Highland Thief Read online

  She would save those for later to go with the oats.

  By the time she returned with a basketful of wood and a handful of berries, he’d caught another plump brown trout.

  “Just in time for you to gut the fish,” he announced with a wicked grin. He laid the dead fish on a log and handed her a knife.

  “You think I canna do it?” she asked indignantly.

  “Do you think you can do it?” he asked with a raised brow.

  She knew it was a challenge, and she made a derogatory sound in the back of her throat before taking the knife from him and picking up the fish. She had a moment of regret as she admired the finned animal’s beautiful coloring—the yellow scales on its belly almost golden in the sunlight, and the brown speckles on top looking almost red in certain places—but then her stomach growled and she turned her attention back to what Kerr was telling her.

  The knife was a bit unwieldy because it was made for Kerr’s bigger hand, but she finished without any real problems. Cutting into the dead fish didn’t bother her nearly as much as seeing the poor thing suffocate.

  He nodded approvingly at her work, and a spark of pride burst in her chest.

  “Now what?” she asked eagerly.

  “Rinse it, and then you can start the fire. And doona get any fish guts on your clothes. They will stink, and you havenae any others to wear.”

  “Now you tell me,” she grumbled.

  “’Tis common sense, Isobel.”

  She rolled her eyes when she turned her back on him and returned to the creek. Finding a shallow spot, she crouched down on a rock and rinsed the fish. When she was done, she checked for any guts on her clothes…and sighed. They were filthy—even more so than when she’d wrestled with Kerr on the embankment earlier.

  The memory made her smile, but then she got a whiff of her plaid and wrinkled her nose. It stank of horses, fish, and the musty smell of dirt. And her hair! She could only imagine how tangled it must be. This morning she’d been so excited to go fishing that she’d rushed through her ablutions and then barely brushed her messy blond strands before loosely braiding them.

  Her hair now hung around her face, and she tsked when she spotted a dead leaf in it. After pulling it out, she picked up the fish and headed back to where Kerr stood beside a shallow pit surrounded with rocks.

  “Is that for the fire?” she asked curiously.

  “Aye. You doona want to light the grass aflame. The dirt and rocks stop the flames from spreading to the forest.”

  She carefully laid down the fish and moved toward him. He squatted on his haunches and inspected the pile of dead branches and twigs she’d collected earlier. “This is good for the kindling. We’ll lay the bigger pieces on top to sustain the flames. The wood is dry, and as you can see,” he broke a branch in half, “it snaps easily. That’s how you can tell if it’s dry enough.”

  “But?” she asked.

  “But we still need an inner layer of tinder—bark, dried leaves, dead grass. Material that will easily catch fire.”

  “All right.” She rose and headed to a downed tree on the edge of the clearing and pulled off some pieces of bark that were dried out and curling upward. She brought them back to the fire pit and then gathered up whatever dried leaves and grass she could find.

  “Is that enough?” she asked when her arms were full.

  “Nay. Double that amount. You’d be surprised how fast you go through it. And the last thing you want when you’re nursing a flame is to run out and have to go back for more.”

  She gathered up additional tinder and piled it within the fire pit. Next, she picked up some twigs. “Do I lay the smallest pieces on first?”

  “Some people do. I’ve always mixed the kindling with the bigger sticks and built them up around the tinder like this…” He turned his hands sideways and crossed one of them over the other at right angles to demonstrate. “And then I cross-hatch them over the top and pile more tinder on the roof. The layering leaves enough space between the wood so the air can flow through and feed the flames.”

  She pursed her lips, picked up twigs and branches, and tried to erect walls around the tinder how he’d described. When a branch was too long, she broke it into pieces with a grunt. Kerr picked up another branch to help her, but she pinned him in place with her stare. He slowly lowered the branch and backed away from her with his arms raised and eyes wide.

  When she sighed in frustration a moment later, he raised one brow. On her nod, he reached out and straightened her wood a little. “Think of it as building a very windy cabin around the tinder. At the front is an open door, preferably facing the wind, where you can strike the spark inside. That way, the wind can blow the flames into the wood around it.”

  When she finally finished, she excitedly took the striker and flint from him. Several sparks failed to reach the tinder. One landed on her skirt and singed a wee hole. Another time, she knocked the striker into her little cabin and had to rebuild that section. But she finally got the hang of it, and when a spark landed on the dried leaves and began to burn, she let out an excited squeal.

  “You’ve done it, lass!” Kerr exclaimed. “Now blow on it gently, the same as I showed you last night.”

  She tucked her hair behind her ears and leaned down to the wee door, using soft puffs of air to fan the flames. When she could see the bigger pieces burning on their own, she sat back with a satisfied sigh and a happy smile on her face.

  Behind her, Kerr squeezed her shoulder.

  She raised her hand and laid it over his. “What do I do now?”

  “You cook us our breakfast.”

  ***

  “’Tis a good thing we didn’t make oatcakes,” Isobel said, laying the small plate that Kerr had packed for them at her feet. Wee bones from the fish lined the edge. Kerr had shown her how to de-bone it after cooking, but some of them had remained behind.

