Page 29 of The Scot Who Loved Me
“This evening was supposed to be fun.”
Will braced a hand on the wall, his coat falling open. “I thought it was supposed to be work.”
A black waistcoat hugged him. The vee of his waist distracted her. Flat, narrow, flouting symmetry of an otherwise large male frame. Eyelids drooping, she stared.
“It was.” She cleared her throat and conjured her best woman-of-business voice. “I bought a drayage and two horses. They’ll be delivered to Cecelia’s house in three days.”
“A legitimate purchase?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“That’s no’ very exciting, buying a big side-less cart and two horses.”
She took in the width of his shoulders. “A necessity.”
Will took a swig of ale. “Why, Mrs. Neville, you make a life of crime sound almost boring.”
His brogue trilled warm and resonant. The little things about him got her. His slouching old boots and gilded-gold hair. And Will was so close. So touchable. She ran her fingers along his shirt’s open neck, the seam worn, the linen a textured grain.
“Most of my purchases are legitimate, Mr. MacDonald.” She stared at his mouth, the width and fullness of his lower lip. “There’s been only one illegitimate purchase.”
The tankard stopped halfway to his mouth. “Only one?”
“Yes. Though I prefer to think of him as a troublesome hire.”
Will’s eyes were glossy and black, ringed with amber. She could swim in their depths.
“Him, you say? And how do you keep this troublesome mon in line?”
She gripped his shirt with one hand and filled the other with velvet. “By giving him what he wants.”
“A perilous plan, lass.”
“Not any more perilous than committing a crime.”
Time slowed. She searched his face, his eyes fierce and clear. Theirs was a dance of stillness, him on the brink of crossing a boundary and her ready to smash them all. The tension was agony.
“What do you want from me?” she asked.
His chest expanded and contracted with a mighty gust as if she’d laid a boon at his feet, yethe’d stay a gentleman. She didn’t want a gentleman; she wanted the beast. Or Hades. Both were versions of Will, and she wanted to taste them.
She scored old velvet with her fingernails, an image flashing: grabbing Will’s hand and racing out the door for the nearest dark alley. She’d lift her skirts and he’d take her against a wall. An act of steamy, grinding sex.
“Now is no’ the time or place for that,” he chided, thick voiced.
She begged to differ. Matters of the flesh had never been their problem.
Will set aside his ale and touched his thumb to the corner of her mouth. “You have a small mess here.” A gentle swipe and, “No thief should sport nutmeg on her mouth. It’s distracting. About as distracting as you talking about touching yourself.”
Lust danced like the devil between them. She was acutely aware of touching his clothes. If she touched him, she’d incinerate. Somewhere in their conversation, music had stopped and her legs had uncrossed. Her limbs, in fact, had a mind of their own. Her skirt was properly down but underneath her jellied knees were wide open. Will was between them.
His lips parted, a magnetic pull.
Her mouth was drawn to his, as necessary as breathing.
She tipped her head and—
“This is my cousin, Mr. Will MacDonald.”
