Unspoken
“Abby nodded to Nellie, another serving maid with copper hair and a mass of freckles.
“Nearly scared the slippers off Evy, here.”
Evelyn grimaced at the nickname that Abby had coined for her. They didn’t call her ‘Evie’ or ‘Eve’ but ‘Evy’ as it rhymed with ‘heavy’. Painfully aware of her rounded figure, she couldn’t stop herself from smoothing her apron self-consciously. “He would like some ale, sir,” she mumbled to Moorland, ignoring the women.
“While you’re at it, take this pitcher to the M...ackay table. Those lads be needin’ a drink after their nasty battle wi’ the Donald a se’nnight ago.” He clucked in sympathy She hoisted the tray onto her shoulder and left, dreading the Mackay table. They’d had much to drink already and were becoming over-loud and bawdy. “Here you are, Milord,” she carefully placed the fullest tankard on the table at the Berserker’s elbow, “and I brought you linen to protect your thighs—trews!”
Christ’s Bones! To mention a body part was impropriety of the highest nature. But she’d been staring at his sinuous legs while she’d been talking and noticing the cords and ropes of muscles visible beneath the shamefully tight leggings. Cheeks burning, she risked an upward glance. He reached his big hand out and removed the linen from her fingertips, draping it carefully across his lap and looked back to her, a twinkle of amusement glinted in his devilish eyes. The brackets around his hard mouth seemed carved into a frown. Had he not much reason to smile? She stomped on her curiosity. It was of no consequence, besides, tomorrow he would be— “Well, if you’ll excuse me, enjoy your supper.” She turned around and grimaced once more, closing her eyes and shaking her head at her stupidity. Making her way to the Mackay table, she swore she could feel his dark and potent regard caress her spine. Alarming, that.MoreLess
“Nearly scared the slippers off Evy, here.”
Evelyn grimaced at the nickname that Abby had coined for her. They didn’t call her ‘Evie’ or ‘Eve’ but ‘Evy’ as it rhymed with ‘heavy’. Painfully aware of her rounded figure, she couldn’t stop herself from smoothing her apron self-consciously. “He would like some ale, sir,” she mumbled to Moorland, ignoring the women.
“While you’re at it, take this pitcher to the M...ackay table. Those lads be needin’ a drink after their nasty battle wi’ the Donald a se’nnight ago.” He clucked in sympathy She hoisted the tray onto her shoulder and left, dreading the Mackay table. They’d had much to drink already and were becoming over-loud and bawdy. “Here you are, Milord,” she carefully placed the fullest tankard on the table at the Berserker’s elbow, “and I brought you linen to protect your thighs—trews!”
Christ’s Bones! To mention a body part was impropriety of the highest nature. But she’d been staring at his sinuous legs while she’d been talking and noticing the cords and ropes of muscles visible beneath the shamefully tight leggings. Cheeks burning, she risked an upward glance. He reached his big hand out and removed the linen from her fingertips, draping it carefully across his lap and looked back to her, a twinkle of amusement glinted in his devilish eyes. The brackets around his hard mouth seemed carved into a frown. Had he not much reason to smile? She stomped on her curiosity. It was of no consequence, besides, tomorrow he would be— “Well, if you’ll excuse me, enjoy your supper.” She turned around and grimaced once more, closing her eyes and shaking her head at her stupidity. Making her way to the Mackay table, she swore she could feel his dark and potent regard caress her spine. Alarming, that.MoreLess
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