What had just happened? Was the man going to run out the door whenever they had a tense moment? Barran’s abrupt change of mood left Emma confused and unsure. One moment they’d been teasing and—dare she say flirting—and the next he’d fled as if under fire. It was true that she had not taken all of his teasing well—and he had been in quite the temper at the start, and some of the teasing had hit far too close to the worries that already plagued her. He’d made her feel even more of a dunce than she already did. She should have asked him for help with her gown last evening, only she’d fallen asleep too quickly, even her shoes had still been on.

But once he began to help her things had changed, she’d thought for both of them. She’d felt the tingles—and more. Her whole body had ached for his touch in ways she didn’t quite understand. Something had been about to begin, something magical—and then he’d run for the door.

Why? There was plenty of wood to start the fire anew. At least she though there was, although she’d already proved how little she actually knew about fires.

Idiot. Had she misunderstood what was happening between them?

No, she would not think of herself that way. It was true that there were many aspects of life, including men, about which she had no training or knowledge, but that was not the same thing as being stupid. It was not her fault that her station had never necessitated such knowledge. Although that had now changed . . .

Blast. She was not going to think about such things.

Somehow she would find a way to be useful. With that thought in mind, she slipped from the sodden gown.

The cabin felt even colder as she stood there in her wet shift, feeling it cling and stick to her skin. Still, it felt so good to be out of the stale gown, although she did hope that something could be found to replaces the laces. She could hardly wear her shift for days.

Her cloak lay tangled with the blankets on the bed. She did not remember actually unfastening it but must have somehow in the late hours of the night or early dawn hours. Had she become too warm? It seemed impossible, but she did remember how cozy and comfortable she’d felt upon waking, Barran’s arms about her.

Shaking her head, as if that would push back the ache and need her body still quivered with, she grabbed up the cloak, stretching high to give it a good shake to relieve it of yesterday’s dust.

The door swung open. “I found a shovel, thought I’d clear out the wet ashes so . . .”

She turned. Barran’s voice died in his throat.

He stood there, shovel in hand, staring at her, his mouth agape, his eyes focused downward.

She followed his gaze and swallowed.

She’d known the effect of water on the thin linen of her shift, but somehow she had not fully realized what that would mean until that moment. Her whole body was on view—and not her body as she had always known it, but a body that looked mysterious and full of secrets. The combination of the translucent fabric and the shaded light highlighted every curve and the darkened her nipples and the shadow between her legs. And the chill of the air . . . She could not even describe what the chill was doing her flesh. She pressed her thighs tight as that mysterious need grew greater and those tingles spread.

* * *

God! He wouldn’t have been surprised if his eyes had popped out of their sockets. He’d never seen anything, anyone, as bonny as Emma in that moment. He swallowed hard, trying to suppress the heat and longing that arose. He’d left her a few moments before rather than face the feelings of lust rising within him, but . . . Those breasts were begging for his touch, for his lips, for his . . . Countless lurid images rushed through his mind. Fuck. He gripped the rough handle of the shovel more tightly, concentrating on the slight pain of a splinter piercing his skin. Anything to distract him from the desire to rush across the room and grab her, pull her to him, feel her softness against him—memories of her firm arse pressed into his cock in the middle of the night took him.

The splinter was not enough.

He lifted his eyes to her face. Her eyes were huge, dark, inviting. He swallowed, feeling his throat filled with gravel.

Her lips parted, her tongue darting out to wet the lush lower one.

Fuck.

He shifted from leg to leg, his cock swelling and pressing, urging him forward.

He should have doused himself with the icy water from the well as he’d first intended.

She drew a breath in, her breasts rising to stretch the thin cloth. Her nipples, drawn and ripe, pushing hard. If only he could offer them liberty. His previously dry mouth was now a desert.

He took a single slow step forward.

She did not step back.

Another step.

Her arms, which had been upstretched holding her cloak, lowered but did not move to cover herself. Her gaze held his, her lips still parted. He could almost feel each breath that left him, feel the warm air caress him.