  “Why? Doona you like them?” he asked from across the fire.

  “I love them. But I doona know how I would have managed to flip them and fry the fish at the same time. I was afraid I would burn everything as it was, and all I had to do was stir the oats. ’Twas verra stressful.”

  “It gets easier with practice. But if you’re worried about something burning, you can always take it off the fire for a minute. ’Tis what I do sometimes.”

  “I didn’t think of that.”

  She picked up her bowl of oats and berries from the log beside her and stirred it before taking a spoonful.

  “Mmmm. This is good too. Why does everything taste so much better? The fish was the best I’ve e’er tasted.”

  “I told you,” Kerr said around a mouthful of oats. “Wait until we catch a duck and roast it o’er the fire. The meat is so succulent, it melts in your mouth.”

  “Can we do that tonight?” she asked.

  “Possibly. But you may be tired by then and not want to cook. The rest of the day will be busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Everything.”

  “We canna do everything. Surely you can narrow it down.”

  He grinned. “You’d be surprised. You said that you wanted to know all that Gregor taught me. Well, there’s a lot to learn in the woods.”

  “Can you teach me how to wash my clothes? They smell awful,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

  He froze, and his eyes darted to hers. “Your chemise too?”

  She felt the heat rise along her cheeks as she followed his train of thought. She wouldn’t have any dry clothes to wear if she washed her long linen undershirt as well. “Nay, I doona suppose so.” But then she blurted out, “Although it would be nice to have it clean too.”

  He blew out a puff of air and scraped his nails through his beard. “Aye, then. We’ll do it later. You can wear my shirt. It will cover most of you.”

  “But then what will you wear?” sh
e asked. Her heart was beating so fast and loud, she was sure he would see the vein pounding in her neck.

  He raised a wicked eyebrow, and despite her embarrassment, excitement darted around her body like a hummingbird in a flowering tree.

  She dropped her eyes and shoveled in the last few bites of oatmeal—best to have her mouth full, else she’d ask him to wash her clothes right now.

  When she finished eating, she picked up her plate and walked around the fire toward him. “I’ll take your dishes to the creek and rinse them.”

  And dunk myself in the water too, before I burst into flame.

  She reached for his empty dishes, but instead, he grasped her hand and laced their fingers together.

  “Thank you for breakfast, Izzy. ’Twas a feast for a king.” Then he pressed his lips to the back of her hand.

  “Um…thank you for teaching me,” she said, sounding strangled.

  He smiled, looking a little smug, and then kissed her fingers, leaving them hot and tingling. “When you come back, bring a bucket of water so we can douse the flames. We canna leave them burning unattended.”

  He handed her his dishes, and she fled.

  Sixteen

  “You promise not to look?” Isobel asked him.

  Kerr squeezed his thumb and forefinger over his eyes and tried to picture Gavin’s face glaring at him. Or better yet, Gavin’s and Gregor’s faces glaring at him. They stood in front of him in the woods, frowning down at him as he sat with his back against a tree—not peeking at Isobel.

  “Of course I willna look,” he said over his bare shoulder toward the creek below. He’d stripped off his shirt earlier and given it to her to change into after her dip in the cool water.

  “Because my shift will get wet washing my arisaid, and it willna hide anything.”

  He clenched his jaw to contain the demented laugh that rose in his throat. “I’m well aware of that, Izzy.”

  When the water splashed behind him, he puffed out a heavy breath and tried to distract himself from the scene he imagined taking place—her thin linen chemise soaked and clinging to her body as she washed her arisaid, the bar of soap he’d given her clenched in her hand, her hair rolled up and tied back in that mysterious way women had of securing it…although soft, silky strands had already started to escape the knot and tumble down the sides of her face.

  He bit back a groan.

  Or maybe she’d chosen to bathe first and was using the soap on herself, running her hands across her skin, pushing the lather over all those places he wanted to lick and kiss, her breasts lifting, her waist twisting and bending.

  He was rock-hard thinking about it—hell, he’d been rock-hard all day—and that part of him with a mind of its own was jutting upward obscenely against the soft wool of his plaid, thick and long and desperate for the soft clutch of Isobel’s body.

  This time he did groan. Loudly.

  “What was that?” she yelled from behind him.

  “’Tis naught,” he said and wrapped his hand over his plaid and around his cock, desperate to relieve the ache. It wouldn’t take much; he hadn’t touched another woman since he’d decided he wanted to marry Isobel.

  For four long years, his hand had been his only intimate companion.

  He’d tried to woo her during that time, but war, Ewan’s disappearance, and that thing between them, whatever it was, had gotten in the way. If she still rejected him after their time together here, he didn’t know what he would do.

  “Kerr!”

  “Aye?” he ground out.

  “How will I know when it’s done?”

  His mind was so clouded with need, he couldn’t discern her meaning. “When what’s done?”

  “My arisaid. How will I know when it’s clean?”

  “I doona know, Izzy. Just guess. Make sure you’ve squeezed soap through all of the material and then rinse it well.”

  “All right.”

