He plucked the wood curl from her hair, then showed it to her. “What have you been doing?”

She took the sliver of wood and tossed it to the ground. “Helping Hamish with the frames.”

“Frames?”

“Malcolm didn’t tell you everything, then. I am not a lady, St. John. I make my own way, I do.” Her firm chin lifted and she said with simple pride, “We are glassmakers, the lads and I. The best there is.”

“If you’re a glassmaker, why is there a wood shaving in your hair?”

“Because glass must be fit in a frame. And the right frame is as important as finding the right colors for the picture.”

“You and the ‘lads’ do this by yourselves?”

“Aye. And we’ve more work than we can fill.”

His gaze roved over her, from the pride in her eyes, to the strength of her body, to the broad grace of her hands. She was a conundrum, this woman, a strange mixture of strength and…was it vulnerability? Or pride? Something sweet and delicate rested deep in her eyes, and he was determined to discover what it was.

Despite Devon’s determination to merely establish a dalliance with Kat, he had to admit that he was somewhat fascinated. Not too much, of course. He was no wet-eared halfling to think interest was love. It wasn’t, of course. But it did promise to make the flirtation something special, which was fine by Devon. It had been a long time since a woman—any woman—had truly intrigued him.

Devon reflected that of all the women he knew, with the exception of a housekeeper, laundress, or maid or two, none had had professions of their own. Truly, everything about Kat Macdonald was larger than life—her size, her blazing color, even the gentle rasp of her husky voice—all were more in some way. More than he expected, and far more than a proper lady should be.

The thought was rather exciting. “Do you know what I think?”

Though her expression didn’t change, he felt her withdraw, as if in expectation of a blow. Devon placed a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face to his. “I think you’re an exceptional, astounding woman, and I want to know more of you.”

Kat discovered that it was possible to stop breathing even while panting. And she was panting. There was a fey magic about the stranger, something that made her body quiver the second he was within range.

If she looked back in her memory, there was only one other time she’d been so affected by a man. The memory tightened about her throat and halted her voice.

“Furthermore,” Devon St. John continued, his voice low and smooth, “I wonder why you are the way you are.” His gaze wandered over her, from her head to her feet, a question in his blue gaze. “Who are you, Katherine Anne Macdonald?”