With just over two weeks to go to the release of my novel, Highland Arms, I thought I'll tease you a little with a scene from Chapter Three.
This one's for the girls! ;-)
Yes, she’d just have to convince Auntie Meg—and Rory Cameron—that she simply had to stay.
Her mind made up, she rose and wrapped a thick blanket around her shoulders. As her bare feet touched the wooden floor, she hissed at the chill. With no maid to call upon, she left her room and went downstairs in search of the kitchen. The thought of a warming cup of tea raised her spirits. Then she’d continue to set her plan into motion.
She pushed the kitchen door open and stopped short. Standing by the mullioned window, in front of
a large bowl overflowing with water, was Rory Cameron. He turned as he heard the door. Catriona
caught her breath, and grabbed the handle, letting go of the blanket.
Water dripped over his head and down his torso, trickling in small rivulets over his kilt held by a broad belt with a round silver buckle in a Pagan design of interlacing swirls. The light curls of hair on his tanned chest glistened with moisture. His shoulder-length hair was unbound, falling softly over taut muscle. A dry smile told her she was staring at him. Again.
She swallowed hard. “I...” She stuttered. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Cameron.” She averted her gaze to her feet. “I was just looking for a pot of tea. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
The insufferable man laughed as he grabbed a piece of cloth and began to pat himself dry. “I don’t think you did.” He shook his head, sending strands flying before rubbing it vigorously. “And it’s Rory, remember?” He grinned. Catriona stood rooted to the spot. Words failed her. Her mouth went dry.
“But tell me...” He went on. “Do you always venture into the kitchen so early? If so, you’d better get dressed next time.”
Transfixed by his mocking gaze, her cheeks heated as she became aware of her own state of undress. What an impression was she giving him with her hair falling loosely over her shoulders, and the blanket barely covering her modesty?
Oh, dear God, the blanket!
(c) Cathie Dunn 2011