There should be words, some term for what he was feeling, some way to know, to understand, what was happening between them, but there were not.

Another step. There was barely half a yard between them now.

He paused, unsure and yet knowing he would continue, that he could do nothing else except continue.

Her fingers tangled in the cloak, clenching and releasing, kneading. The small motion drew his gaze. She was nervous—and yet no denial rose to her lips. She still did not lift the cloak to cover herself.

A shiver ran through her. Cold or desire? He did not know and found he didn’t care. If it was cold, he would warm her. If it was desire . . .

Another step.

This time she, too, inched forward.

With his free hand, he reached out and ran a finger over her collarbone, the touch barely a whisper.

She shivered again and he felt the same shiver course through his own body, his cock so hard and heavy it pressed painfully against the flap of his trousers.

As if sensing his pain, her eyes dropped—and then grew wider. She licked her lips again. It was a gesture of complete innocence and yet his eager mind could only imagine her desire to taste. He shifted from foot to foot.

He brushed his finger across her upper chest again, giving her time to back away.

Her eyes swept up to his, so dark and stormy it was hard to determine their color.

His finger rested just above the ribbon bow that fastened the top of her chemise. It moved down the scant inch until it touched the satin fabric. Her gaze darted down and then up again to meet his. She drew in a deep breath and held it.

He pinched one of the ribbon ends and pulled. The bow came loose. Still holding her eyes, he flattened his palm over her heated flesh, feeling the increase in her pulse. He moved his hand down, pushing against the upper edge of her chemise. The strap slipped upon her shoulder and fell. Another movement and her left breast was bare before him. She shivered again.

The nipple was even harder and redder than it had appeared through the damp fabric. It might be some trick of the light, but it looked as dark and soft as any rose. His hand moved about the breast to cup it.

He waited for some response, for her to pull back or hopefully move more forward into his touch. She did neither, although her eyes dropped to watch his every action. With great care, he wrapped his fingers about her, tightening his grip. He squeezed gently.

Her gaze shot up to his and then dropped back to her breast.

He squeezed again. Eased his fingers toward the tip. Her skin puckered beneath his touch. Reaching the nipple, he moved to pinch gently.

A soft sigh left her lips.

It was his turn to shiver. It was almost impossible to move so slowly, and yet he felt caught in honey, instinctively knowing that anything sudden could break this spell between them.

He pinched again. She squirmed, licked her lips. Another pinch. She danced slightly from foot to foot.

The lass liked this. Yes, she did.

Watching her carefully, he bent forward and placed a butterfly’s kiss on the end of the hard nipple.

This time it was not a sigh, but a moan that left her lips.

Slowly, he opened his mouth and placed his lips about her offered flesh. He barely tasted, giving her a moment to adjust to his touch. His lips tightened, drawing the tip in deeper. Her whole body arched toward him. The cloak dropped to the floor. Her hands came up and sank into his hair, drawing him even closer.

His other arm moved to sweep about her—and with a loud clatter, the shovel fell to the floor.

The spell shattered about them.

Emma jerked back. Her hands released him and moved to cover her bare breast.

Her chest rose and fell quickly and for a moment all he could do was stare. Then he lifted his gaze back to hers, fearing what he would see—fear, anger, and devastation.

No. There was confusion, and she was definitely unsettled, but there was also a strong edge of desire remaining.

She lifted her other hand to her lips and just stared back at him.

He should turn away, should go back outside to fetch the needed wood and finally make her that cup of tea, but something held him. He was tired of running from whatever it was that flared between them, tired of cooling his lusts in the brisk air, tired of acting the gentleman.

Her eyes grew even larger as she stared. “Are we married then?” she asked.

* * *

He was beautiful. Why hadn’t Emma realized it before? It was hard to move her gaze away from those lake-blue eyes. Her heart raced within her chest. What had just happened? She’d been kissed on several occasions. And once a suitor had placed his hand upon her breast. She hadn’t liked it. It had felt intrusive. This was something different, something entirely different. Something—something—she just didn’t know. All she knew was that she’d never felt this way before.

