“But it’s only been a week.”

“Aye. But I’m healed. See?”

Sheer curiosity compelled her to dry her hands on her apron and lean over to lift his shirt. She tugged on the waist of his jeans to see the wound and frowned. Without even thinking, Catherine straightened and unbuttoned his shirt, pulled it to the side, and leaned up to examine the cut on his shoulder.

They were both completely healed! All that remained of the once deep wound was a thin red line with pink thread sticking out every quarter inch.

“You have an amazing constitution,” she whispered, lightly running her finger over the scar. She looked up, realized she was a hair’s breadth away from his face—and his mouth—and quickly stepped back.

Robbie finished taking off his shirt and started unbuckling his pants. Catherine let out a small squeak and headed toward the living room, his soft laughter propelling her into a run.

Honest to God, the man was driving her crazy. He couldn’t say what he had yesterday in the bathroom, standing there all huge and wet and naked, and expect her not to act like an idiot every time she got close to him. It was her darned libido. Not only had Robbie MacBain managed to stir it awake, but yesterday’s promise—or, rather, yesterday’s threat—had exposed her fear like a raw nerve constantly being poked. Well, she would just poke him back, she decided, taking the scissors out of her sewing kit. She marched into the kitchen, determined to ignore the fact that he smelled nice and warm and sexy and that helooked even sexier.

“I need to go to the logging yard today and would like you to drive me,” he said, sitting in his chair again, scratching the stitches on his shoulder.

“You can’t drive yourself?” she asked, leaning over and using the sharp point of her scissors to gently loosen one of the stitches—which would be easier if her hand would quit shaking.

“I could,” he said, twisting his head to see what she was doing to him. “But I’m still half asleep and prefer to—ow!”

She used her fingers to pull the snipped thread out of his flesh. “That did not hurt.”

“You poked me with the scissors.”

“Only because you moved. Quit talking.”

“Wouldn’t you like to see a tree harvester in action?” he asked, ignoring her edict.

“Ow!”

She straightened and scowled at him. “You didn’t complain this much when I sewed you up yesterday,” she said, using the scissors to point at the small bandage on his right hand.

“I was numb with exhaustion yesterday,” he said, rubbing his shoulder.

Catherine moved his hand out of the way and went back to work. “Don’t watch,” she suggested. “It makes you anticipate the pain, and you tense up.”

“You know this from personal experience?” he asked softly, his breath wafting warmly over her hair.

“Yes,” she absently answered, quickly snipping three threads in a row, then leaning away when he growled.

She moved his hand out of the way again, snipped the last two stitches, quickly rubbed the sting away with her fingers, and started pulling them out. “There. All done,” she said as she straightened. “Now, stand up and lean against the table, and I’ll take out the ones on your hip.”

“I’ve a worry you’re enjoying this,” he muttered, standing up and leaning against the table.

Catherine sat in his chair, scooted it around to face him, pulled down the edge of his open jeans to see his scar, and… She stopped and looked up, realizing the provocative position she was in.

The door opened, and an old man, dressed in a long black robe and thin white collar, walked into the kitchen. “God’s teeth!” he shouted. “If ya’re needing privacy, then lock your door!”

Catherine flew out of her chair so quickly she would have fallen if Robbie hadn’t caught her by the shoulders and stood her on her feet.

The priest thumped his cane on the floor and glared first at Robbie’s naked chest and open pants, then at Catherine.

Robbie stepped between them, facing the priest, and slowly did up his jeans and fastened his belt. Catherine looked behind her, wondering if she was small enough to crawl in the oven.

“Most people knock before entering someone’s house,” Robbie said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I haven’t knocked in thirty years!”

“But you will from now on,” Robbie softly returned. “And you’ll apologize to my housekeeper for making assumptions.”

Catherine gasped and pinched Robbie’s back for speaking so rudely to a man of the cloth.

He didn’t even flinch but continued, “And you’ll start waiting for an invitation to visit rather than showing up unannounced.”

They were both going to fry in hell—she could already feel the flames on her face.

Catherine used the point of her scissors this time to shut Robbie up.

He reached around, snatched away her scissors, gave her a good glare, and turned back to the priest. “I’m waiting for that apology.”

But Catherine wasn’t. She spun on her heel and high-tailed it into the living room, tugged open the front door, and rushed onto the porch that spanned the entire front of the house. She immediately scooted between two windows until her back was pressed against the clapboards and stood perfectly still, her hands on her burning cheeks and her heart thumping so hard it hurt.

Her parents were rolling over in their graves. They’d raised her to respect religion, especially anyone doing God’s work.

The front door opened, and Catherine eyed the stairs at the end of the porch, wondering if she could reach them before Robbie reached her. The priest stepped through the door, alone, and folded his hands over the top of his beautiful wood cane.

He had wild, long white hair that was a disturbing contrast to his perfectly trimmed beard, shoulders stooped by gravity and time, and age-bent fingers covering the head of a cane that was only slightly more crooked than he was. He looked positively ancient—

except for his eyes, which were a sharp, crystal blue.

“I am sincerely contrite, Miss Daniels, for making such a terrible assumption,” he said gruffly. “Robbie explained that ya was tending his wound, and I apologize for thinking different.” He held out a gnarled hand to her. “I’m Father Daar. I live up on TarStone.”

Even though she wanted to run the other way, Catherine’s manners compelled her to step forward and shake his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Father,” she whispered.

“Ah… would you like a cup of coffee and some shortbread?”

His eyes sparked with interest. “Shortbread, ya say?” he asked, using her captured hand to lead her inside. “I haven’t had shortbread in ages. Did ya flavor it with lemon?”

Catherine tried to get her hand back, but he was using it to lead her through the living room into the kitchen. “With just a few drops of lemon juice,” she told him, finally escaping when he sat at the table.

Robbie was nowhere in sight.

She found a clean mug, poured the priest his coffee, then got down on her knees and reached far into the back of a bottom cupboard. Father Daar’s laughter and Robbie’s snort drew her attention when she straightened.

“So that’s where you hide the dessert,” Robbie said from the bathroom doorway. He buttoned up his shirt, tucked it inside his belt, and walked over and set her scissors on the table. “I finished taking out the stitches,” he told her, lifting one brow. “And managed to do it without once poking myself.”

“Then you should probably remove the stitches in your hand when the time comes,” she suggested sweetly, getting two plates from the cupboard. She cut the shortbread, set it on the table in front of the men, gave them forks and napkins, refilled Robbie’s coffee, and headed to her bedroom.

But she stopped at the door when she heard Father Daar urgently whisper to Robbie,

“Ya have to go backtonight. We’re running out of time.”

Go back? Tonight? And do what, get beat up again?