The Lass Who Kissed a Frog, Lee, Caroline [i have read the book a hundred times .txt] 📗

help.” He shrugged and reached for a bigger stick to use to dig. “Although I wish we’d brought shovels.”

She hadn’t thought they’d need them. She’d been able to excavate the sphere with just her hands as a girl, hadn’t she?

It seemed hopeless to find it now if it was even still under the ground. But with Froggie beside her…?

Perhaps not quite so hopeless.

This time her digging was less frantic and more determined. They were logical about it, splitting the area into quadrants and grids. As they dug, they called out progress and encouragement, and Vanessa was struck by what a good team they made. They could communicate effortlessly, teasing or not, and she felt as if she could do anything.

Was that because of him, or because of the way she’d changed on this journey? Did it matter? When this adventure was through, she and Froggie would go their separate ways. He’d be gone from her life, but the things she’d discovered about herself—the things he’d taught her about herself—would remain. She’d always have that knowledge.

“So, this sphaera…?”

“The useless ball of ornamentation, aye?”

He huffed a laugh, which turned into a grunt as he lifted a rock from the dirt he was scratching at. “This golden ball of money, ye say isnae for ye?”

Sitting back on her heels, she told herself she wasn’t taking a moment to admire his legs. Who knew kilts could be so delightful? “I’m going to sell the sphere and give the money to my sister.”

“Aye, ye said that.” He pushed his tam off his forehead far enough to swipe at the sweat with the back of his forearm, but she couldn’t see the color of his cropped hair. “Why does she need the money?”

He certainly was handsome, in his own way, was he not? Her Froggie was well-made, aye, but he had none of Roland’s polish or grace. Nay, that wasn’t true. He might wear a delightfully barbaric kilt and not understand personal grooming habits of beards, but he had his own grace. And the more time she spent with him, the more Vanessa realized, despite the missing eye and the limp which came and went, her Froggie was one of the most handsome men she’d ever met.

“Vanessa?”

“Hmm?”

His lips curled upward. “Ye’re just staring at me, lass. I asked a question. Why does Bonnibelle need the money?”

When had she told him her sister’s name? She shook her head and turned back to her work, realizing it was time to move to a different spot. She’d found no artifacts of any kind so far and swallowed down the terror at what that might mean.

“Bonnie has a goal. She’s written a book—she’s written several books—and cannae get a publisher to agree to publish it. So her dream is to buy her own publishing house and print works from authors like her, books other women might like to read.” She chipped mechanically at the dirt. “There’s one she’s already decided on, and the sale of the sphaera will ensure she has the money to make that dream happen.”

He was quiet for a long moment, then finally said, “Then I owe ye an apology.”

“For what?” She didn’t look up at him.

“For assuming the worst of ye. I thought a lass as beautiful as ye must want a useless bauble like that for her own enjoyment, but yer plan is verra noble.”

Her shoulders tugged up toward her ears, half-shrugging, half-hiding her burning cheeks. Part of her was hurt at his admission, but part of her was flattered by his words.

“I ken ye didnae expect it,” she whispered, pulling more dirt out of the way. “Nae one does. I ken everyone thinks I’m self-centered, and I am—”

“Nay!” When his hand closed around her wrist, she flinched back, and he gentled his tone. “Nay, Vanessa.”

The pile of empty dirt in front of her, which she was beginning to realize represented her failure, blurred. She shifted her gaze to his hand, where it gently tugged the stick from her grip and shifted her to face him.

He was kneeling beside her in the dirt, his thumb drawing small circles on the back of her hand, and she wasn’t sure if she was ecstatic or heartbroken.

“Nay, Vanessa,” he whispered again. “Ye’re no’ self-centered.”

“I am.” She sniffed, trying not to allow the tears to fall; the hope of the last few days crashing in on her all at once. “I’m beautiful, aye, and I ken it. But all I am is beautiful, and I ken that too.”

“Ye’re wrong.” Now his voice was low, passionate, as he moved to hold her by the arms. His hands were warm through the rough blouse of her disguise, and she stared up at him with something akin to hope.

Prove me wrong, she wanted to shout, but held herself back, because she wasn’t certain he could.

“Vanessa, love, ye’re sweet and thoughtful and ye care about others.” His hands were making her shiver. “That is who ye are. Yer beauty is remarkable, aye, but it is no’ what makes ye worthy.”

“What does?” she whispered, staring up at him.

“Och, lass. Yer actions, yer heart, yer mind. Yer worth is remarkable as well.”

And then, before she could process the most wonderful thing anyone had ever said to her, he was leaning toward her, his intense green gaze on her lips.

She leaned to meet him, and when his lips finally claimed hers, they both moaned low in their throats.

His skin was warm against hers as he pulled her closer, and her knees trembled in the dirt. The beard was rough, but the sensation only made her shiver, even as a warmth traveled down her limbs and settled between her legs.

His lips pulled and tugged and suckled in the most incredible of ways, and when his tongue brushed against the seam of her lips, hers parted and welcomed him in. He groaned again, deepening the kiss, as his fingers dug into the simple bun she wore under her cap.

Her hands weren’t still either. It was as if this