Kat flushed, her hand smoothing her skirt. “So I wore a different gown today than I normally do. That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Ye’ve worn a nicer gown every day since he last visited. Are ye wishin’ he would return?”

“No! Not at all.”

Simon raised his brows again.

Kat’s face heated even more. “By St. George’s dragon, I’m not about to apologize for wearing something other than one of my old gray work gowns! Besides, it’s not as if I came to work dressed for a ball or anything ridiculous.”

Of course, it was a better quality of gown than the ones she usually wore. Of soft dove-gray cotton, it fell in fuller, more graceful folds. And the neckline, while not precisely fancy, did have a thin stitching of trim.

Kat self-consciously traced the stitching. “I wear this gown all the time.”

“To church, mayhap. But not to work in. ’Tisn’t practical as ye’ll get soot on it and the sparks’ll mark it.”

There was something in what he said; Kat didn’t own a work gown that didn’t have at least one small hole burned in the skirts.

Simon crossed his arms over his barrel chest. “Know what I think?”

“No, but I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

“I think ye were hopin’ the Sassenach would come a-callin’.”

“I did no such thing,” Kat replied hotly. Although, to be honest, there had been a moment yesterday when she thought she’d heard horse’s hooves clopping on the path and her heart had pounded a bit harder than usual. She sighed to herself. Very well…perhaps she had hoped to see the Sassenach again. He’d been much in her thoughts. But she’d be damned before she admitted such a thing to Simon.

Of course, she was a little chagrined that St. John hadn’t returned before now. Perhaps he wasn’t as interested as he’d pretended. The thought pricked at her pride.

“Lass, ye’re dreamin’ if ye think this Sassenach will come a-callin’. Not that ye’re not a lovely woman, fer ye are. But the Sassenach didn’t look like the kind of man who’d take the time to act like a proper gent—” Simon’s gaze moved past her, his brows lowering until they met over his nose. “Bloody hell!”

Kat turned, though she already knew what she’d see. And there he was—Devon St. John, riding across the clearing. He was hatless, the sun gleaming off his black hair, limning the bridge of his nose and touching the plane of each cheekbone. Dressed in a blue riding coat with buff breeches, he looked far too handsome to be in the woods.

There! She’d been right to wear one of her better gowns. She cleared her throat. “Simon?”