Page 66 of For a Scot's Heart Only
“The pleasure barge is yours, sir,” Mr. Winston said. “Find us at the Black Boar when you’re ready to depart.”
Oarsmen averted their gazes to the river, to the sky, to the vessel floor, anywhere but the tent’s opening. Footsteps pounded, and the barge listed until those fine Englishmen took their leave.
All that remained were two souls too shattered to move.
Chapter Seventeen
Who would’ve thought heaven was near a boathouse, west of London? Specifically, in Mr. West’s lap, which she enjoyed while resting nose deep in his cravat. The linen was of middling quality, a summation she couldn’t help; it was her nature to assess fabric. But the man who wore it—splendid.
She nudged her face an inch higher into his warm neck. If she was inclined to make a list of what she liked about Mr. West, his talent with whimsical tales would rank high.Wretched manwith his sirens and pirates. She clutched a handful of his coat, wrecked.
He was figuring out how her mind worked.
Who knew sea wolves could do that? Or make a woman feel utterly safe? Mr. West was a riddle, holding her, his chin resting on her head, both of them staring at the river, waiting for their kiss-born fog to lift.
She was content.
It wouldn’t last. This kind of marrow-deep happiness never did.
The handsome shipmaster belonged to her nights, not her days. He was a passing fancy. Their outing ararity. She’d negotiated a month of nights at Maison Bedwell, and she’d gladly give each one to Mr. West. Blame sensuality’s powerful draw for that.
But this?
Whateverthiswas, it wouldn’t do to let certain emotions get out of hand.
Uncoiling herself from the safety of his arms took colossal effort, the undertaking as Herculean as striding a vertical mountain. She forced herself forward, stretching off the couch and pushing up on her toes like a dancer. Blood rushed in her veins. Sensations skittered across her limbs. Everything was magnified. Underskirts skimming her thighs, hair tickling her neck, Mr. West’s cedarwood musk clinging to her skin.
If she wasn’t careful, she’d flop back down and finish what their kiss started.
Giving her attention to the river might quash that craving.
“It’s already past noon. We should proceed, shouldn’t we?” Her voice was drowsy and resentful.
“One kiss and you’re running away?” was the enticing drawl behind her.
She turned, riveted.
Mr. West was in a majestic sprawl. Legs spread, arms wide and casual, his chest impossibly broad. Victorious kings of old had done the same. Rode pleasure barges as if they ruled the world. Except she faced a hungry sea wolf, a man who got his hands dirty and did the actual conquering. If he’d lived in times past, matters of state would bore him. The man before her would be the king’s best pirate. A hunter of goods and treasure.
And sirens.
She shivered from her nape to her toes.Mr. West and his glinting eyes...He looked like he wanted a sensual bite of her.
The move was hers.
“Our kiss was excellent,” she admitted.
His smile was lazy. “We need not limit ourselves to one.”
Air crackled. If tinder was on hand, the pleasure barge would spontaneously ignite. There was lust, certainly. Heady and undeniable, yet different. She’d indulged her sexual curiosity not long after the war. With a Highlander, in fact, with middling results. This business unfolding with Mr. West was more than a womanly itch that needed scratching. To save herself, she went to the tent’s opening, fixing a pin in her hair.
“Shouldn’t we partake of the day’s entertainment?”
“I am.”
She shivered again, temptation nipping her fiercely. His lust-grained voice would be her undoing. It’d be easy to close the tent and straddle his lap right here, right now. This pleasure barge... It was a scourge to clear thinking. Mr. West was scarred and dangerous, not a man to trifle with—except between the hours of nine o’clock and midnight in Maison Bedwell’s Red Rose room. Then, much trifling would be done.
If she could make it ’til then. Really, the man could unprude a prude.
