"M'lady?"

She jumped and her eyes popped open to find Torrin standing beside her in the doorway. His enticing scent surrounded her.

"Saints! You startled me." And now she was overheating again, even though the morning air was cool.

"I have your weapons." He held up the dirk in one hand and the sgian dubh in the other.

"Oh. I thank you." How daft she was to be so unhinged by his presence that she'd forgotten all about her beloved knives. She took them, her fingers brushing against his. The extreme warmth of his skin compelled her to glance up. He watched her with great interest from beneath lowered lashes.

The smoothness of his skin told her he had shaved that morn, and she found herself wanting to stroke her fingers along his jaw line. But her hands were full of weapons. She focused on those and slid the dirk into the sheath that hung from her belt. Next, she bent and, lifting her skirts a wee bit, placed the smaller sgian dubh into the sheath strapped above her ankle.

She straightened, appreciating the slight weight of the blades. They gave her more confidence. "That feels better."

Torrin gave a slight, lopsided grin. "Never heard of another woman who loves weapons as much as you do."

She shrugged. "I suppose I'm odd."

"Nay, fascinating and unique."

A blast of heat rushed over her and she lowered her gaze from his scorching one. "Well, I thank you… and I must get back to work."

But he did not move from the doorway so that she might pass. "Surely, you don't still fear me," he murmured.

"Of course not." Nay, 'twas not fear that seized her now, but some foreign sensation she had rarely, if ever, felt before. She did not know the name of it or why it should take hold of her when she was near Torrin. Her hands became unsteady, her heart thudded, and her stomach flipped and fluttered like a crazed bird.

With his dark and observant eyes, he appeared to be trying to read her thoughts. She refused to hold his gaze for more than a couple of seconds; she didn't want him to know her true thoughts. She didn't understand them herself and needed time to think everything through.

"If you would excuse me, Laird MacLeod."

"Please call me Torrin."

Again her gaze darted to his challenging one, then away. Of a certainty, she knew he wanted to be on an intimate, first name basis, but she was not sure she wanted to be. Not because he was a murderer, but because he was a man like any other. A man who wished to marry her for her dowry. The only men she trusted were those in her clan.

"Very well," she said.

"Look at me, Lady Jessie," he whispered, placing his fingers beneath her chin and lifting it gently.

Her first instinct was to jump back away from him, but his warm touch captivated her as did his dark, bewitching gaze.

She tried to hide her reaction and that deep down something that flared to the surface whenever he was near. Instead of removing his hand, he slid his fingers along her jaw line and leaned closer. Her breath stopped and her pulse pounded in her ears.

From six inches away, he searched her eyes. After a moment, he frowned thoughtfully, then drew back, dropping his hand. "I don't want you to fear me."

She didn't fear him, but that didn't mean she wanted him to kiss her. Did it? A kiss from him would no doubt be the most sinful thing she'd yet experienced. But she couldn't indulge. What if he turned out exactly like MacBain? What if she trusted him, fell for him, and then he tired of her? Abandoned her? She could not handle that kind of rejection again.

"Pray pardon." She pushed past him and into the kitchen, but did not remain there. She needed time alone to think.

***

Torrin watched Jessie disappear into the castle. He wanted to follow her and make her see that he was trustworthy. Saints! He'd come so close to kissing her, but at the last moment, the fear and alarm in her gaze had stopped him. 'Twas the last thing he wanted to see.

At times, he thought he glimpsed desire in her eyes, or at least a hint of interest. But then something would happen to scare her. She must come to him willingly. He didn't want to force anything upon her, certainly not a kiss.

Besides, he didn't want just a kiss from her; he wanted so much more. A lifetime. Sometimes, when he looked into her eyes, he could see it all, a wonderful future for them. But perhaps 'twas only his active imagination.

He was further disappointed when she didn't appear in the great hall during the midday meal. He didn't go into the kitchen again, searching for her. Clearly, she was avoiding him, and 'haps he should give her some time. Maybe he'd frightened her more than he'd realized that morn.

An hour after the meal, from the ramparts, Torrin spied Jessie sitting on the beach in the sand, her red hair as bright as a flame in the early afternoon sunshine, although most of her was hidden by a large clump of grass. He wasn't overly concerned about her safety, since MacBain and his men were on their way south under heavy guard.

But when Jessie hung her head and wiped at her eyes, he frowned. Was she crying? What the devil?

He made his way down multiple sets of winding stone steps and outside to the beach. Quickly, he strode toward her.

Indeed, when she glanced up at him, her face was wet with tears and her eyes were red.

"Lady Jessie, has something happened?" He dropped to his knees in the soft sand beside her.

"Och." She dried her eyes with a handkerchief, then wiped her nose. "Nay. 'Tis naught for you to be concerned about."

She refused to meet his eyes, but she looked incredibly sad. Was she already in love with someone and that was why she had no interest in him?

"You miss… someone?" If there was another man, he had to know.

She stared down and bit her lip, obviously trying to stop her tears. But it didn't work. She again cried quietly into her handkerchief.

He wanted to put an arm around her and comfort her, but he didn't think she would appreciate that. Instead, he sat beside her on the warm sand and sucked in a deep breath of the salty sea air. If her heart was broken because a lover had left her, he wanted to be the one who was there for her.

"My dog died last month," she said. "He just got old. His name was Ossian, and he was a deerhound. He always went for walks on the beach with me and… everywhere."

"Och. I'm so sorry, lass." Although he was sad she'd lost a beloved pet, he was glad she was not crying over a lost love. Even more now, he yearned to put his arm around her and draw her close, but he feared that would be too much too soon. So he kept his hands to himself.

"I know I'm daft, getting so upset over losing a dog, but he was my best friend these last eight years."

"'Tis not daft at all. 'Tis indeed heartbreaking to lose a close friend or family member, whether human or beast. I had a dog I loved more than anything when I was a lad, and when I lost him, it almost killed me."

"I'm sorry to hear it."

"I didn't want anyone to know how hurt and sad I was over losing him. I feared they'd see me as weak. I'd walk along the loch or up a hill to be alone so I could cry my heart out." 'Twas true, and this was the first time he'd told anyone.

"'Tis good to know that men cry, too."

"Aye, we do; we just don't want anyone to ken it."

She nodded and drew spirals in the sand with a stick. The sea breeze whipped at her hair. He did naught but enjoy the simple moment in her presence. 'Twas a comfortable silence that stretched out between them. He felt closer to her at that moment than ever before. But he also wanted to take away her sadness and see her smile. He wasn't even ashamed to make a fool of himself to do it.