“Grab the basket of peonies,” she said. “I’d like to arrange a three-foot section to get an idea of how many we’ll need on performance night.”
He wanted to tell hernoin no uncertain terms, but he also wanted to be involved. For it was very clear that if he didn’t do as she asked then she would simply ask someone else. A spare Dalhousie lad would happily volunteer, no doubt. And Rory needed to be close in case—when—something happened.
In silence, they worked together as Rory handed up one peony after another, Miss Windermere taking them. It was with no small amount of relief that he handed her the final flower. All she had to do was stick it in the garland and descend.
But with the final peony, Miss Windermere miscalculated and stretched her arm a hair too far, her weight tipping left and making the ladder wobble to one side. Luckily, Rory had just returned both hands to the ladder and was able to tighten his grip and steady it.
A nervous, little laugh escaped Miss Windermere. No small amount of relief in that laugh.
Unluckily, she overcompensated to the right and tilted off-balance entirely, tumbling off the ladder and falling—
Into arms Rory only just got into cradling position in the nick of time.
He was no small man, but his knees nearly buckled beneath him when the full force of her weight hit. Though tall and willowy, Miss Windermere didn’t lack substance.
Warm body snugged against him, face inches from his, he met her direct emerald gaze. His lungs forgot how to breathe and his heart forgot how to beat and the Earth might’ve forgot how to turn on its axis.
Her hair had come loose from its knot at the base of her neck and now spilled over her shoulders in waves of black silk, releasing a scent of sage and jasmine. Miss Windermere’s scent, he now knew.
What intriguing intimacies she’d unwittingly shared with him—the scent of her…the feel of her.
He’d been holding her for a few ticks of time too long.
But he didn’t seem to know how to stop, for she felt…right…in his arms.
Then Delilah was there, and he was releasing Miss Windermere.
Physically.
The memory of her wouldn’t be so easily surrendered.
He found himself talking, his voice a gruff approximation of itself. “Shall I collect you here on the morrow for our, erm, wander-about? Ten of the clock?”
“Or,” she began, “perhaps it would be easier for your morning duties if I meet you at Baile Ìm around midday tea?”
He nodded. That was most considerate of her.
Delilah’s eyebrows crinkled so deeply on her forehead, they might’ve left a permanent indentation. “Wander-about?What wander-about?”
“Kilmuir has volunteered to show me places similar to those Scáthach would’ve experienced,” Miss Windermere lied, cool.
“Did he?” This from Ravensworth, who was watching the proceedings with entirely too much knowing in his eyes.
But the man didn’t know anything, and Rory intended to keep it that way.
Whatever was happening between him and Miss Windermere…
He felt oddly protective of it.
And he had a feeling it wouldn’t bear up against too much scrutiny.
It was time to leave. But he had one more thing to say to Miss Windermere. “You’ll not be placing any more flowers today, correct?”
She drew herself up to her full height. “As it happens, I shall not.”
He nodded. “I’m off.”
“I’ll take that as my cue, as well,” said Ravensworth.