Page 49 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
Will’s lashes dropped half over his eyes. “It’s time I leave, lass.”
His graveled voice sent cracks across her heart. He was leaving her. It made no sense. They’d not seen each other in years, yet she knew it in her bones.
Pinching the key’s bowhead, she tried to force it. The lock’s internal mechanism wouldn’t budge. Like her, it was a little rusty about opening up.
“You’re still freein’ me?” Will’s head was at her shoulder.
Molars gritting, she cranked the key. “I cannot turn my back on you.”
“You did once.”
She froze. That hurt. Deeply.
There was no reason to explain her choice. Will wouldn’t believe her; he was too busy clinging to his version of the past, and she was too busy fighting for her future. So many people depended on her. Pushing up on her knees, she steeled herself and twisted the key again. Iron grated iron until the metal bracelet opened. Will hissed at his sudden release, his gaze digging into hers, bright with pain.
Three days in chains would leave a man stiff and sore. She cleared her throat and reached for his meaty shoulder. Under the circumstances, rubbing it wasn’t out of the question.
“This will help,” she murmured. “Warm you, ease the hurt.”
Will absorbed her profile. She flushed the more he watched, rather demoralizing for a woman who lived a shade outside the law. By the slash of his brows, the monster of Marshalsea’s shed was unpleasantly baffled too.
“I canna believe you’re here.”
The highlander was wistful, his voice set to the shush of leather rubbing skin. Will’s body was a familiar map of ridges and furrows. Bigger than most, he was brute force in the flesh. His livelihood required brawny arms to careen ships and powerful legs to turn a quayside treadwheel. A creature of that world. Skin darkened at his elbow, a laborer’s stripe. She traced that suntanned line, careful not to look him in the eyes.
“You roll your sleeves here. When you work the docks.”
Will’s breath stirred hair by her ear. “Of all the women to walk through that door...”
His voice was achy and soulful, the timbre striking tender notes.
“You know, it’s not just me who needs you. There are others, Aunt Maude and Aunt Flora.”
“Those two are in London?”
“They live in my house,” she said, bundling her skirts.
She straddled Will’s leg and reached for the other iron clamp. Her inner thigh glanced his. Masculine leg hairs tickled her. She aimed the key at the lock and missed.
“Careful, lass. Don’t fall on my account.” Even in chains, he hinted at humor and seduction.
Embers sparked on tender skin above her garter. Sinister little hairs. Will’s leg skimmed hidden places, featherlight under her petticoats.
She took a bracing breath, fit the key into its hole, and nudged her thigh away from his.
He nudged his closer. “I’m no’ complainin’. You’re warmin’ me nicely.”
Will. He’d flirt with the devil if the devil was a pretty woman.
Years ago, she’d loved the highlander passionately. Young and foolish, both had believed they could be together. But ardent, youthful promises didn’t stand a chance against the tide of war and family obligation. Worst of all, Will had been for the rebellion. She and her family had not.
When she gripped the key harder, a big dirt-smeared hand covered hers.
“Let me.”
Will’s hand. Long fingered, scarred, the knuckles scratched and bruised. His hands were good at wielding clubs and pistols, yet gentle enough to woo a headstrong virgin into giving heart, body, and soul to him.
Nodding mutely, she pushed off the ground and swallowed an angry cry when he got up on one knee. His ripped shirt split wide, revealing a back full of cuts and purple welts, likely from cudgel strikes.
