Janet watched the imposing Highlander stoop over the fire and use a wooden spoon to stir the pottage. “My, you are far more industrious than I ever imagined.”
“Given your clan’s bias, I doubt you ever imagined anything good about the likes of me.”
She closed her eyes and sighed. Robert Grant had no idea how Janet had noticed him at every ceilidh she’d attended. Who wouldn’t admire a man of his stature, even if he was the leader of a feuding clan? She’d always appreciated his brawn, though never entertained any illusions that his character might be anything more than menacing. Janet had once avowed the same sentiment to Lady Mairi—“Robert Grant might be a brawny Highlander, but he is a wolf in sheep’s clothing.” Now that she’d experienced his gentleness, his capacity for kindness, she was confused and muddled.
He raised the spoon to his lips and tasted. “Does the fact that I’m cooking surprise you?” he asked.
“Aye, and everything else. You managed quite well with my gown, you cleaned rabbits, set my arm, rescued me from certain death at the bottom of the glen.” Again she sighed. “I suppose it should be of no consequence to watch you prepare a pottage.”
He shrugged. “I suppose ’tis nothing I wouldn’t expect from any other man. We all must dress ourselves, and when droving cattle for months on end, a man learns a bit about preparing food, else he starves.” He tapped the spoon on the edge of the cast-iron pot, then set it down. “Don’t expect this to taste like a Michaelmas feast. Without seasoning, it will keep us alive and that’s about all.”
“I’m hungry enough to eat tanned leather.”
“Good.” He grinned, those confounded dimples making her insides dance. “Camp food tastes better when you’re starved.”
“I shall remember that.” Janet picked up her comb and started working through the knots at the ends of her tresses. Using one hand was all but hopeless. Her hair was too thick and too unruly.
“Let me help.” Robert sat on the pallet beside her.
“You’re busy. The least I can do is work a comb through these knots.”
“Aye, though we’ve naught to do but wait and let the rabbits simmer for an hour or so.” He slid his hand over her fingers and took the comb. “Please, allow me.”
“Good luck to you. I’m afraid the tangle is beyond repair.”
“I do not ken about that.” He started at the ends, working the comb with quick flicks.
“My hair has always been difficult to manage. My lady’s maid complains about it incessantly.”
“Then I would venture to guess she is underworked.”
Janet glanced over her shoulder just as he looked up. Goodness, her stays were hardly constricting, and yet her head swooned. Not only that, her entire body swooned, if such a thing could happen. “I daresay you have an arresting look about you.” Och, did I just utter those words aloud?
He confirmed her dread when his gaze dipped downward and then back up while his tongue slipped over his lip. “I cannot say I have ever been thus accused. Mayhap ’tis on account of the stitches on my right cheek.”
“Apologies.” She winced. “Your wound looks a bit red around the edges. But you said earlier ’tisn’t ailing you?”
“Not overmuch.”
“As I mentioned afore, leave it sewn at least another sennight, else your scar will be worse.”
“Hmm.” He winked. “I doubt such a battle wound will add to my status as an arresting gentleman.”
An unladylike chuckle pealed from her throat. “Agreed. The scar will be fearsome enough without it taking up half your cheek.”
His gaze returned to her tresses, and he drew the comb through the length. “There. I say your locks are like silk thread. They might tangle easily, but I am convinced your maid hasn’t worked a solid day in her life.” He plucked a half-dry tress and drew it to his nose. “And the scent reminds me of a field of lavender.”
She pulled away while her hair slowly slipped across his palm. The swooning of her insides grew tenfold. “Now I ken you tell tall tales.”
“I beg to differ, miss. In this instance I have been reticent if anything.”
As her gaze slipped from his intense silver-blue eyes to the fullness of his lips, Janet raised her chin slightly. For a moment when he was helping her dress, she’d thought he might kiss her, and now she craved for him to do so. She shivered with the unbridled strength of her longing. He needed only to dip his chin a few more inches and their lips would touch. They sat motionless for a lingering moment, staring, not moving, while Janet’s heart pounded.
But rather than dip his chin, Robert swiped his knuckles across the thick stubble along his jaw. “So, Miss Cameron, how do you spend your days at the illustrious castle of Achnacarry?”
All thoughts of swooning turned to sinking lead. “I doubt my days would hold any interest for a great laird such as yourself.” She looked to the rafters. Her father always paid far more attention to her brothers’ pursuits.
“Humor me. What would a day in the life of Janet Cameron be like?”
“Boring.”
“Nay, lass. I do not believe you.”
