“Yes?
“Are you married?”
“No.”
“Good,” he said then, just before he leaned down and kissed her full on the lips.
Grace was so stunned she simply stood there like an inanimate fool. She didn’t kiss him back. She just stilled like a stone, feeling his power and warmth wash over her.
He kissed like he looked. Large. Rather overwhelming.
She didn’t dare breathe. Every damn one of her primitive instincts told her to kiss the man back. His tongue swept across her lips, sending a shiver through Grace that was electrical in nature.
The ice storm receded, the plane crash never happened, she was not standing on the side of a mountain with her fate uncertain. All that existed for Grace at that moment was the feel of Greylen MacKeage as he wrapped his arms completely around her.
He smelled like the forest, felt solid as rock, tasted warm and sweet and so very male. Her senses swam in chaotic circles. Nothing in her limited experience with men could have prepared Grace for what she was feeling now. Passion overwhelmed her, and she lifted her hands against his shoulders and shoved him away. “Wh-what did you do that for?” she asked, clinging to the side of the plane, afraid her knees were about to buckle.
“Because I wanted to.”
Now, there was an answer that fit Greylen MacKeage very well.
She had to admit it had felt deliciously good to have his mouth on hers.
“What would you have done if I said I was married?”
The corner of his mouth lifted into a half-grin. “I’d have kissed you anyway. Any man who would let his woman get into this mess doesn’t deserve her. And that makes you available to my way of thinking.” He took her chin in his hand. “It’s a moot point, though, isn’t it, Grace? Baby’s father is not in the picture.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“Because women with husbands or lovers don’t come running home four weeks after childbirth.”
Well, she couldn’t very well argue the point, now, could she? She didn’t have a husband or lover, but then, she hadn’t just given birth to Baby, either.
“Are you ready to leave now?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Then let’s see if we can get Baby transferred to my chest without waking him.”
It was no longer just her knees shaking; her whole body was trembling, and it wasn’t from the cold. The heat, maybe. She was feeling unusually warm. Did raging hormones produce heat?
Grace carefully released her death grip on the plane and unzipped her jacket. She peeled it off and relished the fresh, cold, wet air that struck her. She turned around and presented her back to Grey.
“You’ve got to undo the buckles on my shoulders,” she told him. “If Baby’s not in it, I can usually pull it off over my head. But we’ll have to adjust them anyway.” She lifted Baby up slightly to lessen the tension on the buckles. “Okay. I’m holding him. Undo it.”
Grey deftly unfastened the straps, lifted Baby off her chest, and placed him against his own. Grace moved to his back and discovered two problems. One, it was too dark for her to see what she was doing. And two, she couldn’t reach the buckles even if she could see. The man stood a good deal taller than her five-foot-four-inch frame.
“Ah, could you maybe get down on your knees?” she asked.
Grey craned his head around to look at her, and she made out the slash of his grin. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t think.”
He lowered himself, not to his knees but hunkered down on his haunches instead. “Is this okay?” he asked.
“Your knees would be lower.”
“Now, lass. I’ve learned a man best not get on his knees for a woman the very first day. It doesn’t bode well for his future.”
“You called me lass. Are you Scottish?” she asked, alarmed. She had thought by his slight accent that he might be Irish. Was he related to Michael MacBain?
“Born and bred a Scot,” he admitted.
“How long have you lived in America?”
“Oh, nearly three years.”
“But your accent is so…so…American.”
“Because I am an American now.”
“You’ve deliberately worked to change your accent? But why? What’s wrong with being a Scot and having a Scottish accent?” she asked as she worked on fastening the buckles.
“I’ve also learned the phrase ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans.’ I live here now. I intend to speak like one of you.”
Grace laughed as she pushed at his back to let him know the job was done. “Then you’ve got to drop your final consonants a bit more if you want to sound like a Mainer.”
He stood up and turned to face her. “You don’t have a Maine accent.”
“I haven’t lived here for fourteen years. It was washed out of me in college.”
Grace was tempted to ask him if he knew Michael MacBain, but then she thought better of it. She wasn’t ready to acknowledge the man, not even in her own mind. Not yet. She would wait until she was back in her old house and had recovered from this little adventure.
“Are you ready to go?” he asked.
“Yes. Just let me get my bag.”
“It’s not the heavy one, is it?”
“No. I repacked everything. I’m only bringing Baby’s food and diapers, my bare computer, and one or two personal things. The computer’s not heavy. It was the satellite link and other equipment that weighed so much.”
She reached into the plane and pulled out the bag, clutching it to her when he tried to take it. “Ah…I can carry this. It’s really not that heavy.”
He planted his feet wide and put his hands on his hips. “Will you tell me what’s so godly important about that bag that you can’t let it out of your sight? Since I met you, you’ve done nothing but guard it the way a drunkard guards his wine.”
Grace tightened her hold on the bag and lifted her chin, refusing to give in on this point. She didn’t care that the man looked big, even scary, and determined enough to stop a freight train. She was carrying her own bag.
“Personal things,” she told him. “Precious things.”
“There’s nothing precious enough to risk your neck over. So what’s in the bag, Grace? Thousands of dollars? Illegal drugs?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“My sister.”
Chapter Five
Grey could only stare at the trembling woman standing in front of him. Had she just said her sister?
“Mary? Your sister, Mary Sutter?” he finally asked in a strangled whisper, hoping like hell he’d heard wrong.
She nodded.
He stared at her in silence. “Mary’s dead?” he asked, finally comprehending.
She nodded again.
Grey took a step back and leaned against the side of the plane, bending over until he supported himself with his hands on his knees. “When?” he asked, staring at the ground. He looked up at her, just barely able to make out her stark white face in the growing darkness. “How?”
“An automobile accident,” she said.
He lowered his gaze to the bag she was clutching with a fierceness that was heartbreaking. “What do you mean, Mary’s in there?”
He saw her chin rise again. “I had her cremated, to bring her home. She’s in a tin in this bag.”
He straightened and rubbed both his hands over his face, several times, trying to wash away the picture of Mary Sutter, so happy, vibrant, and contented with life, now just a handful of ash. “Damn.” He looked at Grace. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“You said you knew Mary?”
“Yes. We bought eggs and herbs from her. She was a good neighbor and person.”
“Yes, she was.”
“I’m sorry,” he repeated, unable to think of anything else to say. He walked over to her and held out his hand.
“Let me carry the bag, Grace. I’ll be careful with it. You just worry about keeping your feet beneath you.