Irritated with himself for blurting out such a question, he scowled as he flicked his fingers toward her lips. “Did ye glue a caterpillar to yer face? Because that is what it looks like.”
One set of fingertips rose to press the clump of hair farther against her skin. “‘Tis a mustache,” she mumbled, no longer able to meet his eyes.
“Were ye hoping to pass as a lad at the competition?” He softened his tone, knowing ‘twas anger at himself that had him irritable. “’Twill never work. Ye’re far too beautiful—“
Her gaze snapped to his. “Aye, ‘twill work,” she interrupted. “Yer men look at me and see a lad.”
“My men are obviously blind.”
“‘Tis the mustache,” she declared smugly.
He cocked his head as he studied her. Nay, ‘twas not the mustache—or rather, not only the mustache. ‘Twas the assurance in the way she rode, the boldness in how she met his eyes. Robena’s shoulders were wider, her face broader, than some of her sisters. He knew—from long walks with her through the gardens—that she didn’t consider herself beautiful, but she was wrong.
Her beauty was strength and power and confidence.
Which, with a mustache, aye, helped disguise her as a lad.
She smirked at him. “I’m right, are I no’?”
“Ye’re going back to Oliphant Castle, is what ye’re doing.”
Her horse stepped sideways, and ‘twas easy to imagine it being a response to some subtle reaction of hers.
“Ye’d lose a day of travel to take me back now, and I ken ye’d no’ send me alone.”
She was right, of course. He was still irritated she’d come all this way without a weapon to defend herself against wild animals or wilder men. Mayhap she felt protected since she was still on Oliphant land?
“Ye think I wouldnae welcome the delay?” he growled, leaning far enough to one side to clamp a hand on her knee. “Ye think I wouldnae appreciate the chance to postpone my fate?”
Her big brown eyes had grown even wider and he didn’t miss the way her pulse jumped in her throat as she stared at him.
That wasn’t fear he saw…’twas desire. And beneath his kilt, his cock jumped in response right about the same time he realized where his hand was.
Her knee.
Her bare knee.
The lass was wearing a kilt, which had hiked up on one side, and he was holding her bare knee. With his hand. Which was on her knee.
He likely should have some sort of response to that, but at that moment, his mind seemed stuck on those relevant thoughts: hand knee bare cock hand bare.
“Kester,” she whispered, her lips barely moving, and he found himself leaning toward her, as she leaned toward him.
Thank the saints she caught herself, gave herself a little shake.
“Laird MacBain.” She straightened in her saddle. “I ken ye capable of returning me to—to Oliphant Castle.” Her emphasis made him wonder if she understood his feelings about the delay. “But I ask ye to reconsider.”
She was being so formal and stiff.
Like yer cock.
He winced, knowing he deserved both miseries.
And then her hand dropped atop his. “Please.”
She wasn’t begging. She wasn’t demanding. She was just…being polite, her tone unusually empty.
He knew her well enough to know she had control over her tone. So, if that’s how she sounded, that’s how she wanted to sound.