“Very well. In the mornings, I like to visit the stable and work the fillies and colts.”
“Colts? Honestly? Isn’t that a bit dangerous for a wee—”
“A wee woman?” She squared her shoulders. “Do you not think I can train a horse?”
“As I have witnessed, you are quite a proficient rider, but young colts are skittish.”
“They are.” She leaned nearer—sideways, shoulder to shoulder, as she would with her brothers. There would be no more temptation. She could not allow it. “The key is patience.”
“Patience? They’re bloody beasts of burden.”
Janet held up her finger. “So says every man I’ve ever met bar one.”
“And who may that be?”
“The stable master at Achnacarry. He taught me everything I know.”
“And is this stable master arresting?”
“Nay. Crusty and old is more apt—but he is endearing.”
“And patient with young horses.”
“Aye.”
“If you show them patience you’ll never manage to break them.”
“True.” Janet held up a finger. “The goal isn’t to break a horse but to become their alpha mare.”
The man snorted, a sarcastic grin making his dimples prominent. “That sounds like hogwash. Do you incant a spell and wave a magic wand as well?”
“Now you’re mocking me.”
Awkward silence swelled through the air.
“Forgive me.” Mr. Grant scooted over and stirred the pottage. “I just have never witnessed such a thing.”
“Then admit you cannot pass judgment until you’ve seen it with your own eyes. I think you owe me that, for I am not one to tell tall tales, either.”
“Very well.” He rolled his hand through the air. “You spend your mornings in the stables.”
“Aye, when I can. I also spend the evenings knitting.”
His eyebrows shot up. “Knitting,” he said, as if it were the most interesting thing to come out of her mouth thus far.
“I make mittens, bonnets, scarves, and stockings for the West Highland Benevolent Society.”
“A worthy cause.”
“It is. I delivered a score of each before Samhain. ’Tis the reason Da allowed me to accompany Kennan, else I doubt he would have let me go.”
Robert gestured to her arm. “I reckon you would have been better off had you stayed at Achnacarry.”
“True.”
“But Kennan is a responsible man. I do not see why your father would object to having him provide escort.”
“It wasn’t Kennan so much as Da likes to keep me under a watchful eye.” She groaned. “That’s what he says, though I’m never quite sure why. When I’m at home I hardly see him.”
“Doesn’t he pay you much mind?”
“Mind? He’s a laird of a vast estate—just like you.” Batting her hand through the air, she shook her head. “We chat at mealtimes, so he always kens what I’m up to. At least he thinks he does.”
“Thinks? I hardly see you as surreptitious.”
“True. Though every lass has her secrets.”
He took up a lock of her hair and twirled it around his finger. “What kind of secrets?”
Her lips parted as she watched a curl form as he drew his hand away. “Och, do not tell me a braw Highland laird the likes of Robert Grant would have any interest in the things I choose not to tell.”
“Hmm. I am very interested.”
“Bah.”
“Shall I guess?”
“I think we should change the subject. I’m sure your hopes and dreams are far more entertaining than mine.”
He wagged his finger beneath her nose. “Not so fast. I like the guessing game better. I’ll wager you have been kissed, but no one but the lad who kissed you kens.”
Janet drew her hands over her mouth while her cheeks burned. “Kissing is not a proper topic to discuss, sir.” She had kissed a lad once, though she never would own to it.
“It may not be proper, it’s certainly very interesting,” he chuckled.
“Sir! I assure you I am not about to discuss whom I have and whom I have not kissed. Especially with you. Goodness’ sakes, you are the head of Clan Grant.”
He dipped his chin, and intensity filled his eyes. That and unquestioning sincerity. “I would never reveal your secrets to anyone.”
“Even though I am a Cameron?”
He gestured from wall to wall. “Here in this bothy, we are but two souls stranded in a snowstorm.” He dug inside his sporran and presented her with a pair of dice. “Have you ever played hazard?”
“N-no. Is it not a gamer’s sport?”
“Och, ’tis a simple game of main, nicks, outs, and chance. And I thought—”
Janet shook her head. “I have nothing with which to place a wager.”
“If you would allow me to continue…I thought it might be amusing if the loser of each main revealed a secret about themselves.”
She tapped her lip. It sounded innocent enough, and Janet would quite like to learn more about His Lairdship. “You have no qualms about telling me your secrets?”
“Not especially.”
“Does the winner ask a question to which the loser must reply, or does the loser volunteer something?”
“What would you be most comfortable with?”
“Volunteering. Most definitely.”