Page 19 of The Scot Beds His Wife
He’d eschewed a waistcoat or cravat, deciding instead to dress informally in only trousers, riding boots, his shirtsleeves—purposely left open a few rebellious buttons—and a vest beneath his long wool coat.
He’d brought Trixie along as an emissary, his adorable and endlessly friendly—if a bit daft—sheepdog, and a basket of perishables that would keep the starving woman fed.
But not for long enough to stay.
“Och, poor lass,” he’d say upon finding her listless, cold, and beleaguered.
The scent of Cook’s fresh bread and flaky sausage boxties would tantalize her into allowing him in—as he couldn’t very well rely on any well-bred manners where she was concerned—and once he’d crossed the threshold…
She didn’t stand a chance.
He almost felt sorry for her. Almost.
Like most Highlanders, Gavin had tended to admire and bed lasses with feminine curves and soft, secret places. Alison Ross seemed all bones and bawd. Though he couldn’t deny a passing curiosity about kissing a tall woman he wouldn’t have to bend in half to reach.
And, if he recalled correctly, her lips might have been soft, if she’d not been pursing them with distaste at him.
Nay, she was not his typical mistress, but neither could he say that any part of her was unattractive.
So, he could fuck her if he had to.
He’d do what it took to get the papers signed.
He’d be whatever she needed, savior, father, brother, friend, or, hopefully, lover.
Nothing would get in the way of what he wanted.
Not that revealing her intriguing daintiness would be much of a chore. Gavin had bedded every different sort of woman he could think of in his six and thirty years. A few of them had been slender, or tall, or brash. But none had been her particular blend of all three. Somehow, that particular blend had kept him up the past few nights, riddled with curious heat.
Better to work that out of his system with a good tup before he charmed her into doing what he wanted and sent her on her merry way.
As he ventured closer to Erradale, Gavin surreptitiously checked the fences and corrals he’d mended over the summer in anticipation of their belonging to him. Once hegathered the cattle against the harsh winter, they’d need a place to be kept. Inverthorne, his land on the south of the peninsula, was covered in a lush forest interrupted by celestial meadows. To call Erradale’s single copse of trees to the immediate north of the estate grounds a forest would be kind. The rest was prime grazing land as far as the scope of a lens could capture.
Gavin scanned the planes of lush greenery, carefully schooling the hunger from his gaze. Perhaps out of practiced habit. Or perhaps because, even when alone, he dare not allow his desire to show, lest someone see it, and know how to punish him.
All was quiet in Erradale, though smoke did drift from the south chimney of the manor, which meant Calybrid or Locryn must have put down their pipes long enough to light her a fire.
No matter, he thought. Firelight was ultimately flattering, and daylight had begun to fade. All the better to seduce her by.
At the sight of movement from the northern tree line, Gavin kicked Demetrius into a canter as more than a dozen rangy, red, long-haired beasts spilled onto the Erradale grounds.
Trixie went mad at the sight, streaking across the lawns in a ball of black and brown frenzy. She vaulted through two corral fences, and barked up to what must have been, to the dog, a congregation of very strange creatures.
Gavin tried to call her back, but she’d never really been smart enough to train.
A confusion of whistles and yells filtered through the trunks of the ancient oaks as startled, hesitant cattle began to balk at the noisy dog, and turn back toward the trees.
Not all of the irate voices were male.
What the devil?
“Hey!” The screamed censure whipped from inside the tree line. “Quit that racket, mongrel!”
If the voice hadn’t identified her, the American accent certainly would have.
Alison?
Stymied, Gavin spurred his horse faster. He’d never heard a woman’s voice so loud and demanding before.
