CAMERON ARRIVED HOME late that afternoon, tired, dusty and itching from bits of thatching straw caught in his hair and clothing, but well pleased. They'd made a good start on the repairs that the estate so badly needed.
Not wanting to present himself to his wife in his dusty state, he'd stripped to his breeks and washed under the pump in the yard behind the kitchen.
Clean, refreshed and still dripping, he stepped inside. "Afternoon Mrs. Baines. Something smells good. Would you happen to know where I might find my wife?"
The cook shook her head. "Laird, Laird, Laird. Must ye drip water all over my good clean floor?" She handed him a towel
Cameron grinned and dutifully towel-dried his dripping torso and hair. Having known Mrs. Baines all his life, he appreciated the slightly acerbic undertone she'd given to "Laird," giving him to understand that as far as she was concerned he was still the grubby urchin who'd tracked mud across her floors, stealing biscuits and cakes on the way. He tossed her the damp towel and eyed a batch of oatcakes, fresh from the oven and cooling on a rack.
She followed his gaze. "Don't you dare—och! Serve you right if you burn your mouth."
He demolished the hot oatcake in two bites. "My wife?"
"Upstairs, I think. She took tea this afternoon with your uncle. Last I heard she was in her bedchamber. Mrs. Findlay might know."
Cameron frowned. Damn his uncle. What the devil had he said to Jeannie? He knew he shouldn't have left her alone on this first day. He should have gone with her to Uncle Charles, defended her from his snobbery and superior attitudes. Grabbing another oatcake, he hurried away and took the stairs two at a time.
Quietly he opened his bedchamber door and found Jeannie curled up in the window seat, reading a small blue book. "Jeannie?"
She looked up and to his acute dismay, her eyes were filled with tears. It was worse than a punch in the chest
The bastard. He crossed the floor in two strides. "What did he say to you—och, don't look at me like that, lass—I'll send him away." He pulled out a handkerchief, saw it was dirty, tossed it aside and used his thumbs to gently wipe her tears away. Her skin was like silk. "Tell me what he said."
She blinked. "What who said?"
"My cursed uncle. Whatever he's done, I'll fix it."
Her brow puckered slightly. "But he was very kind."
"Kind?"
She nodded and held up the book. "He gave me this."
Cameron glanced at the book. "A book?"
She gave a shaky little laugh, tears and smiles at the same time. "Not just any book." She opened it and showed him the title page. "My very favorite book in all the world."
Cameron stared at it glumly as she burbled happily on. Poetry, he might have known.
"And then, when he found out I didn't own a copy, he gave me his. As a bride gift." Tears welled again, but her smile was luminous. "I've been reading and rereading it all afternoon."
"Ah. A bride gift." And one that from her reaction would be a thousand times better than his own simple blue shawl. Poetry. Cameron stared at her helplessly, then bent and carefully thumbed her tears away.
Her eyes dropped to his chest. And stayed there.
Cameron abruptly recalled that he was naked from the waist up. His mouth dried.
A single tear remained, glistening on her cheek. It took all his strength not to kiss it from her, to taste the salt of her tears and the fragrance of her skin.
She seemed absorbed by his chest, his very bare chest. It was a slow caress, almost tangible, though she hadn't moved a muscle. He swallowed.
Her gaze dropped to where skin met breeks.
His stomach muscles clenched with the effort to fight his growing arousal.
She wasn't trying to seduce him, he could tell. He'd been seduced by enough girls and women to know the difference between calculated seductiveness, and feminine curiosity.
The temptation to lean forward and encourage that curiosity was overwhelming. But he knew what would follow—his body was one great aching knot of lust for her—and his control was on a knife edge.
