Page 82 of For a Scot's Heart Only
Embers of need shot to his smalls. She kissed him where her finger had been on the corner of his mouth. So much hope and thoughtfulness in the simple act. He kissed her back, tasting almond, the powder warm and sweet on her skin. This was a reconnection from their first hot, blundering kiss at Bedwell’s to their stunning sensual kiss this morning.
How many varieties of kisses would they share? The answer pounded behind his breastbone. He could spend a lifetime finding the answer.
“This particular siren,” he murmured against her cheek, “has sharp claws and a cool tongue.”
“Hardly enticing.”
“There is plenty to recommend her.”
“Such as?” She kissed his chin, his jaw, the lobe of his ear. A tender torture. He couldn’t touch her. Ifhe did, it’d be his undoing, but he wouldn’t tell her to stop.
Arms spread wide, he submitted to her attentions.
“She lures me with her polished Edinburgh accent.”
He shivered as Miss Fletcher beaded a soft-mouthed trail down the side of his neck. Fists clenching, he forced himself not to touch her. This exploration would escalate if he did.
“As you lure her with your voice. It’s not bad, for an Englishman’s.”
Nimble fingers untied his cravat. Cloth whispered. Waistcoat buttons were undone and the top of his shirt opened. Ragged breaths came. His, of course. Miss Fletcher was calm seduction in the flesh. She explored his neck, her enticing caresses dripping to his breastbone.
Thomas glued his gaze to the tent ceiling, his voice straining. “This siren of whom we speak is not for the Union, I collect.”
“She is of the Jacobite variety,” she said between kisses.
He was English to the bone, and he’d long suspected the corset maker favored Scotland’s independence. Her garden confession today confirmed it.
But the rebellion ended seven years ago.
It was time for all and sundry to move on. He’d hired Scots straight off the prison hulks when most wouldn’t. Nothing bonded men better than working toward a common goal—if they avoided tetchy topics. It was best he and the corset maker aired this. A surprising development, actually. It had taken months before he and the Scots who labored for him broached the Uprising.
He and Miss Fletcher had already talked intimately of sex. Why not add the powder keg of politics?
Unfortunately, the topic caused Miss Fletcher’s hand to stop its delightful exploration of his body.
“I presume your heart belongs to the crown,” she said.
He gusted an exhale and met her gaze. Intent, focused, trying hard to think straight.
“The realm has my loyalty, not my heart.” He twitched a taut smile. “My heart is another matter entirely.”
Her brows slanted with disapproval.
“The Uprising doesn’t matter to you? At all?”
Miss Fletcher’s sharpness carved a moat around his heart. There was a message here. The corset maker welcomed their expanding lust, but it came with a warning: tender emotions would have to scale the walls of her staunch beliefs.
Very well.
“I don’t give a shite about a war that ended seven years ago.”
It was a blunt but salty answer—as a man does when his placket argues for brevity. He loved England, and his loyalty was true, but the Government manufactured enemies like cloth—one long roll after another. His French mother made sure he’d learned that.
“We don’t have to speak of anything that divides us,” Miss Fletcher said. “I’ve already decided that I shall enjoy you... for however long we last.”
He flinched, deep in his solar plexus.
“Decided that, have you?”