  More splashing, and he gripped his fist harder around his cock before letting go and forcing his hands away. Nay, he couldn’t disrespect her in that way. He rose quickly and looked for something he could do—anything—to distract himself. He would find Diabhla and repack his supply bag. He was about to whistle for the stallion, when Isobel let out a high-pitched screech, and he spun toward her, his warrior rising in an instant as his mind honed in on how to keep her safe.

  “Isobel!” he yelled, drawing his sword and leaping down the embankment. His eyes darted around as he ran along the rocky shore toward her, but he couldn’t see any attackers.

  She clutched her soaked arisaid in front of her. “Turn around!” she screamed and took several steps backward, the water rising above her knees. “And doona step on your shirt or I’ll have to wash that too, and then what will I wear?”

  He slowed and glanced down. The shirt he had given her lay at his feet. Still dry, but definitely in need of cleaning after the day they’d had traipsing through the woods. He almost picked it up and threw it at her to teach her a lesson. She obviously wasn’t under attack or in any kind of trouble.

  He sheathed his sword and stared at her, hands on his hips and his brow furrowed. After several deep, hard breaths, he loosened his jaw enough to speak.

  “You screamed,” he said, trying not to notice the exposed curve of her hip on one side and the length of her thigh on the other.

  “You turned around,” she said accusingly.

  “I didn’t turn around until after you screamed.”

  “Well, you stood up, and I thought you were going to turn around.”

  “Why would I do that? I gave you my word. Does my promise mean nothing to you?”

  “Nay.” She chewed her lip guiltily. “I just…my nerves overwhelmed me.”

  He huffed out a frustrated breath and rolled his eyes heavenward—partly asking the Almighty for patience but also to avoid looking at Isobel directly. He was a powerful, determined laird. He could trust himself to keep his eyes up.

  But did she truly not trust him?

  There was an easy way to find out… And if Isobel agreed to do as he asked, it would tell him so much about the future of their relationship.

  He dropped his gaze back down and looked her directly in the eyes. “Have you rinsed out your dress?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then toss it to me so you can have your bath while I squeeze out the water.”

  Her jaw gaped. “I canna do that. Have you lost your mind?”

  “Nay.” He held out his hand to her. “Your dress, Isobel.”

  He could see in her face the moment she decided to do as he asked. Her chin lifted slightly, those rosebud-red lips pursed almost in defiance, and her shoulders pulled back. He almost punched the air in triumph. Isobel wanted him to see her like this—practically naked—otherwise she would never consider it.

  No one tells Isobel MacKinnon—soon to be MacAlister—what to do.

  She balled up her wet dress and lobbed it straight at his chest.

  He took his gaze from hers for only a second as he caught the dress. When he looked back, he tried to do the right thing—to anchor himself on her eyes and not look down—but she’d spun away from him and was stepping deeper into the water.

  And without her gaze to lock onto, he faltered.

  His eyes dropped from the bright halo of her hair piled on top of her head, slid down the length of her back, her waist tucked in at the bottom, and came to rest on the rounded globes of her backside—high and tight and curved like an apple he wanted to bite.

  His knees weakened.

  The wet chemise clung to her skin, dipped into the cleft of her arse, and molded over the tops of her legs, bringing to mind all the fantasies he’d had over the years about wrapping them around him.

  He took an involuntary step toward her, like a predator scenting its prey, only to have her dive be
neath the water. Her head appeared a moment later, her hair down and slicked back. He watched avidly as she worked her fingers through the strands and lifted her chemise over her head.

  She caught his gaze as she reached for the soap on a nearby rock, and then turned away from him and rose out of the creek up to her waist to wash her linen shift. Her hair, darkened and sleek from the water, hung down her naked back. “I thought you were going to squeeze out my dress?” she asked.

  “I am.”

  “Liar. You’re watching me.”

  He shook out the sodden material and wrung it with his hands. Water poured out onto the rocks at his feet. “There.”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “You’re still watching.”

  “You ne’er asked me to turn around.”

  When her only response was the sound of water splashing as she spun back and rinsed out her chemise, he couldn’t help the exultant smile that creased his face. She dipped under again up to her shoulders, and then faced him. He quickly schooled his features.

  “Here,” she said, and flung her chemise at him.

  He caught it easily.

  She dunked under again and appeared farther out into the creek, with the soap still in her hand. He couldn’t see beneath the water, but he assumed she was washing herself. He clenched his jaw as his imagination went wild—especially when her eyes landed on him…roaming his bare chest and stomach. And lower.

  There was no hiding his body’s response beneath his plaid, and he decided he didn’t want to. He liked having her eyes on him. Hopefully, her interest in his body was as keen as his interest was in hers.

  They were both vulnerable here, and he wanted her to know how much he desired her.

  For good measure, he flexed a little harder as he squeezed out her chemise, bulging his arms and shoulders, popping out his chest, and clenching his stomach. ’Twas a lucky happenstance he’d given her his shirt to put on.

  “Is it cold in there?” he asked as she lathered up the soap and rubbed it into her hair.

  If he saw her naked, he would even things up by showing her his body as well—preferably before he took his own dip in the cool water to rinse off the day’s dirt and sweat.