Page 40 of In the Highlander's Bed

He led her to the loch’s edge. They passed a few couples who nodded to Gordon but watched them with curiosity.

“We will be the talk of the camp,” she whispered to him.

“I always am,” he assured her. He stopped at an outcropping of rocks everyone used for washing. “There’s soap right there.”

“This is soap?” she said with distaste, holding up the gray, mushy mass. She tossed it to the ground and then washed her face and hands.

He did the same. “The women in the camp make it,” he answered in his defense. “It’s fine enough.”

“They didn’t let it cure long enough.” She made an impatient sound as she rose to her feet. “Your latrines are disgusting and your soap too soft to be of use, and that is just the beginning of the problems here.”

She was right, except he didn’t want to hear this from her. Not now. He was too damn tired. He needed six hours sleep and then he’d solve all the problems of the world. “I supposeyouknow better?”

“I do,” she said without flinching. “I’ve lived my life out-of-doors. I know what is important. These are everyday matters, but they must be attended to or you will find your people losing their will to go on.”

Which was what had been happening.

Gordon scowled, angry at her for no other reason than because she was so capable. “Why couldn’t you have been an empty-headed debutante?” He turned and started walking to the tent, knowing she would follow.

And she did.

“I’m going to have the latrines moved,” he said. “We weren’t going to stay here that long anyway.”

“With this many people, it doesn’t take long,” she answered, her voice as stiff as his.

He didn’t reply because he saw the stew pot on its side in the doorway of his tent. Tad was nowhere to be seen. He had been so focused on Constance, he’d not secured his quarters before he left. “Damn dog,” he muttered.

He picked up the pot and set it upright by his door. Tad hadn’t left a lick behind. There was nothing that would attract a wild animal. Whoever had gifted him with the stew would collect the pot in the morning.

Indicating for Constance to enter the tent first, he followed, dropping the flap over his door. He didn’t waste time, but brought out the rolled quilted pallet and blanket he stored behind his tack chest. He made quick work of making his bed on the hard dirt floor.

Constance stacked the dishes—Tad had licked those clean as well—and picked up his tartan from the chair where she’d left it. She wrapped it around her shoulders. “Am I sleeping there?” she asked.

“We’re both sleeping here,” he answered, daring her to raise a complaint.

She bit her bottom lip but remained standing.

That was fine. She could stand all night.Hewas going to sleep, although he had planned on Tad keeping guard.

“You’ll have to use the tartan for your cover,” he told her as he sat in the chair and began pulling off his boots. He set them aside and stood, pulling his shirt from his breeches. “You don’t need to worry that I’m going to ravish you,” he said.

Two bright spots of color appeared on her cheeks, and he knew that had been on her mind.

Good. Sheshouldbe uncomfortable around him. For that reason—and because she’d been right about the latrines and the state of his camp—he stood and started to take off his shirt.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice sounding strangled.

He paused, savoring the moment, and then pulled the shirt off over his head. She stood as far away as she could from him in the narrow confines of the tent, a distance of only a foot or two, his tartan protectively pulled against her. If he had not been standing in front of the door, he had no doubt that she would have run right out it.

Gordon smiled, feeling wolfish. It was about time she saw him as a man.

“I’m undressing for bed,” he said.

Her eyes widened with alarm and she whirled around, giving him her back. Dear Lord, had he ever been that innocent?

“How far do you expect to go undressing?” she asked.

“This far,” he said. He dropped the shirt on the chair close by her. She gave a little jump, as if the cloth was alive.