That little fact gave her some hope for her extra bundle of clothing. She dropped to her knees feeling there was a chance that she might be able to find something dry in the center of the roll. As she worked at the wet, swollen laces holding the bundle tight, her fingers shook, as much from impatience as from the chill.
“Let me do that.” Colin placed a hand under her arm, gently pulling her to her feet. “Go and sit by the fire until we can get you out of those wet things.”
She considered protesting but decided against it, the lure of the fire too great to be ignored.
In no time at all, he was lifting her things from the unrolled bundle and shaking them out before he draped them over the fencing that separated the storage area from the original stalls in their shelter.
“It’s all wet?” She didn’t even try to keep the disappointment out of her voice. The prospect of the long, uncomfortable night she faced loomed large in her thoughts.
“Dinna fash yerself over it, wife. I’ve a dry tunic and plaid in my bundle.”
“How?” The rains had fallen on him equally hard as they had on her.
“Because I carry our provisions, I wrapped them first in an oiled leather. Here.” He crossed over to where she sat, stopping to scoop up an ivory-colored shirt, which he handed to her. “You can change over there. I promise no to watch if that makes you feel better.”
An uncharacteristic grin broke over his face as he teased, causing her heart to beat a little faster than ithad a moment before and forcing a smile to her lips in return. As if his seeing her in any state of undress made a difference anymore.
Shirt in hand, she hurried behind the stable wall and worked her way out of her overdress and shift, letting them drop to her feet before slipping his shirt over her head. It hung down past her knees while the sleeves draped several inches past her fingertips.
Last, she wiggled out of the wet linen underpants, balancing on one foot after the other to pull them off. She then located a spot on the rail to hang them to dry before heading back to the fire.
She brushed a hand down the soft linen of the tunic she wore, surprised at the case of nerves that suddenly afflicted her. How stupid was that? She’d never met a man, never met anyone, with whom she felt as comfortable as she felt with Colin. And yet, when she stepped around the fence, she felt her face color with embarrassment as he watched her approach.
After what seemed like the longest minute of her life, she suddenly realized it wasn’t her attire at all, but the expression on his face, that elicited her discomfort.
“What?” she asked nervously as she sat down on the blanket he’d spread close to the fire.
He continued to stare at her for a moment longer, as if he had something he wanted to say. A pensive expression he’d worn off and on all day. Then the moment passed as quickly as it had come. He shook his head and turned his back, stirring whatever was in the pot he had placed at the edge of the fire.
“Stay to the middle of those woolens,” he cautioned.“They’re from under the horses’ saddles, so their edges are quite wet.”
So that was where he’d gotten them. She pulled her feet up under her and tucked the big shirt down over her toes, watching Colin as he fussed over the pot, yet again going out of his way to take care of her.
“What is that you’re making?”
“Porridge. It’s only oats with bits of dried meat, but it will be warm and filling. It needs stirring so it doesn’t burn. Would you mind looking after it while I change into something drier?”
“Go.” Abby rocked up onto her knees and took the stick Colin was using from his hands. “I’ve got this under control. Go change.” She could handle campfire cooking.
She couldn’t help but notice how the wet plaid he wore clung to his body. When he bent over the bundle he’d unwrapped on the hard-packed dirt floor, the wet woolen seemed to wrap itself around his thigh, as if his clothing had orchestrated some special little performance just for her benefit.
Abby snapped her eyes back to the pot in front of her, searching desperately for some distraction from the knowledge that at any second now, Colin would be standing somewhere behind her, not a stitch of clothing on him.
Stir. She needed to stir the oats. With the stick. The stick in her hand.
The stick itself was tapered to a rounded point on one end while the other had been carved into a crownlike design. She recognized it immediately as aclassic spirtle, a specialty tool long used in Scotland for the cooking of oats.
From behind her she heard the sound of the wet plaid slapping up against the rail.
If she closed her eyes, she could see him standing there, the firelight flickering over his well-defined body, his long legs covered only in the dark hair . . .
Stop it!
She needed to think of something to do, something to say, anything she could use to distract herself from the image that crowded her thoughts and stirred her emotions.
“I’ve read that it’s tradition to stir the oats clockwise with the spirtle.” She kept her attention focused on the little pot while she babbled like some tourist at a medieval fair. “For luck. Is that what you . . .” She turned her head as she heard him approaching, and her tongue forgot how to form words.
He’d changed out of his wet things, but since she wore his dry tunic, he wore only his spare plaid. It hung low at his waist as if he’d wrapped it hurriedly.