The Dark Highlander

Page 22

Chloe was having an ethical crisis.
Fortunately, it was brief.
She stooped to pick up the forgotten sword and return it to the study. “I could use some clothes that fit,” she grumbled as she passed behind him.
Had his back not been to her, had she seen the smile that curved his lips, she would have shivered from head to toe.
“Dageus, darling, I miss you, I need you. I’m dying without you.” Pause. “Call me. It’s Katherine.”
The answering machine clicked off.
A moment later Dageus appeared. Their gazes collided as he turned down the volume on the answering machine.
“Dageus, darling,” Chloe cooed, feeling inexplicably irritable. There she’d been, paging delicately through the Midhe Codex and feeling strangely content while he rattled about domestically in the kitchen, cooking for her, when Katherine had interrupted.
He flashed her an entirely-too-devastating smile and shrugged. “I’m a man, lass.” Then went back to the kitchen.
Leaving Chloe to mutter beneath her breath. Just why she cared she had no idea. But it irritated her.
“Were you born in Scotland?” Chloe asked later, pushing her plate back with a sigh. Another fabulous dinner: Aberdeen Angus steak with mushrooms in wine sauce, young red potatoes with chives, salad and crusty bread spread with honey-butter. And wine, though he was sipping Macallan, fine single-malt scotch.
“Aye. The Highlands. Near Inverness. And you?”
“Indianapolis. But my parents died when I was four, so I went to live in Kansas with my grandda.”
“That must have been difficult.”
It had been horrible. They’d refused to let her see her parents’ bodies, which, though now she understood, at the time she hadn’t. She’d thought someone had stolen them and wouldn’t give them back. Hadn’t believed they could just not be anymore. But eventually she’d healed. She knew it had shaped her in ways people with parents would never understand, but she’d been lucky. She’d had someone who’d rescued her, and Chloe believed one should always count one’s blessings.
“Where’s the Scots blood in you, lass?”
“My grandda. Evan MacGregor. Do you have family?”
A dark shadow flitted through his eyes, a brief flash of anguish, there and gone so quickly that she wasn’t certain she hadn’t imagined it.
“My mother and da are dead. I have a brother.” He rose abruptly, gathering plates and taking them to the kitchen, leaving her to puzzle over what she thought she’d glimpsed. She was determined to pursue it, but when he returned, he distracted her by placing a glass of sparkling blood-red liquor in one hand and a cigar in the other.
Chloe blinked. “What is this?”
“The finest cigar money can buy and a glass of equally fine port.”
“And just what do you think I’m going to do with it?”
“Enjoy.” He flashed her a charming smile.
Chloe peered at the cigar curiously, rolling it in her fingers. She’d never smoked. Not anything. Had never wanted to. But if ever a moment was ripe to try new things, it was here and now, with a man who certainly wouldn’t sit in judgment upon her, no matter what she might do. It was strangely freeing, she realized, being around a man like him.
“Doona fash yourself, you needn’t inhale. ’Tis but the subtle combination of the port and pungent smoke on your tongue. Give it a try. If you doona like it, at least you’ll know the next time someone offers you one.”
He showed her how, preparing the cigar, coaxing her to puff it alight.
“I feel like I’m doing something bad.” She sneezed.
Och, she had no idea how bad. A small thing, to get her to smoke a cigar and have port. Lasses loved to flirt with danger, with things they’d never tried before, no matter how good they were. Oft because of how good they were. And one wee taste of the forbidden, oft translated into hunger for other fruit. Hunger, Chloe-lass, he willed silently. I’ll sate any desire you have. He could nearly taste her innocence on his tongue. Indeed, would, very soon.
“You’ve been doing something bad since the moment you met me, lass,” he purred, meaning himself, but when she glanced askance, he provoked, “snooping about in my bedroom—”
“I only snooped in your bedroom because you had stolen artifacts in there—”
“And why were you in my bedroom in the first place?” he asked silkily.
She flushed. “Because I was, er … I got, er . . .” she sputtered.
“And I must confess, I’ve been wondering just what you were doing near enough my bed to find those books. You must have been all but in it. Were you curious about me? About my bed? Mayhap about me in it?”