Stranded With The Scottish Earl

In a gesture of affection and admiration, he squeezed her shoulders. And stepped away from temptation. Only a barbarian would leap on her now, when she was weary and distracted and defenseless. Anyway, damn it, he had more livestock to rescue. He needed to conserve his strength.

“Not quite.” He shrugged off his oilskins. They’d protected him from the worst of the wet so his clothing beneath was damp, not sodden. It was cold in the hut, but better than outside. “Did you mean it about feeding me?”

When she smiled and bent to squeeze the worst of the water from her hem, he was glad that he’d ignored his baser urges. For the first time, her expression held a hint of trust. Wading through all that mud suddenly seemed worthwhile.

Which didn’t stop his heart from leaping with excitement when she began to fiddle with her skirts. His rocketing pulse settled when he watched her untangle two leather pouches from the belt and set them on the rough deal table.

“I’ve got ham sandwiches and fruitcake. They’re a bit squashed.”

“Charlotte, you’re magnificent,” he said lightly. “Will you marry me?”

Her eyes glinted with amusement. Somewhere today while they’d been herding recalcitrant cattle, a miracle had occurred. Before, whenever he mentioned marriage, she’d stiffened up like a startled cat. Now she looked flustered, but not entirely displeased.

“No.” She passed him a thick sandwich. “And I haven’t given you permission to use my Christian name.”

“Thank you.” He settled on the wooden bench set against the wall, the hut’s only seating. “Etiquette decrees that when a man has pulled a lady from the mud three times, he’s permitted to address her in intimate terms.”

Charlotte joined him on the bench, biting into her sandwich. Her nearness warmed his side. Convenience or progress? “I must have missed that one.”

“One of Beau Brummell’s strictures,” he said, starting his lunch.

She was right. The food was squashed, but at least it was dry. Right now, he was hungry enough to gnaw the leg off the table, and this simple fare was delicious.

“And once the lady has returned the favor by assisting the gentleman after he’s fallen flat on his rump, she’s required to call him Ewan.”

“Even if that’s not his name?”

“Even so,” he said solemnly.

She snickered and bumped him with her elbow. “You talk such nonsense.”

“Och, you turn my brain to porridge, lassie. I lost all sense the moment I looked into your lovely eyes.”

“More nonsense.”

Silly chit thought he was joking.

She studied him through the gloom. “Tell me about…Selvain.”

Her curiosity pleased him. Yesterday even if she’d wanted to know, she wouldn’t have unbent enough to ask. If hauling a few heifers out of a bog inspired this amity, he couldn’t regret the morning’s discomfort. “Silvaig.”

“Yes.”

“It’s a wee island near Colonsay in the Hebrides. The Macraes have been lairds there since Viking days.”

She rose to pass him the last sandwich. “How romantic that sounds.”

“Aye. It is. When it’s not blowing a gale fit for Hampshire.”

She smiled. “I’m sure, even then, it has a certain charm.”

“Only if you’re a wee duck,” he said, dividing the sandwich and offering her half. “Here.”

She shook her head. “No, I’ve had enough. Thank you.”

“I’d hate it to go to waste.” A couple of bites and the sandwich was gone.

“So I see.” She unpacked a flask from the food pouch and held it toward him. “It’s ale.”