Page 35 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
He was cornered and they both knew it.
For that reason, he said, “Lead the way, lass. Lead the way.”
Chapter Twelve
Rory was enjoying himself, the bloody man. A pint in one hand, he held court with four men, swapping tales by one of the many suits of armor clustered here and there. He’d dispatched Sir William Cumberleigh almost upon sight. The gentleman was of middling handsomeness with a shock of red hair and a decent income to recommend him. But few liked him. Recently knighted, Sir William Cumberleigh blathered on. Endlessly. If his knighthood didn’t dominate the conversation, the invention that earned him notice, would. Something about a new development with graphite.
Bored, she made her excuses and wandered off to the lady’s retiring room. When she returned, the gaggle of men orbiting around Rory had thinned. Sir William Cumberleigh was gone.
Rory murmured near her ear. “Sir William Cumberleigh’s been dispatched.”
“Good riddance. The man holds entire conversations with himself about himself.”
“That makes it suitor number three.”
Rory and his blasted list. He gave his attention to the remaining gentlemen.
The topic had turned to the best places to go hunting. When fishing came into the conversation, Mr. Samuel Warton, another neighbor (weren’t they all?) informed the Highlander that Eden House afforded the best fishing spots for miles around.
“You don’t say?” Rory finished his pint and set it on the table behind him.
Copious beer and ale made the evening that much brighter for him. She noted that and how he dwarfed the stands of English armor. They were near an array of Elizabethan knight stands, their plate armor shining. Covered in steel, those knights wouldn’t stand a chance against the kilted Black Watch warrior.
She’d been listening to him. Affable and friendly, he had launched some sort of strategy in his latest conversation.
“I landed a salmon” —Mr. Warton held up his hands and spread them nearly two feet apart— “this big.”
Rory nodded, impressed. “Eden House, you say? Do you fish there often, sir?”
The older man blushed all the way to his scalp draped with strands of hair. Mr. Warton was sheepish, his plague doctor mask a bent relic on the table.
“I visited often last spring and through the summer.” His disconcerted gaze darted to Sabrina.
It was an admission of trying to earn her affections and aware he’d come up short. But Mr. Warton was amiable by nature and he genuinely enjoyed Rory’s company. By the Highlander’s grin, the budding friendship was mutual.
“I tried to convince Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford to join me,” Mr. Warton said. “But not all women have the patience for fishing.”
Rory smiled. “I see you have an understanding of the gentler sex.”
Mr. Warton smoothed his burgundy-colored plague doctor robe. “The late Mrs. Warton was the love of my life,” he said faintly, sadly.
Rory glanced into his pint as if he’d find the best response there. “Women…they are a gift from God, are they not?”
“Well said, Mr. MacLeod. Well said.” Mr. Warton drank from his pint.
Sabrina could only wonder at the nods of male agreement. Though Rory towered over Mr. Warton and the more circumspect, Mr. Wyler, the Highlander had changed since her visit to the lady’s retiring room. Subtle, less threatening. His shoulders rolled forward, relaxed. His smile was quick and his head bobbed often in congenial conversation.
Sabrina edged away, pretending to enjoy the dancers taking their turn. She should be dancing with Rory, but he was content to chatter with Rockville’s residents. She accepted a pint from a passing footman and took her first drink, a drink she almost spewed when Rory extended an invitation to Mr. Warton and Mr. Wyler.
“Gentlemen, I hope you come for a visit and soon.”
Mr. Warton perked up. “Indeed, sir. I would be pleased to show you those grand fishing spots. Furthermore, I believe Mr. Standish, son of the previous owner, Mrs. Standish, left his fishing poles in a storage room in the barn.”
Rory said a dry, “I’m familiar with the barn, yes.”
She giggle-snorted when she heard that and put her nose in her pint.
“Of course, since you will be master of Eden House, those fishing poles are yours.” Mr. Warton scrubbed a hand over his mouth, thinking. “Why I do believe there are excellent fishing lures in a small brown box in the same storage room.” Mr. Warton’s brown eyes were hopeful. “I wouldn’t mind taking a look at them.”
