Page 102 of The Scot Beds His Wife
“All this chaos in one fucking railcar,” Gavin raged. “I vow I’m going to just hang everyone involved and be done with it.”
A sheaf of papers landed on the table in front of Samantha, effectively paralyzing any life-sustaining functions of the organs protected by her rib cage. Her grip tightened on the handle of her pistol, though it was useless as a weapon with the parts all spread out before her for cleaning and oiling.
“H-hang who? Why?” She couldn’t bring herself to look. Was she only going to be allowed two weeks to enjoy this marital arrangement? Because, dammit, she did enjoy it. Despite herself. Despite everything.
Even with her bad luck, it seemed excessively cruel of the fates to take this away from her so soon.
To takehimaway. Just when she was starting to…
“I’d give up my earldom if it meant I didna have to be magistrate anymore.” Gavin cast himself into the chair beside her with a weary oath, then scooted the mahoganymonstrosity closer to the one she occupied. “I’ve cut my time at the bench back one day a week, and I hate even taking that much time away from ye… I mean, from Erradale.”
Relief washed her cold terror away in a sluice of warmth, and drew the most genuine smile to her lips she could remember.
She’d missed him today, too.
“What happened?” she asked.
“The Campbells of Kinross and the McCoys of Witherdale have been at each other’s throats for… Och, I doona ken, probably five hundred years or so. One of the McCoy spinsters, fifty if she’s a day, shared a railcar with the entire Campbell clan returning from—I forget where—but it all started when Kevin Campbell said…” He paused, his brow furrowing as her hands resumed brushing out the pistol’s cylinder. “Are ye… cleaning yer pistols on the dining room table?”
“Complaining about your day and nagging me about cleaning my gun where I ought not to…” She leaned in her chair toward him, thinking that no one in the world had such a handsome husband. “When did you become the wife?”
“I suppose we’ve done even more profane deeds upon this table.” His chuckle did dark things to her insides as their mouths met briefly.
To hide her blush at the salacious memory of her bent over this very table, she returned to her scrubbing with renewed vigor.
Even after such a brief kiss, her lips now tasted of the toffee he kept in strange little caches around the keep. Aside from the crystal dish on his study desk and another in the entry, she’d found a small bundle of them in his saddlebags, one in his closet by where he kept his cuff links, by the bedstand, in the library, and even the armory.
How his perfect teeth hadn’t rotted from his head was a sin against the laws of God and nature.
It surprised her not at all that Gavin St. James was afflicted with a sweet tooth. The men in her previous life were known to tuck tobacco between their lips and gums. She’d always hated the smell and taste of it, let alone the mess.
Yet, every time she found another sack half full of toffee shards, it brought a smile to her mouth, and her heart.
She’d taken to pilfering a bite for herself just to see if he’d notice. They were sharp, jagged, hard, and surprisingly sweet.
Just like the man she’d married.
“I put an oilcloth down.” She motioned to the cloth beneath the discarded components of her weapon. “The family dining table shall live to see another day.”
“Yemight not if Mrs. McCabe finds out,” he teased, capturing a tendril at her temple and running it through his fingers in an affectionate gesture. “I can save ye from many things, bonny, but not my housekeeper’s wrath.”
“You should sack that harpy,” she groused, pretending that his tiny physical intimacies didn’t threaten to melt her into puddles of sentimentality. “I think she’s trying to put some kind of Gaelic curse on me.”
“I would if I wasna so afraid of her.” Leaning back, he loosened his cravat and let it hang limply from around his neck with a relaxed sigh. “But do inform me if ye break into boils or yer hair starts to fall out… so I can make certain to do what I can to remain on her good side.”
Samantha swatted at him, but he caught her hand and brought it to his lips.
Trying to ignore the flutter in her chest, she snatched it back. “I can’t believe you have a McCoy feud over here, too,” she exclaimed. “Seems to me that family is trouble just everywhere. We’ve an epic one in America.”
“That, there, is the record of it.” He made a profane gesture at the sizable file of documents. “Seems to come down to the fact that Eloise McCoy was once jilted by Thomas Campbell, the cooper, and couldna stand to share a railcar with him, his wife, and their many wild and braw sons.”
“Was blood spilt?” she asked, gorging on a bit of drama.
“Not this time, more’s the pity.” The appearance of his wicked grin threatened her breath again, but she didn’t at all mind.
She loved this place, where clan arguments lasted longer than her entire country had been ratified. Samantha suddenly wanted a mirror, to see if she reflected the same inner luminescence she’d noted highlighting Mena Mackenzie’s lovely countenance.
Because if one could feel luminescence rather than see it, Samantha did in this moment.
