Page 8 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
Minutes slipped by, marked by forks and knives scraping plates until a less spirited Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford spoke up.
“I wanted to have you all to myself. That’s one of the reasons why I gave the servants the day to enjoy themselves. Christmas, you know.”
“Kind of you.”
“That it’s Christmas day? Or that I wanted you all to myself?”
He stilled. Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford planted a flag in the ground with that one. Her chin was a determined feminine angle and her lips curved like a tender coquette. Clearly, the gentlewoman found her footing again.
“Christmas day is the same as any other,” he said, conversationally.
She sipped her coffee. “That’s right. Scots don’t celebrate Christmas.”
Yet, there was a notable lack of holiday cheer in the widow’s home. No evergreen boughs, no mistletoe in doorways, no surplus of candles tied with festive bows. He’d been in and out of English homes enough to know how they celebrated this hallowed time of year.
“I noticed you don’t…” His words trailed off on a grunt.
Hot pain was gouging him.
“Is something wrong, Mr. MacLeod?”
He reached for his shoulder. “It’s nothing.”
Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford rushed to his side and guided him back in his seat.
“That’s it,” she soothed. “Rest easy.”
Her down-soft touch was everywhere. Fingers testing his shoulder, his chest, mollifying him. Small rubs. Light pressure. Pleasurable strokes. Eyelids heavy, he soaked up her gentle ministrations. He ought to tell her exactly where the pain was, but the widow smelled heavenly. Something floral and spicy.
“Let me” —she slid a solicitous hand inside his coat— “check here.”
Velvet gave way. She cupped the ball of his shoulder, attentive and kind. The coat drooped when her hand slipped lower on his arm. She was kneading the meaty muscle as though she could read his body with her hands.
“The joint seems to be unharmed,” she murmured. “It’s mostly your back that ails you, yes?”
He nodded.
His brain urged him to speak up; his body demanded he keep his mouth shut.
Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford kept rubbing, touching, folding her hand over his upper arm,feelinghim. Her scent clouded him, and cloth whispered wherever the gentlewoman’s persuasive hands went.
He was the worst kind of wastrel. Eyes closing, he didn’t care. He was transported.
Swishingsounds lulled him. She was steadying a hand on his chest…fingers splayed, her palm, a warm outline stamping him through his waistcoat and shirt. Her other hand roamed under his coat, skimming his shirt sleeve and finding sinew in the crux of his arm. His body hitched when her fingernails grazed him there.
“You are ticklish. Right…” she traced where his arm and back met. “…here.”
The gentlewoman was amused at her find. It struck him that he ought to say there were more interesting places on his person.Ifshe wanted to find them. But he dared not mess with the hazy perfection this was. Her touch was heavenly and sweet.
And he was man enough to acknowledge it.
Wool petticoats brushed his knee when she bent close to trace his collarbone. Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford went behind him and began to inspect his upper back.
He tensed. Grinding his molars, he bore the sting.
“Your wound is here.” Her fingers applied faint pressure on his back. “Quite tender, I’m afraid.”
“I could’ve told you that,” he grumbled.
