Page 36 of All Scot and Bothered
“Nay. Kindness… it’s not a virtue I’m afflicted with.”
“Afflicted?” For once, disappointment touched her expression. “And here I thought one must be kind in order to be good.”
“One must be fair and just.” How had they come to be speaking of this? He wanted to return to their repartee of before. He wanted to stop fortifying the wall he’d built years ago around his heart, his soul, his entire self, because she was somehow chipping away at it.
Not like a battering ram, but subtly. Like time, and water, and earth. If he wasn’t careful, she’d leave it in ruins, and then where would that leave him?
Exposed.
“My coach is just past this gate,” he said, resting his hand on the lock of an iron gate securing the back garden from the street.
“Wait.” Her hand landed on his arm and locked his feet to the ground like a shackled prisoner.
He felt her touch in every part of his body.
“I should like to see you again,” she said with earnest sincerity. “We’re practically family now. Don’t you think it’s very important we get on?”
“We arena related. Not by blood.” This felt particularly significant.
“No, but perhaps we could be friendlier. I’d like to know more about you,” she prodded. “And I’d like you to get to know me better. To understand certain things…”
Why?he wanted to ask.To what end if not matrimony?“Do ye have a confession to make, Miss Teague?”
“I might.”
Her answer mystified and exhilarated him. If he were to make a confession in this moment, it would be to desire. Would her confession be the same?
The atmosphere between them shifted from tentative challenge and merciless discovery to something softer and warmer.
Here she stood. Looking up at him with her eyes wide and open upon his face. Her lips relaxed, threatening to part.
Close enough to touch. To taste.
“As much as I hate to agree with Count Armediano upon anything, I must say, ye are an extraordinary woman,” he crooned.
Her lashes fluttered down over her cheeks, where he was glad to see her peachy blush return. “That is kind of you to say, my lord.”
A muscle released at the back of his neck, allowing his head to lower toward hers. “Ye doona have to call me that. Ye’re not in my court.”
Eyes as deep and blue as Loch Ness beneath the sun lifted to meet his. “What if Iwasin your court? Would you condemn me?”
“Never.”
“Neveris a dangerous word.” Her breath smelled sweet, like chocolate and scotch.
“So isalways.”
“If notmy lord, what should I call you, then? Cassius?”
“Ramsay will do just fine.”
Her eyes darted away, but not before he caught a flash of something. Shyness? Or a secret? The night whispered a warning, but it was too late. The moon-drenched darkness had become his undoing, the gardens his prison. He couldn’t have escaped even if he’d wanted to.
“I like your names,” she whispered, swaying forward. “Ramsay. And Cassius.”
He hated his name. He hated it every day. “I like yers.”
She blinked. “Would you say it?”
