The Devil’s Due by Boucher, Rita (short books for teens .txt) 📕

were pounding the nails in his coffin. The steady clink of metal upon metal felt as if it was directly atop Duncan’s head. Cautiously, he opened his eye, then rapidly squeezed it shut again as the sunlight pierced through with knife-like pain. It wasn’t just the whiskey. Unfortunately, he had not imbibed nearly enough the previous night. Indeed, a hangover and its accompanying fuzziness would be infinitely preferable to this awful clarity of memory and thought. Every single blasted word that he had uttered; each foolish move that he had made the previous night was recalled with unshakeable distinction. Duncan forced himself to float, to breathe steadily in rhythm with that hammering tattoo until he felt the throbbing recede into the back of his head. When the sound ceased for a moment, he rose and pulled off his shirt, then made his faltering way to the pump. He worked the handle with self-punishing vigor, putting his head directly under the icy, spring-fed flow until he wanted to scream at the cold.

Duncan came up sputtering, shaking his head to and fro like a sopping dog, sending rivulets of water coursing down his back and chest. Dripping, he swiped the hair from his eye and faced the light, letting the sun’s warmth take away the water’s chill. As he looked up he saw the source of the noise. In horrified wonder, he watched as Kate trod delicately along the ridgepole, her steps sure and dainty as a dancer’s.

Transfixed, he gazed, torn between amazement and fear as she stood momentarily glowing in the corona of sunlight before she bent to hammer a shingle into place. The beams that broke through the clouded sky transformed her into a glorious pixie creature, feminine and delicate for all that she was dressed in her breeches. As she rose again and moved further along the roof, he wanted to call out, to demand that she get down, but he dared not break her concentration.

It was neither sound nor movement that alerted Kate to Duncan’s presence, just a strange feeling that ran up her spine. Somehow she knew that he was there, watching her. Despite all her assertions that a man’s attire was the most sensible garb for roof work, Daisy’s oft-repeated admonitions about propriety came flooding into Kate’s mind. What would he think of her? She wondered, even as she told herself that she did not care in the least. He had seen her in men’s clothes before. It did not signify. After last night’s revelations, she would not allow any man’s opinion ever to matter again.

Nonetheless, as she knelt and hammered in a shingle, Kate stole a look through the veil of her hair which had loosened itself from its usual scraped-back severity. Sure enough, he was there down below, his shirt flung carelessly over his shoulder, his hair shining a polished ebony with moisture, freed from its customary queue. Beads of water trailed down his neck and chest. It appeared that Daisy’s meals had worked wonders; the gaunt hollows and spare angles were no more.

As he lifted a hand to shade his eyes against the sun, Kate abruptly realized just how many muscles were involved in that simple action. Hard sinew rippled across his chest in a fascinating display. She knew that she ought to turn her attention elsewhere, but she could not. Perhaps it was the dark tangle of his beard that made him appear so utterly barbaric; or it might have been the uncivilized bronze of his skin, but all at once he became the embodiment of secret dreams. Warrior, pirate, conqueror, every fantasy that Kate had ever imagined suddenly became Duncan MacLean.

Her throat suddenly felt parched and Kate half-choked as she attempted to swallow. Deliberately, she turned her attention back to the roof and began to hammer relentlessly. It was the heat, she told herself. The heat, lack of rest, lack of water, lack of common sense.

She had known that it was within him all along, the power that had beguiled so many women into his arms, but never before had she felt that sheer magnetism so strongly. Please, she begged wordlessly, put on your shirt before I tumble off the ridgepole. But another furtive glance confirmed that he was still standing there like a pagan statue. “Damn!” She put her throbbing thumb in her mouth.

“What are you doing up there?” Duncan asked. “Other than cussing and pounding your fingers?”

“I am practicing pianoforte!” Her angry glare could have fried an egg. It was, after all, his fault that she had missed the nail. Kate pulled another from her pouch and sighting it carefully began to drive it into the shingle. Inconsiderate lout. Thwack! Going about half-naked. Thunk! As if there were no ladies present. Whump! Had no one ever taught him manners? Bang! Common decency? Kerthwack! Going about in a rag-tag fashion. Why his trousers were torn half-way up to his- As her mind supplied a picture to complete the thought, her face turned to fire.

“You must be near to baked up there,” Duncan observed. “Your cheeks have ripened to cherry.”

“If you will let me get about my business, I will soon be down,” Kate retorted. “These shingles are in need of replacement. It is clouding up again and I thought to take advantage of the good weather. A few more and there will be two bedchambers snug against the rain.”

“I have told you before that I am content with the present arrangement,” Duncan said. She was avoiding his eye; no wonder that, considering the events of the previous night. A half-drunk, half-wit was what he had been, throwing her kindness back into her face. It was astonishing that she could bear to speak to him at all. “Fred and I are just fine as we are in the butler’s pantry.”

“Are you indeed?” Kate asked, keeping her eyes firmly fixed upon the next nail. “Is that why you were sleeping out in the hay last night, Duncan?”

Duncan groaned inwardly. Of course,