She detected a slight note of bitterness and wasn’t entirely certain how to take that. “No’ all that ye are,” she muttered, laying the pin on his neckcloth.
He looked at her again, but this time, she saw the old, familiar twinkle of amusement in his gray eyes. He picked up his neckcloth. “I must insist that ye no’ destroy my clothing, Mared. Furthermore, donna tie neckcloths on cows and dogs. Conduct yerself as a housekeeper. Launder properly, clean properly, and donna lie about and watch others do yer work, aye? If ye do so, we’ll pass this year quickly enough.”
Mared sighed.
“Mared?” he asked, glancing at her from the corner of his eye as he attempted to tie his neckcloth.
“Aye, I understand that ye would have me do yer woman’s work. I understand that ye want me to clean and tend any bairns that might crop up and weed the gardens and feed the sick and prepare food and clothing and beds.”
“Aha,” he said, smiling a little. “I believe ye’ve got it.” He stood back, frowned at the tails of the neckcloth in his mirror, then unwound it again.
“And while I, the woman who is enslaved in this household, toil away at all the important tasks, pray tell what will be left to the mighty laird to do?”
He actually laughed a little as he began to wind the neckcloth again. “It is my solemn task to provide and protect our hearth and home,” he said, peering closely at his reflection in the mirror and his neckcloth, as the ends had come out uneven once more. He untied it.
“Ah, of course,” Mared said politely. “A man must be at liberty to sit about in his study, surrounded by servants and whiskey, and think of nothing but protecting his hearth and home!”
“Bravo, lass. Ye seem to grasp the basic tenets of how a man shall occupy his time.”
“Frankly, I’m a wee bit surprised that ye’ve managed to define the fairer sex as completely as ye have, seeing as how ye live without one.”
“Oh, I’ve no’ defined the fairer sex in her entirety,” he said with a hint of a smile. “There is at least one more function for which a woman is infinitely handy to have about. Lend a hand, will ye?” he asked, turning to her.
Mared sighed impatiently.
“This falls well within the bounds of tending to my clothing,” he said, sauntering toward her.
“Perhaps, but I should think a man of yer considerable stature would be capable of tying his own neckcloth. If ye learn to do it, we might count ye as handy to have about, too.”
He stopped before her, smiled down at her, and said quietly, seductively, “Go on, then, lass…lend a hand.”
She reluctantly took the neckcloth he held out to her and stood on her tiptoes, draped it around his neck, then measured the ends against one another, blatantly ignoring his dark smile and the way his gaze roamed her face, or the surge of energy that seemed to flow between them, much as it had that day at the pool.
“By the by, lest ye doubt it,” he said quietly as she began to wrap the cloth, “I assure ye that I am handy to have about for more than one task.”
She knew very well that was true, and the memory made heat rise rapidly to her face. “Aye. Someone must do the ordering about,” she quipped, her eyes steady on his neckcloth.
“No,” he said, his gaze on hers. “That’s no’ what I meant at all, and ye know it. Frankly, I think it rather a pity that ye shall never know how handy I am.”
She wanted desperately to press a cool cloth to her face. She squinted at his neckcloth. “Ye must think me na?ve,” she said flatly, pleased that she was able to speak at all with her heart fluttering so helplessly in her chest.
“Na?ve? Absolutely,” he said with a lopsided grin. “Clever? Even more so.”
She couldn’t help her smile in return. “I am indeed clever, for at least I know how to tie a neckcloth,” she said and gave it a firm yank.
“Ow,” he choked, and with a slight grimace, he reached up, wrapped his thick fingers around her wrist. “It need no’ be so bloody tight—”
“No?”
“No!”
She loosened it. “There now,” she said, smiling happily.
He grinned at her impudence, provoking flutters of her heart and little waves of pleasurable anticipation. His hand was still on her wrist, and he casually slid his fingers around, caressing her skin. “If only ye were as tender with the laundry as ye are with the tying of my neckcloth,” he murmured.
“If only,” she said, matching his smile with a coy one of her own. “Will ye have me pin the cloth, milord? Or do ye intend to hold my wrist all night?”
He chuckled and casually caressed her wrist. “Killjoy.”
Her gaze fell to his lips. “Scoundrel,” she murmured, one brow rising above the other.