Page 55 of A Scot Is Not Enough
Cecelia nearly dropped her apple. Speak of the devil.
Sun showered Mr. Sloane, a god of sport and manliness. His stride redolent and smile half-cocked, he slung his cricket bat over his shoulder. The hot, sweet memory of his lips on her shoulder shot through her chest... and other places. He might be coming for friendly conversation, as one did at practice matches. But his piercing, intelligent eyes owned her.
Her hunter returned.
“Cecelia, are you ill?” Elspeth asked. “You’ve paled under your powder.”
Cecelia shot upright, her apple and serviette tumbling from her lap to the ground.
“I’m thirsty.”
Ignoring the wine on the table, she snatched her shawl off the back of the chair and darted off like a rabbit to the next tent.
A local tavern had set planks of wood across barrels for a makeshift bar. She threaded between patrons with pints clustered in the tent, awkwardnessflushing her. Voices and laughter hummed loudly. She charged onward, wrapping her red silk shawl around her shoulders as if it could ward off an unwanted man. The oak plank bar stopped her, otherwise she might’ve kept going. Isn’t that what she’d done yesterday? Her dismissal at the orchard was borne of something she’d rather not name.
Mr. Sloane’s plaguing effect.
His fingertip on her cheek outside the Iron Bell.
His delight when she swept a bow in men’s garb.
His attention when she spoke as if he hung on her every word.
What man did that?
Her hands curled on rough wood. A man like him, respecting a woman like her, was dangerous. Even worse, she craved more. What good would that do? She would always be the scrawny Highlands girl who made reckless choices. Not the sort of woman a man introduced to his mother.
She needed a drink.
The tavern keep bellied up to the other side of the plank. “What’ll it be, miss?”
She looked up from her clenched hands. “Do you have something to knock reason into a frivolous woman?”
The tavern keep chuckled. “A drink that strong can’t be served here.” He winked and cocked his head at the southern tents. “Families, you know.”
Of course. Families. Salt in the wound.
A familiar brand was on a barrel above the man’s head. “I’ll have a Mermaid Brewery beer.”
“It’s a stout, miss.”
“A pint, if you please.”
“Make that two pints.”
Mr. Sloane’s tenor washed through her. He propped his bat against a barrel holding up the makeshift bar and rested both arms on the plank’s edge. His rolled-up sleeve brushed the lace at her elbow, and she stared forward, absurdly giddy. He’d chased her. She shouldn’t revel in that. Hadn’t she spent the last hour convincing Elspeth to be an independent woman?
Haven’t you spent these years since the war being one?
The barkeep set two frothing pints before them. Mr. Sloane kindly paid while she snatched her mug and drank deeply. The stout’s foam slid down her throat, light and persuasive. She hoped it would push her heart back down where it belonged in her chest.
Mr. Sloane stared forward, his hand gripping his tankard. The same hand which had saluted her, twice, and the same hand which had written scurrilous information about her in his journal.
“Mr. Sloane,” she said coolly.
“Miss MacDonald.” He took a drink and added, “I, for one, would never think you a frivolous sort.” Humor tinged his voice.
Irritating, that. So he heard her.
