name of donning his kilt.

She was in a daze when the second chain clinked against the bricks. Will stood to full height, his brooding eyes watching her while he nursed his newly released arm.

“I cannot believe you won’t help us,” she said.

“You’ll no’ guilt me to your biddin’ because of Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora.” Will stretched his neck, the bones cracking. “Find another mon.”

“I need you.”

His eyes dulled. “Never thought I’d hear you say that again.”

Chin high, she was done asking. He’d never forgiven her for what happened in the ruins of Castle Tioram years ago. Truth be told, she’d never forgiven herself. It made Will’s sudden touch on her jaw all the more poignant.

“Who did this to you?”

The pads of his fingertips were warm and rough grained. With murderous fury in his eyes, it took her a moment to understand. The bruise on her temple. She’d forgotten about it. When they were on the ground, Will couldn’t have seen it for the shadows.

“It happened a few nights ago when I was alone in my warehouse.”

“I didna ask when it happened. I asked who did it.”

She jerked her chin free. “I don’t know.”

Torchlight guttered beside her. Life stopped—no past, no future. No right or wrong. She was a woman with a man. Will had to feel it. He searched her bruised hairline, her eyes, her mouth until a subtle veil dropped. She lost Will again—if she ever truly had him in the first place. One summer of sex and endearments wasn’t love. It was...

A formative experience?

Carnal escape?

Freedom for a young woman expected to put family first?

Within her cloak, papers crinkled. Will’s arrest record. She pulled it from her pocket and fed the document to the fire. Ashes floated bit by bit like fall leaves until it was gone. Will ground those gray scraps under his heel.

“You’re a riddle, madame. What kind of trouble follows you that your head is bruised and you wear a knife up your sleeve?”

Dignity squared her shoulders. “The less you know, the better.”

Will was proud. Forlorn. Mighty as ever, filling the room with his torn shirt and shredded kilt over naked thighs. A quick stride would flash his male parts. The tartan’s untouched back hung long and properly pleated, but if he gave it to a laundress, she’d heave it into a fire. There was no saving it. Could be there was no saving Will.

She grabbed her petticoats and headed up a short stack of stairs. Will wasn’t far behind, his shoulders brushing the door frame. He watched her scrape muck off her shoe, stark hunger lighting his eyes, but he’d made it clear she was not the woman to feed him.

“Shaking off the dust of your feet?” he asked, a touch belligerent.

“What I do is the least of your concern.” She raised her hood with an eye to the moon-drenched road beyond the open gate. “The better question is, what are you going to do now that you are free?”