Page 4 of The Thief (Castle Blackstone #3)
Bullocks ?
Had Madame Katherine Campbell just slapped his face Ian wouldn’t have been taken more off guard. First, because he hadn’t meant to speak aloud but had—-in Gael--and she’d obviously understood. And secondly, because women simply didn’t say bullocks when he made amorous overtures. They swooned or batted their eyelashes, mayhap even came back with a saucy comment, but never, ever did they snort and say bullocks !
“Humph!”
The woman was really beginning to try his patience.
She’d caught his undivided attention when she’d blanched to the color of whey at the news of Lady Margaret’s passing. In his experience, few wives even liked their mothers-by-marriage, much less nearly fainted upon hearing they’d died. When she bolted like a hare with a hawk on her tail, he instinctively followed .
And for some bizarre reason, she feared rather than sought his attention. Humph!
He stooped and picked up her headdress. When he straightened he found her twenty feet away and strode after her.
She apparently heard his footsteps for she spun and faced him, her hands on her hips. “What do you want?”
He stopped a mere foot from her. With his gaze locked on hers, he pulled on the lace holding his voluminous silk shirt closed then rolled up his sleeves to above his elbows. Feeling a good deal better for having released the bloody stranglehold the garment had on his body, he crossed his arms over what he knew to be his very impressive chest and took his time taking her measure.
The lady definitely lacked the soft oval countenance required for beauty. Her cheek bones were too prominent, her lips too wide and full, her eyebrows--left unplucked--made dark slashes across a lower-than-fashionable forehead, but those eyes...blaver blue, as intense in color as a fine, midsummer sky and so thickly lashed. Beautiful, and the total amounted to... unique .
“Ye wee vixen. Ye ken Gael.”
At his words, she blanched and looked away. “What of it? My husband was a Highlander.”
Hoping to rattle her, he said, “‘Tis odd given ye had only been married three months.”
“We spoke much before we married. ”
Knowing Robbie Campbell as he did, Ian seriously doubted they’d spoken at all. “And when were ye going to mention ye understood our language?”
She bit into her lower lip and shrugged. “When I saw the need.”
“Humph!” He then heard her stomach rumble. A nasty mix; fear and hunger. Well, never let it be said that Ian MacKay was above taking advantage or using bribery.
Some might say all Scottish food was based on a dare, but not so Bridie’s tarts. They amounted to love in your hand. He opened his sporran, pulled out the still-warm apple tart and held it out. “Want some?”
She eyed the tart—-he could almost hear her mouth watering, did hear her stomach rumble yet again--but instead of taking it, she crossed her arms at her waist and narrowed her eyes at him.
He sighed. “If ye dinna want it, then I’ll eat it.”
He broke the tart in half and took his time savoring his first bite. “ Mmm. ”
In response, she backed up a step. “Why do you still follow me?”
Stubborn. Hearing her stomach rumble a third time he held out the last half of the tart to her. “‘ Death is hateful to an unhappy man, but worse is death from hunger.’ ”
She snatched the tart from his hand. “Favor Homer, do you? Though why that should come as any surprise... ”
Well, she’d certainly caught him by surprise. She’s obviously lettered. And being so, what on earth had she seen in Robbie Campbell?
As she caught the dripping juice with the tip of her tongue, he admitted, “Ye, my dear, are an enigma.”
Her back stiffened, her tart forgotten. “Sir MacKay, I assure you there is--”
“Ian. Please call me Ian.”
“If you insist. Sir Ian , there is nothing about me the least mysterious. I am--”
“Just Ian. No sir.”
She huffed then, making him grin.
“Ian...I am naught but a simple widow, who came here to return a brooch to her husband’s mother. Nothing more.”
Nay, she was a good deal more. But just what, he wasn’t sure. He tipped his head and asked, “And now that ye know yer mother-by-marriage has passed?”
She nibbled at the edge of her lower lip. “Truth to tell, I’ve yet to decide.”
Ah, finally the truth. He watched as her gaze darted about the battlements. She then turned away and studied the castle bastion. He stepped to the left and saw that a wee wrinkle had formed between her slashing eyebrows and that her magnificent eyes had grown glassy. Ah. She might fear him but she feared something else far more. Then it hit him.
“Ye haven’t anyone left who cares for ye.”
Apparently he’d hit the mark for it took too long for her to face him, then look him in the eye. “For your information I do have some who cares. I have Nana, my father, and...and Monsieur Bottes.”
“Monsieur Bottes.” What kind of a name for a man was Mister Boots. A cobbler no doubt.
“Oui, Monsieur Bottes.”
He found it curious that a new widow would even consider admitting to having a lover, much less appear pleased that she did. “And for how long have ye had Monsieur Bottes’ affection?”
She lifted her chin in haughty fashion. “Three, mayhap four years, not that it’s any of your concern.”
Humph! No great surprise, he supposed, given how unfortunate her dearly departed husband looked. Still he decided to goad her. He arched his left eyebrow and grinned. “Tsk, tsk, and ye a married woman at the time.”
To his surprise, she gasped, her eyes growing as round as a pair of tankard tops. “Augh! You atrocious man, get your mind out of the slew! I’ll have you know Monsieur Bottes is...a companion, quite ancient and gray.”
Ho! Listen to her.
Only a handful of men had the balls to speak to him in such fashion. Despite his reservations his respect for the lady grew. Taking her measure again, his gaze slid slowly over her hour glass figure from eyes to toes. Aye, he could still recall the feel of her pressed against him as he lifted her over the stone wall. Just a hand shorter than he and albeit robust, she’d still felt soft in all the right places and better yet as they stood toe to toe, her burgundy lips had been a mere four inches below his. Normally, he had to fold in half to kiss a lass. And her breasts...God’s teeth, a man could use them for pillows, so full and round were they. Imagining her heart-shaped hurdies pressed against the bastion wall at her back, her long legs wrapped around him, her opulent breasts over flowing his han—
“ Ah-hum! ”
Her irritated throat-clearing evaporated the image, and he found the Widow Campbell thumping her foot, her hands once again on her hips, her gaze centered on his groin.
He grinned, suspecting she knew precisely where his mind had wandered. “My apologies. You were saying?”
Her gaze flew to his. “And,” she growled, continuing the conversation he’d apparently missed, “you really should,” she pointed to his chest, “dress more appropriately...for the weather.”
He couldn’t help himself. He roared with laughter, the sound echoing off the castle walls, nearly startling her out of her slippers.
He caught her waist with one hand to steady her and tipped her chin with a finger so he could better look into her eyes. Aye, clever and a bit fractious, the lady would likely prove a hard nut to crack, but crack this gilpie he would and dine on the succulent and saucy meat therein.