The rest of him was completely and deliciously bare.
Mared felt the heat rise up in her face as she glanced at the thin line of hair snaking up out of his trousers, over the flat plane of his stomach, and to a very muscular chest. His golden brown hair was wet and brushed back and touched broad shoulders that looked as if they were capable of holding up the entire world. His square jaw was cleanly shaven. He folded his arms across his chest, muscles protruding beneath his skin as he watched her staring at him.
She gulped down the unwelcome lump of longing and tried to think what to do instead of imagining what he might look like completely naked. Unfortunately, her thoughts were rather jumbled and her entire body seemed intent on looking at him.
He was, judging by his glacial expression, quite aware that she was ogling him, and while she knew it was unseemly and really quite rude, she could not, no matter how she tried, turn her gaze away. He was just so…breathtakingly handsome. Desirable. Delectable. She would, she thought baldly, were she a harlot and he not a Douglas, very much like to swim with him in the loch.
Payton cleared his throat; she jerked her gaze from the obvious outline of his male parts to his eyes. “Are ye quite finished with yer inspection, then?”
Her blush deepened and she looked away. “I, ah…” She looked at the ceiling. The bed. The floor. Anywhere but at him. “I beg yer pardon, milord, but ye did indeed startle me,” she reminded him.
“That is why, Miss Lockhart, I bid ye to wait a moment.”
She risked a peek at him from the corner of her eye. He was still staring at her, half-naked, as if he expected her to speak. How could she possibly speak to him when he looked so magnificent? Damn him, but it rendered her completely incapable of reasoned thought. “I didna hear ye well,” she said.
“Obviously.”
Was it her imagination, or was there the barest hint of a smile in his gray eyes?
He put his hand to his waist. “What is this, Miss Lockhart? Why are ye blushing like a maid? Surely ye’ve seen a man before now.”
“Of course I have,” she said hastily and cleared her throat. “I mean to say, I’ve two brothers, ye’ll recall.”
“How could I possibly forget them?” he drawled.
She put her hand to her nape and looked at the floor. “Ah…beg yer pardon, but Mr. Beckwith said ye had clothing that needed repair.”
He snorted. “Repair is putting it kindly. Replacement is more likely. I warned ye to have a care with the laundering.”
“I donna know what ye mean,” she lied.
“I mean,” he said, walking to the bed and picking up a shirt from it, “that when I saw the purple neckcloths, I foolishly gave ye the benefit of the doubt. I know ye donna want to be here, but I’ll no’ abide such carelessness with the clothing.”
“I’m no’ careless,” she protested.
“Then explain this, if ye will,” he said, and with one hand still on that trim waist, he held up a shirt with one finger. A blue shirt. A blue shirt that had once been very white. “’Tis abominable.”
Abominable. What he’d done was abominable, enslaving her and then making her come out of the pool when she wasn’t decent. She was so offended by his attitude, she frowned at him. “I’ve done what ye’ve commanded, sir! I told yer Mr. Beckwith I had no notion how to launder, and he wouldna help me in the least!”
“And why would ye assume Beckwith would know a whit about laundering, lass? He’s a man, a butler, and men and butlers are no’ in the business of laundering clothes!”
“That, sir, is yer fault.”
“That, miss, is the way of the world. Now come closer, will ye, and look what ye’ve done.”
“There’s no need. I saw it plainly the day I laundered it,” she said, folding her arms tightly.
“Aye, but I’d like for us to look at it together. Come here,” he said sternly.
Mared sniffed and reluctantly walked forward. He held the blue shirt out on his finger. She gave him a look of impatience, tried to ignore the pleasing scent of his cologne, his freshly washed skin, and stared down at the garment. It was indeed awfully blue—it had not looked quite so blue in the moonlight when she gathered it from the drying bench. And he’d kindly not even mentioned the wrinkles.
“I suppose this is yer idea of revenge, aye? To ruin my clothing when I have fourteen guests arriving within the hour?”
“Fourteen!” she exclaimed.
“Aye. Fourteen. Now what shall I wear, Miss Lockhart?”
“Ach, ye’ve plenty ye might wear,” she said with an impertinent flick of her wrist. “Ye’d know it if ye looked in yer wardrobe instead of leaving that to others.”
“Thank ye for the advice. Now if ye would, fetch me a white shirt.”
Mared tossed the shirt onto the bed and whirled around, marching for the dressing room.