The logical solution would be to stay, gather his strength, and then leave to resume his search for his sister. But in his heart, Lash knew that it wasn’t as simple as healing. Not anymore. He scowled down at his boots as if the fault lay with them for failing to react.
“I will stay,” he muttered, and Lash swore her smile reached the stars.
“Good, I will inform the servants and tenants to be on the lookout for suspicious riders so that we are not caught off guard again,” Hugh said.
Lash nodded. It still did not sit well with him to put them in danger, but he decided he would trust them. As loathe as he was to admit, he needed the MacCallans.
“And since we have been ordered to remain in the castle, perhaps you can teach us the Flamenco,” Honoria suggested, her smile sly as a fox’s.
Lash inwardly groaned.
“What the deuce is Flamenco?” Hugh asked.
“Sounds like a tropical language,” Isla said.
A string of vile curses violated his mind. Teaching Honoria to dance . . . It would set fire to his blood. He was sure of it. Already, with the barest of mention of it, his body coiled in anticipation of watching her move along the rhythm of the music. And it was a language, of sorts. Only this language he spoke with his body, and not his mouth. It was a language of passion, of love.
Honoria was still watching him, doubtlessly sensing his discomfort. Women did things like that. Theysensedthings. Things better left not sensed at all. And as her smiled widened, he couldn’t help recall Hugh’s words.
My sister has taken an interest in you.
Damn if he hadn’t taken an interest in her, too.
