She gave the pot another stir. “Bah, I’ve already got a batch in the oven. I know what ye like. Always have.”
MacMasters’s grin faded as his attention settled on Johanna. One did not need to possess mind-reading abilities to discern the nature of his thoughts. He boldly brushed a fingertip over the fabric flowing over her legs. His dark green eyes warmed, and he held the touch far longer than was proper. His gaze wandered, lingering over her mouth, and for a heartbeat, she actually believed he might be so brazen as to kiss her.
The taste of his lips against hers would be sweet. Would he be gentle as the first time his mouth had brushed hers? Or perhaps, he would claim her mouth in a bold seduction, by turns tender and powerful, taking and giving. He’d leave her breathless with a kiss that would be wicked and tinged with passion.
And oh, so very delicious.
He jerked his gaze away. Johanna let out the breath she’d been holding; whether from relief or disappointment, she couldn’t tell. She slowly pulled in air, filling her lungs, struggling to clear her head. Surely she could not want this brash, so very arrogant man to kiss her. No, she’d allowed her imagination to get the better of her once again. Ah, she’d have ample inspiration for her next hero upon her return to London. Of that, she had no doubt.
His expression cooled. “The trousers are more suitable than what Miss Templeton arrived in. But not by much. Maggie, ye’ll need to find her a dress in the morning.”
“I rather like this ensemble.” Johanna spoke up. The sage green blouse and black trousers fit as if they’d been made for her. “The garments feel quite natural, and they facilitate movement.”
He scrubbed his hand against his chin. “Natural? That’s a matter of debate.”
“As long as I am modestly covered, what I’m wearing should be of no concern to you.”
He shrugged, though she knew the discussion was far from over. “I’m too tired and too hungry to spend another minute yammering on about women’s clothing. Maggie, ye’re to provide Miss Templeton an assortment of sensible—and inconspicuous—garments from which to choose. I trust ye’re clear on that.”
Maggie offered a mocking bow. “I shall do my best, my liege.”
“Make sure ye do,” he said, all traces of humor eradicated from his voice.
“The shortbread’s nearly done,” Mrs. Bailey said, changing the subject. “Yer wait willnae be long now. But first, ye must eat supper.” She filled a bowl to brimming with stew and carried it to an adjoining room. “Come along now. Before it cools.”
The cook placed the bowl on the dining table, luring MacMasters like a snake charmer coaxing a cobra from its basket. Johanna trailed his steps and seated herself across from him.
As Mrs. Bailey set another well-filled bowl on the table, Johanna savored the delectable smells. Earlier that evening, she’d believed herself incapable of eating more than a bite or two to preserve her health. The warmth and delicious spices emanating from the porcelain vessel brought about a change of heart. She dipped a spoon into the stew and enjoyed a hearty bite.
“Ye’ve outdone yerself.” Connor paused between spoonfuls to address Mrs. Bailey. “Ye’ve no idea how much I’ve missed yer cooking.”
A broad smile lifted Mrs. Bailey’s thin mouth. “Ye won’t find a meal like this in London, I tell ye.” She strolled toward the kitchen door, as if ready to fetch another bowl for the man she looked upon with unveiled fondness. “Will ye be wanting anything else?”
“I’d be forever in yer debt if ye’d bring me a slice of that bread ye had in the oven when we arrived.”
“That bread is intended for the morning meal. Ye know that, Connor MacMasters.”
“Aye, I do. But my stomach is pleading ignorance.”
He flashed a grin. Quite charming, that smile. Something warm and languid coursed through Johanna’s belly at the sight. Something she’d boxed up and tucked away in the recesses of her heart.
She pushed the ridiculous thought to the side. She hadn’t come to the Highlands for some romantic fling. There’d be no time for such foolishness.
“Och, ye’re a rascal. Like yer father before ye. I’ll be back in a trice.” The cook bustled away, leaving Johanna alone with Connor at the massive table.
Johanna fixed her gaze on him. “When were you were in London?”
“I’ve spent many a day and night in that fog-shrouded place.”
He hadn’t answered her question. His evasion was not entirely unexpected. “You were not impressed with the culture to be found in the city?”
He plunged his fork into the culinary concoction and speared a cube of meat. “My purposes in that hell-hole didn’t permit nights at the theatre or rubbing elbows with intellectuals.”
“What precisely brought you there?”
He popped the bit of lamb into his mouth and chewed for a long, leisurely moment. Finally, he acknowledged her question. “Most recently?”
Watching the expression in his eyes shift to something far darker than his mood with Mrs. Bailey, Johanna took a sip of water. “Yes.”