Page 18 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
Emboldened, she patted his chest. “A day to myself is a luxury. I don’t mind work. Truthfully, I like it.” She smiled weakly. “My late husband had a draper’s shop, two of them actually. I used to sell the finest fabrics in all of London, but they were never mine to wear. You could say the same about my time.” She stared off at nothing in particular. Honesty was bubbling up, and she was glad to share it with him. “I think that’s why I came here. For the openness, for the…opportunity. Life is richer in the countryside. The colors, the flavors…”
“It gets in your blood.”
“Exactly.” She met his gaze.
“You are a rare breed, lass.”
“Funny, I thought the same of you.” She was inordinately happy, her attention drifting toward a row of shops near the castle. “There is one extravagance I’d indulge, if I could, but it’s far from practical.”
He removed his hat and wiped his sleeve across his forehead. “An extravagance. Now we’re getting somewhere.”
Her gaze lingered where she knew a certain shop would be. She’d passed by its mullioned window often. Gloves, stockings, and ribbons were always in it—an array of colors which dazzled the eye.
“I’d buy silk stockings at Milton’s, a shop just over there.” She tipped her nose in the general direction. “Yellow silk with green embroidery on the ankles, though it’s terribly impractical. Wool is better.”
Mr. MacLeod honed in on her pleasure.
“Silk stockings clocked with green thread. I can see it.”
She tilted her face to his. “Of course, you know about women’s stockings. I shouldn’t be surprised, after all you dressed like a monk to breach a monastery.”
His grin split, brighter than the sun. “The things a man does for king and country.”
A giddy laugh rolled out of her. “A sacrifice, I’m sure.”
The patter of footsteps was growing. Soldiers escorting young women enjoyed a promenade through the outer ward, which was a far as female visitors could go. But the men had dressed up for the day. Red coats brushed cleaned. Their cravats starched and brilliantly white. Christmas would be a quiet, contemplative day. Twelfth Night, however, would explode with celebrations.
Arms at her sides, she was about to go home and see to her roast. Her promise to Mrs. Digby. But, looking into Mr. MacLeod’s face, she went cold. He scowled a visual fire line across the ward. She followed it to the blond officer cutting a strident path across the ward in polished Hussar boots.
Her shoulders sunk.
“Well, it seems I shan’t escape today.” She waved reluctantly. “Captain Crawford, good morning, sir”
Mr. MacLeod’s head whipped sideways to her. “You know him?”
She shielded her eyes and gave a weak a shrug. “He’s the one.”
“Your pretentious captain.” The Highlander’s mouth was grim.
Did Captain Crawford see her kissing Mr. MacLeod? Perhaps he had witnessed the indiscretion from his tower. His face was just as grim as Mr. MacLeod’s.
Silver gilt gleamed high on the captain’s chest—his gorget, a sign of his rank. She’d never been able to gain a true purchase of him. His posture, borne of years in the army, seemed too…maneuvering. She once thought, if life were a ladder, the captain would crush rungs of people while climbing it—all done covertly.
Thus, it was a shock when he snarled, “Sargeant MacLeod. From what gutter have you crawled out from?”
Chapter Five
Christmas carols floated through the ward. Enlisted men, and the young women they were escorting, huddled around sheaves of paper, singing their hearts out. Last night was for caroling, but that didn’t stop them from having fun.
“Captain Crawford…” Sabrina smoothed her cloak, shock ebbing slowly.
Lines of fury bracketed the captain’s mouth. He and MacLeod were like two animals, squaring off.
“I’d introduce you to Mr. MacLeod,” she said cautiously “but it appears the two of you have already met.”
The captain’s glance sliced her.
“Is he bothering you, Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford? I can have him dispatched forthwith.”
