scrutiny of only female limbs.
"I am shearing your sheep," she said, finally, straightening from her task and placing one hand against her lower back. David and Daniel were still on either side of her, both hands in identical position on the back of the sheep's neck, both legs clamped on either side of the bleating prisoner.
At least twenty naked sheep, their forms curiously fragile shorn of their coat, were bleating their displeasure loudly and furiously nearby.
A nod was all it required to banish the twins. The trapped ewe was released and scrambling up the slope. Judith pulled at the hem of her skirt until it fell from her waistband, fluffing out the material in a vain attempt to ignore the MacLeod. It was no use, she could better ignore an oncoming storm than she could his tall and broad figure.
Whatever she felt about the man, there was no mistaking the fact that it was intensified in his presence. He was a puzzle, this new, and unwanted, husband of hers. He treated her with civility, was polite without being overly cordial, deferential without one word of mockery. He greeted her when they met with a smile which seemed genuine, if a bit tinted by the sardonic twinkle in his eyes. He inquired as to her health, asked about her daily pursuits as if genuinely interested, wished her a restful sleep. Once, they’d even discussed Brussels, of his travels upon the continent, his studies. Not once had he broken their truce, not one time had she cause to fear him. A month had passed and she had been left at peace.
She wanted to repay him for it.
When she looked up, it was to see a strange assessing look on his face, as if he judged her with some secret knowledge.
Judith could feel the flush rise from her toes to her cheeks.
“Why?”
“It is already summer, MacLeod and the sheep are fat with wool.”
"I'd thought to hire some sheep men," he said, his voice soft, almost soothing.
Neither one of them mentioned that if there was coin to be had for hiring men, she would not still be at Tynan.
"I doubt you'd find many to come this far north," she said, partly to ease his pride, and partly to ease the silence between them. It was the first time she’d felt disturbed by the utter absence of sound. Even the incessant noise of the sheep seemed muffled, as if a great glass jar separated them from the rest of the world.
“I know a great deal about sheep, MacLeod, more than I ever wished to know. My father saw to that.” Squire Cuthbertson had insisted all of his daughters earn their keep, despite the fact that raising sheep required hard physical labor. At nine, Judith had learned to shepherd the stupid things, walking from hilltop to hilltop on her father's vast acreage. She'd learned to wash the long virgin fibers and card the wool before she was twelve.
“And so, you’d teach what you’ve learned.”
“That, and the weaving, if you wish.” All of them, even Elizabeth, had worked the looms and if Judith had a favorite activity of all of them, it was that. She could sit on the hard bench behind the six foot wide loom, pressing the long narrow board with her feet, while her hands automatically placed the threads in position. She'd become so adept at it that she could spend hours weaving, mesmerized by the sounds of the click, clack of the boards shunting across the tight threads, lost in her own world of thoughts and dreams.
Alisdair found himself curiously entranced.
Her face was dirty, her hair a tousled mess of long dusty locks, a thousand small white curling strands of fleece clung to her clothing; she smelled of sheep and good, honest labor.
Her eyes flickered like a candle flame, he thought, wondering what caused her more consternation, the fact that he emulated her way of mute defense, or that he could not help but be captivated by this new, unanticipated side of her.
She raised her eyes to examine his face and found herself oddly trapped by the look in his eyes. It was not censorious, or even angry, but
"I am shearing your sheep," she said, finally, straightening from her task and placing one hand against her lower back. David and Daniel were still on either side of her, both hands in identical position on the back of the sheep's neck, both legs clamped on either side of the bleating prisoner.
At least twenty naked sheep, their forms curiously fragile shorn of their coat, were bleating their displeasure loudly and furiously nearby.
A nod was all it required to banish the twins. The trapped ewe was released and scrambling up the slope. Judith pulled at the hem of her skirt until it fell from her waistband, fluffing out the material in a vain attempt to ignore the MacLeod. It was no use, she could better ignore an oncoming storm than she could his tall and broad figure.
Whatever she felt about the man, there was no mistaking the fact that it was intensified in his presence. He was a puzzle, this new, and unwanted, husband of hers. He treated her with civility, was polite without being overly cordial, deferential without one word of mockery. He greeted her when they met with a smile which seemed genuine, if a bit tinted by the sardonic twinkle in his eyes. He inquired as to her health, asked about her daily pursuits as if genuinely interested, wished her a restful sleep. Once, they’d even discussed Brussels, of his travels upon the continent, his studies. Not once had he broken their truce, not one time had she cause to fear him. A month had passed and she had been left at peace.
She wanted to repay him for it.
When she looked up, it was to see a strange assessing look on his face, as if he judged her with some secret knowledge.
Judith could feel the flush rise from her toes to her cheeks.
“Why?”
“It is already summer, MacLeod and the sheep are fat with wool.”
"I'd thought to hire some sheep men," he said, his voice soft, almost soothing.
Neither one of them mentioned that if there was coin to be had for hiring men, she would not still be at Tynan.
"I doubt you'd find many to come this far north," she said, partly to ease his pride, and partly to ease the silence between them. It was the first time she’d felt disturbed by the utter absence of sound. Even the incessant noise of the sheep seemed muffled, as if a great glass jar separated them from the rest of the world.
“I know a great deal about sheep, MacLeod, more than I ever wished to know. My father saw to that.” Squire Cuthbertson had insisted all of his daughters earn their keep, despite the fact that raising sheep required hard physical labor. At nine, Judith had learned to shepherd the stupid things, walking from hilltop to hilltop on her father's vast acreage. She'd learned to wash the long virgin fibers and card the wool before she was twelve.
“And so, you’d teach what you’ve learned.”
“That, and the weaving, if you wish.” All of them, even Elizabeth, had worked the looms and if Judith had a favorite activity of all of them, it was that. She could sit on the hard bench behind the six foot wide loom, pressing the long narrow board with her feet, while her hands automatically placed the threads in position. She'd become so adept at it that she could spend hours weaving, mesmerized by the sounds of the click, clack of the boards shunting across the tight threads, lost in her own world of thoughts and dreams.
Alisdair found himself curiously entranced.
Her face was dirty, her hair a tousled mess of long dusty locks, a thousand small white curling strands of fleece clung to her clothing; she smelled of sheep and good, honest labor.
Her eyes flickered like a candle flame, he thought, wondering what caused her more consternation, the fact that he emulated her way of mute defense, or that he could not help but be captivated by this new, unanticipated side of her.
She raised her eyes to examine his face and found herself oddly trapped by the look in his eyes. It was not censorious, or even angry, but
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