“Are we married?” she asked again, reaching down to retie her chemise.

The blue eyes blinked, puzzled. “Married?”

“You said if we spent the night together we’d be married by Scottish law.” Could that explain her feelings? Did being married actually make things different? Did her body know it belonged to him?

He let out a long breath and her eyes followed the subtle movements of his neck. “That is not exactly what I said.”

“But are we married?” Yes, marriage might explain why she was feeling the way she was, why her breasts tingled and her thighs felt the need to press tight. She knew it was a naive notion, but still, her mind sought some understanding of what was happening between them.

“There are those among the English who would believe that we are. I’ve certainly heard tell of men convincing young maidens of such a thing.”

She listened to his words carefully. “You are speaking in riddles. I do not care what people say. I want to know if we are actually wed.”

He stepped back, turned slightly, and reached over to unlatch a shutter, letting it swing inward and open. Dull sunshine suddenly flooded the room, highlighting the dust that swirled through the air.

Emma blinked, waiting for her eyes to adjust, waiting for him to answer.

“No, we are not wed, not by any law or custom that I know. It is true that a couple may sometimes be considered wed after spending the night together, but I can promise that there is more to it than lying side by side.”

“Oh.” That did make sense.

“However, whether we are actually wed at this moment is not the question.’

“No.”

“You just said you did not care what people said. Is that actually true? Or do you still hope that nobody will ever know?”

She certainly hoped that nobody would ever know. Even if they did marry, she did not wish even the flavor of scandal. But did she care what people thought? Once she would not have. Once she had been protected by power and position and the love of her father. Now, she had none of that. “I don’t know.” She dropped her head, looking down at her dirty stockings. She didn’t even remember when she’d taken off her half boots. It hadn’t been before she’d fallen asleep, but they were gone now. It didn’t matter and yet it gave her something to focus on besides the troubling emotions that spun through her mind. If only she could have a few minutes of normal, a few minutes to understand what she was feeling, why she had reacted the way she had—and why she just might be sorry that they’d been interrupted by the shovel. “I’d still like some tea. And when do you think we can leave?”

Barran turned back from the window and stared at her. “I will see right to that,” he said his voice flat, betraying nothing. He did not move. “There was snow last night and it looks like more will fall shortly. We would be fools to try and leave before it is done. I’ve no desire to be found in the spring, frozen solid.”

That made her shudder—and certainly gave her something to focus on besides what had just happened. “I imagine there are romantic songs about such things. I think my mother used to sing one.”

“Ahh, but we would have to be true lovers of the heart for that. Tell me, do you love me?”

“Of course not.” The very idea was preposterous. She might be having a somewhat mixed response to the man, but love? She’d just met him yesterday.

“Then there would be little point to a romantic song, so we had best stay here and survive.”

“Tomorrow is Christmas,” she said suddenly, not sure where the words had come from.

“Do you want me to cut down a Yule log?”

She pursed her lips. “That cup of tea will be enough.”

Taking her hint, he turned and, fastening his coat, strode out the door.

All she could do was stare after him and then do her best to straighten the blankets on the cot. She needed to keep moving, to avoid thinking about what had just happened. She had just let Barran see her almost naked. She had let him touch her breast, kiss her breast. And it had felt good. More than good. Her fingers lifted and lightly cupped the breast he’d held. Her skin felt hot, hot and needy, aching. The nipple rose from between her fingers, swollen and—and tingling.

She dropped her hand.

How had this happened and what did it mean? If it wasn’t because they were married, then why?

She turned her attention back to the cot. Thinking about what had happened only made her feel more unsettled, more . . . Blast, she couldn’t get the blanket to lie flat. She let frustration grow that even the simplest task was so unfamiliar to her. And she was frustrated, but this anger was better than thinking about the ache between her thighs. The cot. Think about the cot. Could she really never have smoothed her own bed? It was hard to be sure, but she couldn’t remember an instance when it had ever needed smoothing.

