Page 100 of A Scot Is Not Enough
She uncorked the brandy they’d left on the table and guzzled. The elixir seeped out the sides of her mouth. She swiped the dribbles, sniffling. Guilt was a carcass best picked over another time. A certainEnglishman needed her now. The bottle in hand, she snatched Aunt Flora’s unguent from the pine cabinet, a stack of Jenny’s clean checkered dishtowels, and her biggest knife.
In the salon, Mr. Sloane stretched out before the fire. She knelt beside him and set the blade on a flaring coal.
Mr. Baines was rubbing his hands for warmth. “I put extra coal on the fire.”
“Smart of you. You need a good warming. We all do.” Lips quivering, she removed Mr. Sloane’s boots and stockings. To Mr. Baines, “Please help me get his clothes off. He’ll catch his death in wet clothes.”
Alexander pushed himself upright with his good arm, but when Mr. Baines tugged the coat, he stopped him.
“I can do it.”
Pride blazed in bronze eyes at half-mast. They didn’t have time for this. He was still bleeding, though less profusely. Alexander steepled a stubborn brow. Her gaze lifted from it to the wherryman.
“Would you be so kind and fetch some blankets, Mr. Baines? Do you remember where Jenny keeps them?”
“Yes, miss.” He sped off.
She touched Alexander’s chest. “This stubbornness of yours is ill-advised.”
Wet hair hung ingloriously over his face.
“I am sitting on your floor like yesterday’s fish. Let a gentleman have his pride.”
He winced and removed his coat. She tossed the sodden thing aside, glimpsing his wound. Deep, but not to the bone. She squelched a heave that wanted upand concentrated on his waistcoat buttons. Keeping busy helped.
Alexander was chin to chest, watching her unbutton him.
“Is Mr. Baines another admirer?”
So that’s what this is about.She scooted closer, their heads nearly touching.
“He’s a friend.”
“A braw friend. Isn’t that what Scotswomen say about a man who catches their fancy?”
Wraiths of steam rose off soaked clothes like smoke as if they were in the midst of a trial by fire, but this ordeal was far from over.
“Scotswomen say a lot of things about men.” She tugged off his waistcoat and tossed it aside.
“Such as?”
White linen clung to his chest, brown nipples poking the fabric. With his queue nearly undone, dark hair fell in disarray. The careful man of the law was gone, and in his place a heavy-lidded man with a savage edge. His spate of jealousy over Mr. Baines was surprising and ill-timed.
Her lips firmed. “We need to get your shirt off and stanch your wound.”
Removing the shirt was a negotiation between his body and the wound. The linen was half over his head when he pressed his point, “What doyousay about men?”
“I’ve said a lot of drivel over the years.”
None of it had stuck. Nothing that mattered—until Mr. Alexander Sloane. Together, they were a beautiful mess. An all-consuming yearning that shouldn’t be.
The shirt cleared Alexander’s head and she addedit to the heap of clothes as Mr. Baines strode in with an armful of blankets.
“Will these do, miss?”
“Yes, thank you.” She was grateful for the interruption. “Before you leave, Mr. Baines”—she motioned to the knife—“would you...?”
She couldn’t finish the sentence. Mr. Baines nodded and, gentle soul that he was, he dropped to one knee beside her.
