Page 89 of The Scot Who Loved Me
“You did well,” she assured. “I will not forget this.”
The carriage lurched forward, all the better for her to stew over this stunning news. Red Bess watched her go, sunlight fracturing in her violent red hair. The woman missed a prime opportunity. She could’ve demanded all the contents of the velvet purse.
Ancilla would have given it to her and more.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Will scooped a generous spoonful of porridge into his bowl and reached for the chipped Lambethware pitcher.
“So... Mrs. Neville.” He commenced swirling concentric circles of cream on his porridge. “It struck me, the day afore yesterday, you were putting distance between us. Being spare with your words and your doors bolted against a friendly visit, as it were.”
“Both friendly visits?” she asked innocently.
“Both your doors.” He was unabashed, setting the empty pitcher down. “I would add, your nefarious ploy to get me to wear butter yellow.”
She fought a rueful smile and watched Will pick up the nutmeg grinder and crank it over his bowl. The man seated at her table was a vanquisher of breakfast and a common man’s logician. A point would come. A big one.
“Perhaps I am distracted with my work, Mr. MacDonald,” she said between nibbles of porridge.
There was safety in formality, a medieval wall of sorts, allowing one to hide behind it.
“No’ too busy to barge into my bedchamber and kiss my arse. You’ve ruined the insult.” The grinding done, Will armed himself with a spoon. “Next time someone yellsKiss myarse!I’ll grin like a half-wit.”
She snort-sipped her coffee and gave in to a hearty laugh. Only Will could do that to her. She dragged her apron hem across her mouth to wipe herself clean. It was good to have the house—and Will—to herself. With the sudden need to journey to Brighton, Aunt Flora and Aunt Maude claimed a dire trip to the laundress was necessary.
Will took a few bites, shovelsful it seemed, while keeping eyes on her. He wore his clothes this morning. Brown broadcloth mostly, though his neck cloth was a surprise. The knot was done just enough to say he cared. This could’ve been their future, sitting across from each other at the breakfast table, her with an apron, him with chin scruff. There was tenderness here. And fun. With Will, life would be. It was elevating and risky and beautiful. The indefinable pressure was growing, bringing prismatic wonder. Colors were brighter, the sky bluer, the sun shinier this morning.
Yesterday’s kisses almost went unaccounted for—the blessing and curse of living with two aunts. Except now, they were five houses away, visiting the laundress, and Will’s stare could char ice. Lust lurked behind his rough charm. It was palpable. A living thing she could reach out andtouch . . . like his whiskers and smooth bottom lip. Had to be the nutmeg. She was eating more of it since Will arrived. The spice was considered an aphrodisiac.
Their first summer together, she’d asked why he devoured the spice. He’d answered that it tasted good. Like her.
“My first day here,” he said. “I asked if you had any more surprises for me.”
He invited her to pick up his conversational thread. If she did, she’d spill everything, good and bad: the reason for her locked doors, Cecelia’s name in Fielding’s books, the Countess of Denton’s shocking proposition, and how much the woman wanted him.
Just your average breakfast conversation.
“Out with it, Will. What exactly are you after?”
Hers was a simple question. His was devastatingly direct.
“Why?” Will’s amber eyes could singe wood.
Pressure inside sharpened. “You mean, why did I kiss you the way I did?”
“Yes.”
She set down her spoon. “I had to... to touch you.”
Will’s mouth dented sideways.
“There is that, lass. There is that,” he said quietly.
Stillness sat like a storm cloud. Will wanted a deeper admission, something not seeded in lust. He waited, his grin fading the longer her painful silence stretched.
Didn’t he understand? It washimshe needed. Will. To touch, hear, see, taste. To bask in hisperson the way flowers faced the sun and water quenched one’s thirst. It struck her right then, sitting across the breakfast table from Will, something they’d once hoped to do for the rest of their lives, that they weren’t very good at this. At the open-your-heart part of love.
And yet, she knew...
