“Certainly.” She swept her arm around. “For you admire the woman who admires all this.”
“Youadmire all this, don’t you?”
Miss Windermere’s brow gathered in bemusement. “I do,” she said slowly.
Rory opened his mouth to say that, aye, he did admire the woman who admired all this, and that woman wasn’t Miss Dalhousie. But then he noticed something above his head. The sky, namely. It was transforming into an ominous shade of purplish-slate.
He slung his knapsack over his shoulder and shot to his feet. “If we start now, we might make it back to Baile Ìm before the storm breaks.”
“Storm?” Miss Windermere tipped her face toward the sky. A fat droplet of rain landed on her nose. “Oh.”
The wind chose that moment to start blowing.
She pushed to her feet and scrambled to follow him. “Do you think we have twenty minutes?” she called out to his back.
“It’s all downhill,” he tossed over his shoulder. “We can make it in ten.”
But eight minutes later, the sky decided the time had arrived to relieve itself of its burden, and unloaded a torrent of rain onto their heads. Rory reached back. “Take my hand,” he yelled. “I know a place nearby.”
A rapid beat of the heart later her cold, wet hand slipped into his, and he tightened his grip around it, careful not to lose her. Within thirty seconds, they were shoving beneath an old lean-to shelter that needed a good tearing-down, though he was thankful for it today—even with its roof that leaked and absence of walls to protect them from the wind.
Instinctively, they huddled close to the old oak that provided the lean-to’s only reliable support.
With not a foot of space separating them, it occurred to Rory that he’d never stood this close to Miss Windermere.
No, that wasn’t true.
Yesterday, he’d caught her in his arms, giving him a feel for the substance of her body.
And today, she’d given him a feel for the substance of her mind.
And each only made him want to know more of both.
She lifted her hand and, before he knew what she was about, she’d swiped a layer of rainwater off his cheek. “See? My hand is wet.” She smiled. “Youare wet.”
A laugh roared out of him. He lifted a sodden clump of hair that had escaped her chignon. “Youare a sopping wet mess, Miss Windermere.”
And the laugh that sprang from her was pure joy to his ears. A messy Miss Windermere—so opposite her usual poised and perfect self—was a sight he’d pay to see.
“Can I offer you my greatcoat?” he asked.
“My pelisse is sufficient.”
His eyes narrowed on her. He should’ve expected that reply.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Your lips are taking on a hue of lavender.”
A smile quirked about her purplish lips. “And how does that make you feel?”
A tick of time beat by before they burst into laughter. But in the next instant, Rory felt himself turn serious.
He knew exactly how it made him feel.
Before his mind caught up with what his hand was doing, he was reaching out and cupping the nape of her neck, his other hand sliding around to the small of her back, drawing her into the warmth of his open greatcoat. Her face tipped up, and eyes clear as green ocean glass met his.
“It makes me feel like warming them up,” he muttered into the space between their mouths.