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“You’re blushing,” he observed.

“It’s a hot day.” She fanned herself and gave him a stern look. “If you’re wearing a stitch.”

He raised his brows, unconvinced and so transparently pleased she wanted to slap those brows down his forehead, Then, he pivoted and inspected the erratic ladder of tree boughs, his chin pointed up, the tips of a few black curls sliding below his nape. He was charting his path to the balloon.

Or else—displaying his massive back, the slabs of muscle on either side of his spine, the dimples at the base where his arse began to curve

She licked her dry lips.

Even as a lassie, she’d been too aware of his physicality. Every summer, she’d noted the changes, assessing the length of his legs and arms, studying how he moved. She’d compare his development to her own, wondering—as she lost the advantage of height, then weight—if she’d retain the advantage of speed or strength, if this would be the year that she ceded her crown as Queen of Sport to a lordly interloper. Wondering what new games she could invent, contests that favored the smaller competitor.

Competitive interest. That’s what this was. All it was.

The muscles in his back tensed as he began to lever himself up.

“Stop!” She started forward.

His heels came back down, and he turned to look his rebuke. “What did you say?”

What he was saying communicated itself very clearly.

Did she dare to issue his lordship a command?

“I said stop.” She untied her apron. “The tree’s ancient. Most of those branches are dead. I’ll fetch your balloon.”

“You couldn’t budge the car. Besides, something knocked the valve, or the barrel. Do you hear that hissing? That’s hydrogen gas.”

“I don’t hear any hissing. I hear you blethering.” She let the apron drop—poor bannocks—and fit her toe into a knot in the tree trunk, reaching for handholds in the bark.

“Isobel.” He sounded irritated. “You are three and twenty years old, in petticoats. You can’t climb a tree.”

“You are three and twenty years old, practically nude. You can’t climb a tree, either.”

“I’m already in the tree.”

“So will I be, in just a moment.”

“We’re far too old for these competitions.”

“It’s not a competition. It’s common sense. But if you’re wondering, I can still outclimb anyone on the island.”

He snorted. She could sense his gaze boring into her. Did he anticipate her scrabbling for purchase, sliding back to earth?

In truth, she didn’t climb trees these days, not with any regularity. And this one was huge, a long vertical stretch before the first fork.

She’d rather die than admit defeat.

Rough bark grated against her palms. Her petticoat was a hindrance. Her arm muscles screamed louder than they used to. But she was only panting slightly as she dragged herself up to the limb on which he stood.

“Move,” she said and teetered, clutching at the branch above, bumping his hand in the process.

She didn’t have enough room to turn and continue climbing, penned as she was between his body and the tree trunk. When she glanced at him, her throat tightened.

His features bespoke centuries of well-managed breeding, the facial bones prominent, perfectly balanced and symmetrical, the mouth firm, the jaw strong. The very picture of masculine beauty. But his eyes didn’t belong in a portrait in a castle gallery. Their look was too free, too bold. Too wild.

“Scoot,” she tried, and watched his startled annoyance deepen. She put the heel of her free hand on his chest, hot and dense to the touch. She pushed. “You’re in my way.”

She wiggled around, which involved pressing her bottom into his thighs. She heard him growl a curse and finally, he sidled over, allowing her space.