Page 55 of The Duke's Wicked Widow
Perhaps she should maintain a level of professionalism.
After all, this was the man who might be the father of her child.
Guilt flashed through her again as she dropped her hand.A child. Yes. That was what this had been about, wasn’t it? Not pleasure, but a child, to keep Merida safe. To keephersafe.
But somewhere along the way it had stopped being about becoming pregnant, and instead focused on the incredible sensations Fawkes MacMillan could bring her.
He made her feelspecial.
And she wanted that again.
Ellie pressed her knees together once more, the pressure sending a delightful tingle through her core, where she knew her lower lips were swollen and damp.
Damnation. She wasn’t doing so well with thisprofessionalismthing, was she?
The carriage slowed, then stopped.
After a long moment, Matthews slid the window open. “Are ya certain about this, milady?”
“Yes, Matthews.” Shewouldbe certain. Ellie drew her coat around herself and managed a confident smile. “Please do not bother climbing down, I can open the door well enough. Stay warm, keep Merida safe, and I will be back momentarily.”
But when she closed the door behind her, Ellie realized it was possible she was mistaken.
Shewasn’tcertain about this. At all.
Yet here she stood, on the side of a dark road, half a street from a boisterous tavern. Light spilled out, along with the sounds of revelry and shouting. The river was somewhere nearby, judging from the smell.
Oh. Oh dear, no, that wasn’t just theriverthat smelled.
Ellie pressed her fingers to her nose, glancing in either direction.
Please, let that bedogfeces.
It would be easy enough to climb back into the coach and tell Matthews she’d changed her mind. Better, lie and say her business had been concluded. Her bed at home was warm and the smells there were infinitely better.
Yes, but Cumnock House is not “home”, is it?
It would be better to know the truth. About Fawkes. About his profession.
Taking a deep breath, Ellie steeled herself—
And immediately bent double, coughing.Dear Lord what is that smell?
She pressed her palm against her mouth, hunched over, and hurried toward the tavern’s door.
The One Ball was festooned with a brightly painted sign of a single ballock—wrinkly and pink—wearing an incongruous little green hat and a large grin. Ellie took a moment to frown up at the sign, wondering at men’s senses of humor.
What nonsense. Ballocks didn’t have teeth to smile like that.
That is your issue with the sign? Of all the things? The anatomical accuracies of a hat-wearing ballock? One might think you are delaying going inside, but it is freezing, so get in there.
Unwilling to be shamed by her subconscious, Ellie lifted her chin and stepped inside the tavern.
Well…
It certainly smelled nicer than outside.
Which was to say, it smelled of sour beer and sweat. How sad that was an improvement.
