Page 8 of For a Scot's Heart Only
Long fingers linked with hers.
“Are you satisfied?” he whispered above her ear.
Their clasped hands tugged a thread inside her. This was the first time a man held her hand, albeit from an awkward angle. More grasp than hand-holding, she decided, yet potent enough to make her thoughts watery and vague.
From three tables away, a black-haired gentleman preoccupied with his cards spoke up.
“Let her go, Culpepper. This is not a Wapping Wall brothel. Women in masks pay for their entertainment, and women without masksarethe entertainment.” His glance sliced the captain. “Know the rules or you’re gone.”
Culpepper grumbled under his breath and released her. “My mistake, milord. I meant no harm.”
She rubbed her sore wrist, a reminder that she was the insulted party on the tip of her tongue. Wisdom made her swallow it.Men. They had the finesse of mongrels. One fact was certain; the black-haired gentleman held court at his table. Equally noteworthy was a tall blonde woman in leather breeches and jackboots standing by as if she had his lordship’s back.
Quite an establishment, was Madame Bedwell’s. London’s oddest creatures gathered here.
A droopy-eyed man at the captain’s table sniffed loudly.
“Captain, are you in? Or out?”
Culpepper looked sourly at Mary and the man behind her. “Deal me in,” he grumbled and dropped into his chair.
Relieved, she sank against her brawny rescuer. Liquid pliancy lingered in her veins. The din resumed.Men talking, women laughing, cards shuffling. She tried to spin around but a strong arm lashed her waist.
“We’re not done,” was the murmur at her ear.
“No?”
“Culpepper’s had too much to drink,” he said. “And he doesn’t take kindly to slights.”
“Don’t worry. I wasn’t going to let his table of cutthroats hurt you.”
His low laugh vibrated along her back. “A good tongue-lashing doesn’t work on that sort.”
Her exhale stirred the curl hanging over her nose. “You, I collect, are skilled at keepingthat sortin line.”
“I do well enough.”
She angled her head, catching a hint of cedarwood and musk. “And now you’re volunteering your services to see me safely away.”
“For a price.”
His scandalous warmth seeped into her like a cozy blanket. She didn’t want to leave. If she pushed an inch off her toes, his lips would graze her ear, and her bottom would brush his baubles.
Eyes glazing, she was sorely tempted to test the symmetry of his body with hers.
“I’m sorry to disappoint,” she said. “But unlike other masked women here, I am neither titled nor wealthy.”
“Which makes your presence at Madame Bedwell’s all the more interesting—Miss Fletcher.”
She stiffened. “You have the advantage, sir.”
She slipped her hand behind her and dug her fingernails into the gentleman’s wool-covered thigh. He was big and unyielding. Definitely a laborer.
“Move your hand a few more inches,” he saidquietly. “And you’ll find a more telling part of my anatomy.”
Heat rippled through her. She breathed more of his cedarwood musk.
He smelled like an expensive mistake.
