“That’s none of your business!” The words came out with a squeak as I smoothed my skirt protectively over my thighs. What a perv! Did he really just march me all the way up here in the hopes of getting lucky?
Expression still aghast, he pointed at me. “You made it my business, just now, with your little announcement. Didn’t you?”
Prince or no prince, this was going too far. Duncan crossed a line and I wasn’t about to let him get away with it. “I don’t see why you feel entitled to have a say in whether a girl prefers pants or a skirt. Is there some royal decree I’m missing?”
“Hold up for a moment.” He furrowed his features, thinking hard. “When you say ‘pants,’ what exactly are ye talking about?”
With a frustrated roll of my eyes, I explained as patronizingly as possible. “Cloth that covers up your legs. It goes from your hips to your ankles. Like what you’re wearing.” I indicated the form-fitting clothing Duncan seemed to prefer over the traditional Scottish kilt. Not that I had any complaints.
“Oh.” His wide eyes blinked rapidly as he processed my description. Then he looked at me with a broad smile that dissolved into gut-wrenching laughter. “Tha’s a relief. I thought you were talking about not wearing any knickers.”
Knickers, pants—same thing. I failed to see what was so hilarious. “So?”
“Do me a favor—” He paused as he shook back and forth, not even bothering to wipe away the tears that rolled from the corners of his eyes. “Next time you have the urge to talk about your ‘pants,’ please use the word ‘trousers’ instead. Even ‘breeches’ would serve. Here in Doon, your pants are what’s worn under your trousers.”
Translating in my head, I tracked my way back to Duncan’s overblown reaction and the origin of our misunderstanding. If pants were the Doonian equivalent of underwear, and I’d just insisted—loudly and repeatedly—I wasn’t wearing any …
“You thought that I …? Agwk!”
I flopped face first onto the blanket and willed a gaping hole to swallow me up. It didn’t matter where I ended up—China, Wonderland, a turnip truck—anywhere was better than being forced to stay here and wallow in humiliation.
“It’s okay, woman. In Doon, any conversation about one’s knickers is strictly confidential. I wouldna betray your confidence.” Duncan tried to sound sincere, but tiny guffaws punctuated his speech.
Hyper aware of the blush creeping over my skin, I burrowed deeper into the quilt. Soon I would resemble a sunburned lobster. “I’m not talking to you anymore.”
“Suit yourself.” Duncan reclined on his side until his head was level with mine.
I tried to shut him out and focus on the quiet peacefulness of the glen: dappled sunlight caressing my skin, the soft musical chimes of the distant waterfall, birds calling back and forth in cheery chirps. But I couldn’t ignore the warm air that tickled my hairline each time he exhaled. Heat coaxed the clean scent of leather from his skin. Vibrancy rolled off him in waves and bathed me in undeniable awareness … so much so that I began to tremble.
I turned onto my side and opened my eyes to find him considering me with a half-smile. Determined not to be intimidated by his unwavering gaze, I stared back … for all of ten seconds. I’d always sucked at staring contests, undone by the urge to blink or laugh, or in this case the desire to kiss my opponent. Instead, I looked everywhere but his sincere brown eyes, and tried to pick apart his nearly flawless features.
Were his ears too big, and his slightly stubbled chin too square? Maybe his lips were too full, too perfectly shaped? And his eyes, were they too expressive? The only true imperfection I could find was a slight crook in his nose, a tiny defect that, unfortunately, only enhanced his appearance by proving he was, indeed, human.