Chapter Twelve
Emma coaxed the car onto the thin patch of gravel scattered beside the cottage. The gusting wind lashed sheets of rain across the windshield. The storm laughed at the erratic swishing of the dilapidated wipers attempting to sweep away the torrential water. Glaring at the red maintenance light still flashing on the dashboard, Emma blew out a relieved sigh as she shut the engine down. Thank goodness, the infernal thing had finally started and at least made it all the way home. Risking a glance at her silent companion, Emma’s heart lurched at the pale terror registered on his face. “Are you all right?”
“Have we arrived?” Torin spoke through a tight-lipped grimace as he cut a sideways glance in her direction without risking a turn of his head.
A blast of wind hammered against the side of the car, rocking the vehicle with the force of the impact. Rain thundered atop the roof and sluiced down the windows. Emma raised her voice against the din. “Yes. This is my place and we can either sit here in the car for a bit to see if the storm lets up or we can make a dash for the door.” With a glance at Torin’s white-knuckled grip on the door handle, Emma waited for him to launch himself out of the auto. Torin’s tensed body language shouted his need to be free of the car.
Yanking down on the latch, Torin threw open the door and bolted into the arms of the storm. Emma caught her breath as the devilish wind flipped up his kilt, revealing all of Torin’s hidden glory.
“Wow. Wait ’til I tell Laynie.” Long ignored heat stirred beneath her belly, pouring a burst of liquid fire down the insides of both thighs. Emma gulped in a strangled breath and stretched to gather her bag and jacket from the back floorboard of the car. How long had it been since she’d been with a man? Emma nearly choked. She’d never been with a man built like Torin.
As she dashed for the door, Emma groped through the conglomeration of items crammed in her purse. Where the hell are those keys?
Torin stood with water streaming down the sides of his face, glaring up at the sky.
Emma shook her head and pawed deeper into the abyss. “I’m sorry, Torin. I know my keys are in here somewhere. This bag is like a black hole in the universe. Everything disappears into this bottomless void as soon as I drop something in it.”
Torin shifted his gaze from the dismal horizon to scowl closer at the bag. “The pouch doesna appear enchanted. I dinna sense any dangerous aura around it.”
Emma stopped digging in the depths of the purse and glanced up at the drenched man. Torin’s worried expression just didn’t register. Was he serious? Her gaze traveled across his ramrod straight body. His fingers clenched and relaxed into flexing fists while he scowled furiously at the bag between them. He was serious. An uneasy feeling settled into her being, heavier than the pelting rain stinging against her flesh. “I was kidding, Torin. It’s just a purse and it’s hard to find little things in it because I cram so much stuff into it. It’s just a figure of speech.”
“I see.” Torin stiffened, standing taller with a defiant lift to his chin. His worried scowl smoothed into a tight-lipped mask as he edged closer to the door.
Great. She’d wounded his pride again. Emma caught her lower lip between her teeth as she unlocked the door. Apparently, she needed to choose her words with care until she figured out Torin’s story. She pushed the door open to a warm welcoming peat fire burning in the hearth and a delightful scent coming from the stove. Maybe this weird situation would improve once they were both dry and had their bellies filled with what smelled to be a wonderful supper. “Moira and Alfred must’ve stopped by.” Sniffing the air, the mouth-watering aroma of something savory pulled her deeper into the room. “It smells like they brought supper too.”
“Are Moira and Alfred your servants?” Torin eased around the sofa like a wary animal expecting a predator to jump from the shadows.
“What? No.” What a strange question. Servants? Emma watched Torin circle the room, his uneasiness tainting the air. “I don’t have servants. Moira and Alfred are my friends.” Tossing her keys on the counter, she draped her soaked jacket across the back of a chair.
“Are ye certain your man willna mind my staying here in his croft?” Torin glanced around the room with an examining scowl. “This place is verra small.”
Emma raised the lid of the steaming pot bubbling on the back of the stove. Closing her eyes as an expectant growl rumbled up from her stomach, she breathed in the inviting scent of the thick simmering stew. “I’m the only person staying in this croft. There’s no one else to worry about.” She slid the heavy lid back on the cast iron pot. Her man. For some odd reason, she didn’t much care for that term. Why did everyone think she needed a man? Did she look that helpless? Or old?
“Ye have no man?” Torin ceased prowling around the room and stared at her with a quizzical frown creasing his scarred forehead. His gaze swept from the top of her bedraggled head to the tips of her muddy tennis shoes. “Are ye widowed? Or have ye dedicated your life to serving the gods?”
“Neither.” Emma shifted closer to the stove; a sudden feeling of indignation seasoned with a heavy dose of self-consciousness tingled across her skin. “Why would you ask me something like that?” Emma smoothed the damp sticking curls away from her face. His piercing stare made her feel like a lab specimen cooking in a petri dish. She plucked her clinging wet shirt away from her cleavage, then latched both hands behind her back onto the handle of the oven door.
“A woman of your…” Torin paused, waving one hand to encompass the entirety of Emma’s body. “A woman of your age living alone? It can only mean one of two things. Either ye’ve dedicated your life to serving the gods or your husband’s preceded ye to the grave.” Torin nodded toward her lucky necklace. “And then there’s also the amulet at your throat.”
“A woman of my age?” Emma yanked her hands free of the appliance at her back, letting the door slam shut with a rattling bang. Dammit. She was so tired of people insinuating she’d out-lived her shelf life. She wasn’t a piece of bruised fruit or an over-ripe tomato past its prime. “Just how old do you think I am?”
Spreading his feet into a defensive stance, Torin lifted his chin, his good eye narrowed into a calculating stare. “Yer well past betrothal age.” He lowered his chin in a single, decisive nod. “Aye. A mature woman of your years should have children nearly grown and ready to find their own mates.”
“A mature woman of my years?” Emma rounded the counter. How dare he use that superior tone. She might be a mature woman but not the way he insinuated. “I’ll have you know in this day and time, a mature woman of my advanced years is not considered over the hill if she hasn’t married. And she’s also not pegged as widowed or a religious celibate.” Emma stomped across the room and yanked open the door leading to the rain swept porch. Gale force winds shuttered against the front of the croft, tossing sheets of water across the floor. “If you’re determined to be insulting, you can go back out into the storm. I don’t give a damn if you drown or not.”
Another gust of rain blasted into the room as the wind repeated its warning howl across the threshold. Torin’s lips tightened into a determined line. “Close the door, woman. I meant ye no ill will or disrespect. Ye look fine for an older woman.” Torin shifted his stance, worrying with his dagger as he avoided meeting Emma’s glare.
Emma slammed the door. I look fine for an older woman. She couldn’t believe this guy. Every time he opened his mouth, he insulted her. “I think from now on, you should just keep your opinions to yourself. The more you say, the closer you get to a soggy bed on the porch.” She should’ve left him to wallow in the mud in the middle of the stone circle. A woman of my age. An older woman. As soon as the rain let up, Torin was out. She didn’t care what happened to him. Pointing toward the rack of ceramic bowls beside the sink, Emma hissed through gritted teeth. “I think you better fix yourself a bowl of stew and shove it in your mouth before you say anything else that’s going to dig your grave even deeper.”