How could she be after she had heard him laugh? The sound of it, that wondrous joyful sound, had unlocked something in her heart. And knowing she’d been the cause of that laughter—even if indirectly—had given her more pleasure than she would have ever imagined possible.
She wanted him to laugh for her again. She wanted him to look at her in the way that made her skin tingle. She wanted him to touch. She wanted him.
No, she wasn’t at all certain she hadn’t been meant for someone.
And yes, she very much wanted him to kiss her.
Just in case he was considering the possibility, she wrapped her arms a little tighter around his neck, drawing their faces closer. His hair tickled her fingers and she had a strong urge to reach up and undo the tie that restrained it. It was wet now, turning the normally rich brown to nearly black. It looked rather dashing, really, like a pirate from one of Kate’s novels. She wondered again what it would feel like to run her hands through it. And wondered if it was strange that she couldn’t stop wondering.
Her fingers twitched of their own accord. It was the smallest of movements, just a brushing along the skin of his neck, but McAlistair clearly felt it. His gaze snapped to hers and for a moment she was certain, absolutely certain, she saw her own desire reflected in his eyes.
Surely, he would kiss her.
Without looking away, he set her down, letting her feet slowly slide to the muddy shore. It seemed only a single heartbeat passed while she stood in his arms, caught in his gaze, every nerve in her body dancing.
Suddenly, his jaw tightened, and his eyes snapped away. She thought perhaps he shuddered once, but it may well have been her and then he let her go.
“I’ll pack our things. Put your boot back on.” With that staggeringly unromantic comment, he handed her the boot, turned away, and headed for the blanket.
He wasn’t going to kiss her.
Because he couldn’t see her with his back turned, she indulged herself and mimed tossing the boot at his head.
I’ll pack our things? Put your boot back on? Of all the wonderful, tender things he might have said or done in that moment, that was the very best he could do?
Hurt warred with irritation. It was only natural she found the irritation easier to swallow. She walked to the grass, sat down, and shoved her foot into the soggy boot.
She didn’t need tender, romantic moments from the likes of James McAlistair, she fumed. She certainly didn’t need him to kiss her. She’d been caught up in another fantastical moment, that was all. And hadn’t she berated herself once already for being too fanciful where he was concerned?
Apparently, she’d been in need of a reminder.
She scowled at his back and decided his hair didn’t look dashing in the least. It just looked wet. Maybe even a little mucky.
She returned her attention to the laces on her boots.
Running her hands through mucky hair didn’t sound at all appealing, now that she thought on it. Likely as not, she’d get her fingers caught in a snarl.
The image of that, of getting her hand hopelessly snagged in his hair, was just absurd enough to make her smile.
“Mood passing?” McAlistair asked in an off hand manner.
She glanced at him, and found him watching her. Her instinct was to sniff primly and turn away, but she pushed it aside. He hadn’t actually done something to merit her anger. It wasn’t required that he find her attractive, after all. And who could blame him for not, she thought with a rueful look at her muddy gown. She must look an absolute fright.
Also, she’d sniffed (primly, haughtily, or otherwise) at least three times in the last half hour. A fourth would probably be overdoing it.
She concentrated on wringing the water out of her hair. “I’m not in a mood,” she said carefully, and hoped he believed it.
He raised one brow, but refrained from comment.
She shrugged at the expectant look. “Just a trifle tired. And unquestionably damp. How much farther is the cottage?”
“Another three hours, give or take.” He picked up the folded blanket. “We should be on our way.”
She wrung water from her skirts. “But we’re wet.”
“We were wet yesterday.”
“For less than an hour. You said it was three yet to the cottage.” She looked at the horses. “It hardly seems fair, to weigh them down unnecessarily.”
“It’s water, not rock,” he pointed out, packing the blanket into one of the saddlebags. “I suspect they’ll manage.”
“I don’t know that I will.” The chafing alone—
“If you’d rather wait a bit, we can.”
She opened her mouth to agree, then shut it again, realizing that doing so meant sitting next to McAlistair, feeling embarrassed—and embarrassingly needy—for the next half hour. It would be unbearably awkward.
“I…” She struggled to come up with a creative alternative. “I think…I think I’d like a small walk.”
“A walk,” he repeated, and really, who could blame him? As creative alternatives went, it was undeniably lame.