He nodded. “Go on then.”
She mused for a moment then asked, “Which Jacobite commander led the charge at Sheriffmuir in 1715?”
“Argyll commanded the government forces. Mar led the Jacobites.” He paused. “Thoughledis generous. He managed a draw and called it a victory.”
“Correct.”
She watched the slight tension move through his jaw and thought…good. Let him recalculate.
He asked for a specific date—the signing of a minor treaty she had read about only once in a book she did not think she was retaining—and she opened her mouth, and the wrong year came out, and she knew it before it finished leaving her lips.
She closed her mouth.
“Yer scarf,” he said.
Her stomach dropped.
She reached up, met his gaze, and located the end of the scarf resting across her throat. Her fingers were slightly unsteady, but she hoped he wouldn’t notice. Slowly, she unwound it—one deliberate turn, then another—until the fabric whispered softly against her skin as it was freed. The cool library air immediately touched her neck, brushing the hollow above her collarbone, the line of her throat, all the spots the scarf had covered. She placed it on the arm of the chair, looked back at him, and refused to look away.
He looked at her throat, at the hollow above her collarbone, at the line of her neck where the scarf had been. His jaw was clenched, and his hands on his knees were still, a muscle twitching once high in his cheek before settling. The firelight flickered across his face, failing to soften it.
The way he looked at her made heat pool low in her belly, thick and insistent, and she pressed her knees together, kept her face completely neutral, and told herself it meant nothing.
“Next question,” she said. “What is the name of the old man who makes the bannocks fresh in the kitchen every day?”
“Ye expect me to ken his name?” His right eyebrow ticked up marginally, making the small white scar stand out prominently.
“He is a member of your clan and works in your household.” Isobel smiled in a feline way. “Now, give me his name.”
Laird MacRaeh shook his head, then granted her a wry smile. “I dinnae ken. His name has slipped my mind.”
“Oh…” Isobel produced a faux pout. “That is too bad.” She nodded at his waistcoat. “Lose it.”
His smirk spread as he peeled away the layer, revealing the white shirt underneath that was made of fine, flimsy material which did little to cover his muscled chest and abdomen.
“Will ye at least tell me the man’s name, so I may remember it in the future?”
“Colm,” she whispered. “Old Colm makes the best bannocks in the land.”
“Yes…” he mused. “I’ll be sure to thank him for his service the next time I cross his path.”
“Be sure you do.” She nodded at the Laird then, giving him a bit of encouragement. “What question do you have for me next?”
“Would ye take off yer waistcoat for me?”
Isobel was momentarily stunned by the bluntness of his question. She lifted trembling fingers to the buttons and let them sit there for a long moment. “You have no further questions pertaining to Scottish history and clan laws?”
“I cannae think of anything other than the flush of yer skin.” He leaned forward, placing both elbows on his knees. His eyes were trained on her hands which were still positioned over the buttons on her spencer.
“Yer waistcoat,” he rasped in a gravelly voice. “Will ye remove it or will ye torture me further?”
She held his gaze and reached up, unclasped the waistcoat, let it slide from her shoulders, and draped it over the back of the chair.
“Do you still feel as if I am tormenting you, me Laird?”
Laird MacRaeh’s eyes darkened with desire. “Your gown.” His voice rumbled low. “I wish to see it on the floor.”
A jolt of excitement whistled through her body. She had not anticipated this, but now that she was in the moment, she did not want to deny him or herself. She straightened then met his heavy gaze with a lustful one of her own.