Page 113 of A Scot Is Not Enough
“Anything,” he mumbled.
She kissed him again. “I want to know what happened between you and your brother.”
The building eroticism stilled. His eyes opened. “My brother.”
“A woman came between you, I collect.”
“Of all things to ask me...” His words drifted tenderly. “Do you really want to talk about thisnow?”
“I do.”
He affected a casual air, an arm over his head, the pillow comfortably dented, but he hiked the sheets strategic inches higher.
“I expected you to ask about my report to Fielding.”
“Fielding is the least of my worries.”
He cocked a brow, to which she grinned.
“It is Tuesday after all. The day I have you all to myself.”
“To ask questions about another woman.”
“Yes.”
She caressed his ribs, which he apparently still trusted her with. His skin pebbled wherever she touched. Compared to yesterday’s full nudity, it was a disappointment. She’d bled painful milestones for him. Was it too much to ask he do the same?
“Is this some kind of test?” Tetchiness crept into his voice.
She withdrew her hand, and his gaze followed its path to her hip. Calculation flashed in his eyes as ifhe did equations on how to get it back, but bleeding the truth was the only way he’d win.
“And in your telling, do not skirt facts, if you please.”
She didn’t know what drove her to prod him about another woman. She’d not been forthright about Mr. Wortley threatening her, but that was different. Wasn’t it?
Alexander gusted a sigh. “Her name is Miss Phoebe Kent. Daughter to my father’s childhood friend. She’s six years younger than me, the sprite who tagged behind me and my brother.”
“And?”
“And what?” His head shifted on the pillow. “Our parents would smile and hint at a union someday as parents do when they have hopes for their children.”
She fell back on the mattress. “Not all mothers and fathers.”
“No, I suppose not.” He was quiet, bed ropes cricking again. “She is dark haired, symmetrical, and all that,” he said, batting the air.
“Symmetrical?” She laughed.
“Like an hour glass was Phoebe.”
“Oh, you are poetic.”
His smile was lazy. “Doesn’t warm a woman’s heart, does it?”
“Not mine.”
Quiet folded around them. Birds chirped outside her window. Children laughed in the alley behind her mews, signs of life while hers cocooned itself in her bed.
He turned to her. “What warms your heart?”
