Devil in Tartan (Highland Grooms #4)(24)

She glanced at him and frowned. “What, then?” she asked impatiently.

“A wee bit too big,” he said. “But a better fit than I would have expected.” He took in the full length of her. “Much better,” he said. “You ought to make a habit of trews.”

Lottie blushed. She picked up his shirt and unfurled it.

Aulay was beginning to enjoy this unexpected event. “This will be a wee bit trickier to don, aye?”

She looked around the cabin, presumably for a place to hide.

Aulay slid down the wall onto his haunches. “We donna stand on modesty on this ship,” he said. He balanced his bound hands on his knees in anticipation of her disrobing. “Aye, but this is a bright spot in an otherwise bloody awful day.”

“Will you turn your back?”

“No.”

“I believed you a gentleman, Captain.”

He shrugged. “’Tis my cabin. My clothes. If it’s privacy you want, you should have pirated another ship.”

The lass frowned darkly. She put the shirt aside and began to work on the laces of her stays, but seemed to struggle with them. “My fingers are numb,” she muttered as two spots of pink appeared on her cheeks.

“Come closer and I’ll lend a hand,” Aulay suggested. “I’m a bit of an expert with laces.”

Her cheeks colored even more, and she yanked harder on the lace she was working, managing to pull it free. She hesitantly removed the stays and draped them over a chair. Now she wore nothing but the thin chemise, through which Aulay could see the arousing shadow of her breasts, the darker shadow of erect nipples. “You’re certain, are you, that I canna be of assistance?” he asked wolfishly.

She turned her back to him and quickly pulled the chemise over her head and tossed it aside.

Aulay devoured her bare back with his gaze, studying every facet. The small knots of her spine. The curve of her waist into her hip. The gentle slope of her shoulders and the way her hair, bound up in a loose knot, brushed against her skin. She put her arm over her breasts and turned slightly to pick up his shirt, but he could still see the underside of her breast, her softly rounded abdomen. His blood was warming, inflamed by the sight of her enticing figure. It made him cross with himself—he ought not to admire her, his enemy, and yet, how could he not? She was beautiful—her shape, her creamy skin, her silken hair, all of it. She was terribly, undeniably, infuriatingly arousing.

She picked up the shirt and put her back to him again. She was taking her time, deliberately moving lazily now, obviously aware of the effect she had on him. He watched her stretch her arms up and into his shirt, then let it slide down her arms and over her head. She turned around. “How is that, then?” she asked as she rolled the hem and knotted it at her waist.

“Bloody well bold,” he said.

“Aye, and what’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing at all.” His gaze slid to the opening of the shirt, the vee of which dipped well into her cleavage. His shirt was almost as thin as her chemise—he could still see the shape of her breasts and imagined them filling his hands, his fingers curling into firm, plump flesh.

“I will thank you no’ to look at me in that way,” she said, and picked up the blanket, throwing it around her shoulders again before sitting in a chair.

“What way is that?”

She lifted one leg and rolled up the trews to her ankles. “As if you’ve never seen a woman before,” she said, and rolled up the second leg before peeking up at him. “In spite of all the stays you’ve unlaced.”

Touché. Aulay couldn’t help but smile. “I’ve no’ seen a woman as comely as you,” he admitted. “What do you expect of me? You take my ship, my brandy, my clothes. You disrobe no’ three feet from me, and expect me to close my eyes?” He shook his head. “I’m no’ a dead man. No’ yet.”

A smiled shadowed her lips.

“Were I you, I’d wear precisely that on your next bit of piracy. Perhaps men will drop their swords on command.”

She stood up and walked to his sideboard. “You weren’t even wearing a sword,” she said. “I wonder how the day might have gone had you been armed.” She glanced over her shoulder and arched a brow.

He didn’t need the reminder. He’d not worn a sword because it hadn’t occurred to him to arm himself against what looked like a congregation of pilgrims without any notion of how to survive at sea.

She picked up his razor, put it down and picked up his soap. “And besides, there will be no more piracy for me,” she scoffed. “I’m to hang. Remember?” She picked up his comb and returned to the table with it.

“Oh, I remember,” he said, and watched her pull her hair down from its knot. Thick tresses tumbled over her shoulders. Even when wet, her hair seemed to glisten.

She began to comb it, starting at the bottom and working up. She mesmerized Aulay. He’d seen his sisters at their toilette, but he’d never really watched a woman comb her hair. Not like this, not in a manner that seemed so highly erotic.

When she’d worked the tangles out of it, she braided her hair, using one long tress to bind the end. She returned his comb to the sideboard, then looked Aulay over. “You should rest now, aye?”

He chuckled. “Sleep is no’ possible, lass. No’ while my ship is in your hands. No’ while you make generous use of my closet. I’d no’ want to miss another disrobing.”