Highland Wolf (Highland Brides #10)(23)
But he couldn’t do either, he reminded himself firmly, and took a couple of deep breaths before heading out of the woods to give her the shirt and one of the plaids.
Claray paused at the foot of the boulder and stared down at her gown with a small frown. She really had no desire to pull it back on. It would be cold and wet, difficult to don and uncomfortable to wear. The very idea was about as appealing as letting the blacksmith pull a tooth. But she didn’t really have much choice. It was all she had to wear.
Sighing, she bent to pick it up.
“Ye can no’ wear that. Ye’ll catch a chill and sicken ere we got ye back to MacFarlane.”
Claray gave a little start, and drew the dress to her chest to cover as much of herself as she could as she watched the Wolf approach.
He smiled crookedly at the action, and set the stack of material he held on the boulder where her dress had been a moment ago. “Hamish managed to find me a fresh plaid, and ye a plaid, a shirt and a length o’ rope fer ye to fasten it. ’Tis no’ perfect, but’ll do until our clothes dry.”
When she nodded and murmured a quiet, “Thank ye,” the Wolf grunted and started to walk past her, but then stopped and swung back.
“Me friends call me Conall,” he told her.
“Conall,” Claray echoed, but he had turned away again to continue down to the water’s edge. She stared after him, her eyes widening when his plaid suddenly dropped to pool around his feet. He then tugged his shirt off over his head, bent to grab up the heavy plaid and strode into the water carrying both.
Claray knew she should turn away, but couldn’t seem to manage that as her eyes slid over his wide, muscular back and then down to the round curves of his derriere. They stopped there briefly before moving on to his strong thighs, and shapely calves. Claray had never thought she would call a man beautiful, but Conall was, and she found herself fascinated by the play of muscles in his back, buttocks and legs as he moved.
Claray continued to stare right up until he stopped walking and dropped to sit in the water. When he then slung his shirt over his shoulder and started working on cleaning his plaid, she let out a shaky breath and turned to the clothing on the boulder. The top plaid was a mix of blues, greens and reds, the lower one blues, reds and yellows. Claray took the top one, the shirt and the rope. She then tossed her wet gown over the boulder next to the remaining plaid before hurrying into the trees to dress.
She took a moment to briefly debate the merits of keeping her shift on, but it was wet and clinging to her uncomfortably, so in the end, she whipped it off and pulled the shirt quickly on in its place. Claray had no idea whose shirt it was, but it was huge on her, drooping off one shoulder, and the sleeves hanging well past her hands. Big as it was though, it didn’t reach even to her knees. She felt terribly exposed in it and quickly set about pleating and donning the plaid. Once it was on, she adjusted it to be sure it reached past her ankles, and then straightened the pleats the best she could. She then considered herself, and frowned.
The shirt was much too large, of course, falling off her shoulders and threatening to slide off her arms if she let them hang at her sides. Aside from that, she didn’t have a pin to finish wearing the great kilt the way the men did. That being the case, she gathered up the extra cloth hanging down the back and drew it over her head and pulled it around her like a shawl. She then caught the ends at the front, tied them together and slid that over her head to rest around the cloth at her neck.
Claray peered down at herself again, and then tugged and fussed at the cloth until she was sure she was covered decently. Deciding that would have to do until her gown dried, she turned to head back out of the trees only to freeze when her gaze landed on the Wolf.
Conall, she corrected herself silently as she stared at the man. He had apparently finished cleaning his clothes and set them on the boulder while she fussed with her plaid. Now he was done bathing too and was coming out of the river, his front as fully on display as his behind had been as he’d gone in.
Claray’s eyes ran over his chest and arms, taking in his wide shoulders and bulging pecs, then cascaded down over his rippling stomach to—Gasping, she whirled abruptly away and covered her eyes as if she could erase what she’d just seen. Good heavens, that was really . . . a terribly undignified appendage, she thought with a shake of the head.
It wasn’t the first time Claray had seen a male’s fiddle. She had a little brother she’d helped bathe and care for as a bairn, so of course had seen his fiddle several times when he was young. She’d thought it funny looking then, but since men seemed so proud of the appendage, she’d assumed it grew some dignity as a male aged. It didn’t. Frankly, she had no idea what they were so proud of.
“Are ye ready?”
Claray whirled around at Conall’s grim voice, relieved and then confused when she saw that he was wearing the plaid she’d left on the boulder and was carrying her damp gown and shift along with his own wet clothes. It made her wonder how long she’d stood there thinking about his fiddle and fiddles in general, and then her gaze took him in and she frowned slightly. He’d pinned the excess plaid at his shoulders as men usually did, but those men usually had shirts on under it, and he didn’t. It left a great expanse of his chest, shoulders and arms naked where the plaid didn’t cover it.
For one brief moment, she considered offering him the shirt she wore, but while the plaid covered most of her at the top, the center between the sides gaped quite low, so she bit her lip on the offer and forced an uncomfortable smile and answered his question.