The cot wasn’t perfect when she was done, but then it was a cot and the heavy wool blanket was far from the embroidered silk comforters that had once been spread across her bed. With a sigh, she sank onto the cot, mussing the blankets. She laughed wryly and swung her feet back and forth. One foot banged against her small reticule and she lifted it to the cot, pulling open the string. There was not much in it. A few pence—she’d used up most of her funds buying a place on the now-abandoned mail coach. A bone hairpin that had once belonged to her mother. She pulled it out, fingering its smooth surface. She’d tucked it away yesterday morning when it had seemed pointless to try and stick it back in her braids. Her hair was undoubtedly as wild a mess as it had ever been. At some point she was going to have to be brave enough to pull out the few remaining pins and try to dress it herself. One more thing in life she’d never done—and she was still lacking a comb or brush. Last she pulled out the small Bible, fingering its carved ivory cover. It had been days since she’d sat to read her daily devotions—and rarely had she felt in such need or so unworthy. With trembling fingers, she opened the delicate book, the pages falling to the marked page—marked with a flattened sprig of mistletoe, only one flat white berry remaining.

That made her smile. Her father had once said her mother had used it trap him—how else to explain the sudden love he’d felt for the Scottish girl. He’d claimed that it promised true love in a single kiss, but she’d never believed him. She’d seen pictures of her mother and was convinced that her fair face and kind smile had done much more to win his love than a dried sprig; still, Emma had kept it all this time.

If all it took was a sprig of mistletoe to find luck perhaps she should try it on Barran. Love might explain what had just happened far more simply than her first silly thought that it was because she had wrongly believed they might be married.

Love.

No, that was silly. Just as she’d said to Barran, they hadn’t known each other long enough for it to be love.

She ran her finger over the mistletoe. Definitely silly.

Trying to restore a sense of ease, she paged through the Bible, touching each of the other small mementos contained there: a lock of her own baby hair, the line of a love poem, a half-finished sketch by her mother. Perhaps she should reread the actual story of Christmas, remind herself of the miracle that had happened. Clenching the mistletoe tight in her palm, she tried to concentrate. The feeling of crackling leaves distracted her. Barran had mentioned a Yule log, but perhaps she should hang the dry twig. It was not much of a decoration. She probably would not even mention it to him. She certainly wouldn’t mention love. That wasn’t why she was hanging it. She just wanted decoration for Christmas. Yes, that was the only reason.

She glanced about the cabin. Of course, hanging would require both string and a hook. Was there nothing she would not take for granted, expecting that it would magically appear as soon as she even had the thought?

There must be some way. She refused to be defeated on this, too. She was a capable woman, capable of so many things, so many feelings.

No. She was not going to think about that, think about the ache and need that still filled her.

She stared about the cabin, trying to focus on something besides those tingles that came upon her every time she let her guard slip.

There on the mantle was a protruding nail. If she bent the stem just a little surely she could hang it over.

She limped across the room. Yes. It worked.

A chuckle emerged from her lips. It was ridiculous how proud she felt. She had managed to hang the mistletoe without maid or footman. It might look sad, hardly the harbinger of a festive holiday, but it was something—something she had done herself. Although there was no way she would mention it to Barran. To do so would invite laughter—and question—and she would not face ridicule on the one thing she had managed this day. And she was certainly not going to face questions that might force her to think too closely on why she hadn’t just placed the small twig back in the Bible.

Once her small task was completed, she wrapped herself more tightly in her cloak and fetched herself one of the small biscuit things to nibble on—it had been hours since she’d last eaten—before sitting on the bed to read her favorite verses of the small Bible. She might already know them by heart, but it kept her from dwelling on the problems that surrounded her, from dwelling on her swollen breasts, on the ache between her thighs—on her desire to see Barran again, to see the look of desire in his eyes, to see his smile, to feel the warmth of his arms, the safety and warmth that he always brought.