Page 103 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“Wounded man.” She sniffed.
“We could try again, couldn’t we?” he offered.
Jenny’s frown softened. “If Miss MacDonald likes you this much, I suppose we could. Let me put these things away and I’ll have a light luncheon ready in a trice.”
“With crumpets, I hope?” Cecelia asked.
“I know what puts a smile on your face, miss.” Jenny’s gimlet eye scanned the room. “And when you’re done eating, I’ll put things right in here.”
Jenny sped to the kitchen, mumbling about two days gone and the house an exploded mess. The aroma of baked goods lingered, teasing Cecelia’s growling stomach.
Alexander stood up, his movement rusty. “Did she say luncheon?”
“She did. We slept late.” Cecelia curled bare legs under the blanket cloaking her.
Daylight bleared through the window, and they both squinted at the brass clock on the mantel ticking a quarter past noon. They’d slept that long, did they? The night’s thrilling adventure had worn them out. Their hearts were a different story, the organ shy in daylight. Brown hair snagged Alexander’s whiskers. His chest a natural cuirass, he was a Roman sculpture come to life. More philosopher than general, yet every bit a lost soul unsure of his surroundings. He was naught but dirty, wrinkled breeches and bare feet.
“Fire’s nearly out.” He squatted to nurse it with coal.
Sinew twitched on his back. Silken skin kissed by light, firm knots flexing underneath. He was careful, setting the black lumps in strategic spots. Tired and sore and stiff, he might be, but his feet told the truth. Alexander balanced on the balls of his feet.
Her father’s voice rang in her head.
“Look at a man’s feet. How a man moves... that’s the true tell of strength and stamina.”
She clutched the blanket under her chin. A man, fighting for her. For how long? In her almost a quarter century of life, men didn’t stay. Not in the true sense of the word. They chased high-minded ideals or they chased the next woman.
Was the barrister-cum-government-man different?
He had planted the sweetest seeds in her heart.
His quiet this morning might be the weeds of regret.
Once the fire greedily devoured new coal, he stood up and swiped black dust across his breeches. His portmanteau was in her bedchamber, a nice place to escape and armor himself for the day. She had no idea how he planned to spend it. His ardent vow not to leave her side might be choking on those weeds of regret. The wound sealed with a burn and a vengeful countess were enough to make any man think twice about casting his lot with a Jacobite woman of no account.
From the kitchen, crockery clinked. A meal of sorts would come. Life was returning to normal, but Alexander’s presence branded her soul.
She tucked the blanket over her toes. “I’m sure you’d like to clean yourself and dress, no?”
Her own hair was more rat’s tail than braid. A hot bath would be divine.
“A good idea. Walking about in public like this”—he splayed a hand on his bare chest—“would see me hauled off to St. Luke’s Hospital for Lunatics.”
How he planned to spend his day was the unknown. It hung like a question mark between them. A day without him looked bleak and wrong. Her surroundings took on an uneasy gloom: the white papered walls with painted birds mocking her, the furniture a decade past their prime, and the mess on her floor a vague bother.
The world, it seemed, narrowed to the half-dressed Englishman in her salon.
Back straight, she heeded prideful whispers, refusing to ask his plans.
“Please avail yourself to my bedchamber.”
He flashed a wicked smile.
“Save two crumpets for me, will you?”
He was on the stairs before she huffed a heartwarming laugh. The man was mad, but an idea took shape as Jenny bustled in, bearing a dish with velvety chocolate, blackberry jam, dice-sized chunks of ham, and crumpets glistening with butter. She set the tray with plates and utensils for two on the table.
Jenny’s gaze latched on the pile of clothes. “What do you want me to do with Mr. Sloane’s clothes?”
