Mac looked at the canvas tent. Close quarters, indeed.
“Let me reassure you that I have no intention of compromising you, Mac,” Liam drawled, setting down his cup.
“Even if you did have ‘intentions,’ O’Shea, women of my time know how to defend ourselves from guys with testosterone poisoning.”
Confusion flickered across his face, but he masked it quickly enough. “You seem to have left your weapons behind. Or do you have… skills I haven’t seen yet?”
There was something insinuating in the low rumble of his voice. “Plenty,” she said. “Things you probably can’t imagine.”
“You don’t know my imagination.”
Yes, there was a definite purr in his speech, reminiscent of a large jungle cat playing harmless with potential prey. This was not a side of him she’d seen earlier, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it. The open hostility and barely veiled derision had almost been easier to blow off.
And somehow he’d managed to work his way around the fire to her side of it. Mac made the additional discovery that Fernando had disappeared.
“So,” he said with a mock-lazy grin, “do the women of… what was it?… 1997 aspire to be men entirely? A pity. What made them abandon the role nature intended for them?”
“And what role is that, pray tell?”
His gaze drifted to her chest as it had a couple of times earlier that day. “It depends on the woman. For one like you, Mac…” The look he gave her made further speech unnecessary.
Good grief. Realization struck her like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky. Was he…
Was Liam O’Shea actually making a pass at her?
“Don’t tell me,” she said coolly, “that you’re scared of the idea of women with power, independence, and intelligence who can take care of themselves?”
Ah. She’d got to him, just a little. His shoulders stiffened. “I’ve never seen such a creature yet. What frightens me, Mac, is that all women of the future might be like you.”
“And that is?”
“Where should I begin? Perhaps with your distinct lack of feminine charms or delicacy? Or your crude habits of speech—is it the usual practice where you’re from to teach young ladies such language?”
“You haven’t heard the half of it.”
“And your appearance.” He gave her another onceover. “Cropped hair. Trousers. A man’s shirt—”
“Come to think of it,” she said, “I do remember that men of your time preferred women confined in layers of heavy clothing and figure-shaping devices that twisted their bodies and made it impossible for them to move. Wouldn’t want them to get above themselves, now would we?”
“You should be writing tracts. Do you dislike men because you haven’t had any success with them?”
Mac thought longingly of tossing a few hot coals into his lap. “I don’t dislike men. But I can tell you right now that a pair of broad shoulders and a smart mouth don’t cut it where I come from. It takes a little more to interest a modern woman.”
“And it takes more than a brazen hussy to interest a man. I see we understand each other.”
Fat chance of that. But she was spared the necessity of replying by Fernando’s return to the fireside. She was grateful for the reprieve; Liam was certainly a product of his time. She’d guessed the first time she saw the photograph what kind of man he’d be: the quintessential nineteenth-century male who’d probably never had his ideas challenged by any woman.
She stood, stretched, switched on the flashlight, and strode for the tent. Mud sucked at her boots, making each footstep awkward and reminding her how desperate she was for a good shower. Preferably a cold one.
“You can have the cartaret,” Liam called.
Whatever that was—probably some kind of cot. Damned if she’d take any more favors from him, muddy ground or not.
The tent was sturdy and of good quality, though there were many little indications that it wasn’t of the modern type. A small portable desk, folding chair, empty crates, and a stack of supplies took up one corner, a hinged cot with a tent of mosquito netting most of the opposite side. There might be enough room for Mac to stretch out on the ground between, but she wasn’t about to risk it.