At that moment, Callum felt he could live on the warmth of her smile for a year. Mistress Shaw noticed Tara looking and poked her spitefully in the ribs, and she turned around and paid attention to the Reverend.
‘What an old hag,’thought Callum, fighting the urge to rise, grab Tara by the hand and flee from the kirk so that he could talk to her, though he had no idea what he would say.
Mistress Shaw glanced back again, sneered and shook her head at him. She knew exactly what he was about with his staring.
Callum went back to admiring Tara from across the pew as she sat with her head bowed and eyes cast down, not meeting anyone’s gaze. Her pale skin held the promise of silky softness and tenderness. The Reverend’s wife glared at any who dared look at her, but it was impossible not to.
Callum tore his eyes away and stared down at the Bible. It had pages yellowed with age and smudges left by many pairs of hands, eager to reach absolution through the word of God. He liked the feel of it in his hand – heavy, solid, the leather cover glossy with age. Yet he squirmed as the thought of how God must be judging him for the fire of lust that raged in his loins with every glance at Tara Hennaut.
To hell with it. He was damned already by his infatuation with the lass. Time seemed to stand still as he stared at the back of her blonde head, bowed in contemplation. Her hair was done in a simple bun, and he imagined it loose, falling in golden waves down her back. Was it as soft as it looked? Her profile was delicate and so bonnie, with a rosy glow to her cheeks from the cold's nip, and she had the longest lashes of any woman he had ever seen.
Bryce, sighing his impatience at his shoulder, brought Callum back to reality as the Reverend warmed to his subject.
‘Do not lust and slaver after decent women. Remember, the Bible tells us, ‘But I say to you, anyone who looks on a woman to lust after her has committed adultery with her already in his heart.’
The words were like arrows in Callum’s heart, and shame took him. Was he soiling Tara Hennaut’s innocence with his lewd thoughts? Yet whenever he looked upon her, he could not help a pulse of lust so potent, it was almost painful.
Suddenly Tara stole a glance at him and saw him watching her. Her big brown eyes widened, and then she frowned. Callum jerked his eyes away and stared at the Reverend Shaw, who was now heartily extolling the virtues of wedlock as a means of staving off lust. ‘Tis better to marry than to burn with passion,’ he boomed.
He droned on, and Callum fidgeted in his seat. Bryce only just stifled a yawn.
‘Do not seek to gratify the desires of the flesh at the expense of your immortal soul,’ cried the Reverend.
Finally, after a cold two hours of sermonising and singing in the kirk, along with a good deal of fidgeting by a chilled congregation, the worshippers rose and filed outside. The wind had not abated, and as the congregation melted away, the Shaws lingered to talk to friends.
Bryce, however, was most eager to get away. ‘Are you coming, now that I have suffered this fool’s errand on account of our friendship,’ he complained. ‘That blasted hole was as cold as the grave.’
‘No,’ said Callum, resuming his staring.
‘Well, I’m off to find a fire, and you are the biggest fool that ever was, Callum Ross. Mark me. This will not end well.’
Callum barely noticed when Bryce rode off. Mistress Shaw turned to talk to an acquaintance, and Tara pulled her plaid up around her head and huddled into it. Now was his chance. He took a deep breath and strode over to her, with one eye on Mistress Shaw.
But when Tara looked up at him, his words dried in his throat, and instead of a more formal greeting, he barked, ‘Tis too cold to be standing up here on this hill.’
‘I…I have to wait for the Shaws, Laird Ross,’ she replied.
‘They should not keep you waiting out here,’ he murmured as he stared down at her. With just her face visible, Tara’s eyes seemed huge in her delicate, pale face. There were lilac shadows underneath them, and when she bit her lip, she seemed so vulnerable and frail that he wanted to sweep her into his arms and shelter her.
‘And your mother is not with you today?’
‘My mother?’ she said, with a horrified look on her face. Perhaps he had overstepped the mark, being so familiar.
‘Aye.’
She clasped her hands together stiffly - small, neatly-trimmed nails, soft pink, like the lining of a shell, and with not a speck of dirt underneath. ‘Mr Ross, my mother passed two years ago.’
Callum’s face burned, and he sputtered, ‘But that buxom lady on the moors, the one with the bows and the little dog. Is she your aunt then?’
‘Oh, you mean Mistress McGovern? She is no relation. The lady was just sharing a carriage with me.’
‘Ah. I see. He glanced over at Mistress Shaw. So that’s why Tara had the Reverend’s wife as a chaperone. ‘If I gave offence, forgive me. I assumed you were related as you were so kind and attentive to her.’
‘I hope I am never lacking in kindness, Sir, even to strangers,’ she said, rather archly.
‘No, indeed,’ he replied. She was not currently being very kind to him as she had now turned away slightly, and it felt like a dismissal. Yet Callum was rooted to the spot and could not turn his eyes from her soft face.
Suddenly Tara frowned and said, ‘What fault do you find to stare at me so, Sir?’