She looked at him. The room was warm and very quiet, and he was extremely close. She suddenly became painfully aware of his mouth and the firm set of it. She looked away first, something she almost never did, and hoped he had not noticed.
He reached into his coat pocket and held the key up between two fingers. Old iron, heavy, the kind that belonged to a door that had been locked for a long time. He looked at it for a moment and then back at her.
“A game,” he said. “I ask ye a question.” His voice was low and even and gave nothing away, and she felt it at the back of her neck. “Ye answer correctly, I give ye the key. Access to everythin’ behind that door.” He paused. “Ye answer wrong…”
He let it sit there. Let her wait for it.
“Ye surrender a layer of clothin’.”
The words landed in the quiet room and stayed there.
Isobel stared at him. Her mind went completely blank. Not for long. A second, maybe two, but long enough to feel the emptiness, to sense the heat flooding in immediately after, climbing from her chest to her throat and then to her face with a speed she could not control.
She was aware of several things at once: the fire behind her, the rain on the window, and the key turning slowly between his fingers. She knew exactly where he was, how still he was, andthat her heart was pounding so loudly she was nearly sure he could hear it.
“I… I beg your pardon?” she said.
“Ye heard me.”
“I heard you. I want to be sure I understood you. You are proposing to ask me questions, and if I answer incorrectly, I am to remove… clothing.”
“Aye.”
She waited for the qualifier, for the smile that would turn it into a jest she could dismiss and set aside. It did not come. He stood in her space, the key between his fingers, his eyes on her face, and the patience of a man who had already decided how this was going to go, simply waiting for her to catch up.
Heat pooled low in her belly and refused to move, along with the thought that she wanted to know what to feel his hands on her again, removing her stockings, and cradling her like a bubble that might burst.
She pushed that thought down as far as it would go.
“If I agree to this, what do I get in return?” She lifted her chin and stared at him superciliously. “If I ask you questions, and you answer incorrectly, will you peel off a layer of your own clothing?”
His eyes flashed with impish delight. “Is that what ye want, me Lady?”
“Yes,” she answered simply. A sly smile stole over his face. “Good. Then, let us begin.”
“What are the questions?” she said.
He looked surprised. “Highland history,” he said. “Clan law. The old ways. Things a well-read woman would ken, if she paid attention.”
“I pay attention.”
“Then ye have nothin’ to fear.” He reached past her and pulled the chair from the desk, set it across from hers, and sat in it, his elbows on his knees, the key held loosely in one hand, his eyes on her face. “First question. What clan held Glencoe before the massacre, and what year did it occur?”
She looked at him steadily. “MacDonald,” she said. “1692.”
The silence that followed lasted exactly long enough to be satisfying.
“Correct,” he said.
“You sound surprised.”
“I daenae sound anythin’.”
“You do,” she countered, giving him a rueful smile. “You expected me to answer incorrectly.”
His eyes narrowed a fraction. “Next question.”
“No,” she interjected. Isobel held up a hand, indicating he should silence his tongue. “It is my turn.”