Page 16 of Taming the Scot
A memory of teasing blue eyes distracted her momentarily from the dove she’d been watching swoop in and out of a tree.
What kept repeating itself in her brain more so than her ill-executed curtsy, or her gaffe at suggesting a lady would visit the captain on her own, was the way he’d held her hand, the way his breath had fanned over her skin. First, when she’d forgotten her gloves, the zing that had shot up her arm was alarming. And then, even when she had her gloves on, the heat of his breath sank through the fabric. Even with his lips only hovering, she’d felt them on her skin. The perpetual cold that haunted her seemed to ebb with his touch.
Indeed, that was what bothered her the most about the situation. How intimate it had felt. The undeniable attraction she felt for him—which was completely inappropriate for so many reasons. First of all, she was his governess. Secondly, she wasn’t staying long. Thirdly, his station was levels above her own.
There could never be anything lasting between them. A few moments of panting breath and pleasure, nothing more.
Besides, he’d made it clear that was the type of man he was, hadn’t he?
She could tell by the winks and smiles and teases that Euan Irvine was used to getting what he wanted through pure charisma. And that even a brood of six sisters had not tamed him. Perhaps having them around had only exacerbated his desire to charm his way out of any situation, including lessons on becoming a gentleman—which she was completely unsuitable to be teaching.
Bronwen breathed hotly on the window, writing her name in the steam and watching the letters fade away slowly, a lot like how she felt about herself. She needed to fade into the background. To disappear from the view of the men who were after her and from the scrutiny of anyone who might call her out for being someone other than she’d said while she was here seeking refuge.
It had probably not been very smart of her to give the captain her real name. God forbid the maniacs in Edinburgh had somehow followed her to the docks and found out where she was. She prayed that her cousins would be safe. She had to believe that they were. Emilia knew what had happened and didn’t seem concerned for her safety, so that was a good sign. Her cousins were strong and resourceful lasses and had a whole host of bodyguards in the dockhands.
But Bronwen didn’t have that same luxury. A flash of unwanted memory assailed her. She’d never forget leaving her flat after midnight, having worried for hours about where her parents were. Sneaking down to the shop to find the door partially open, the lights extinguished. When she’d lit a candle, the scene had been bloody, and haunted her even to this day.
Bronwen shuddered, closed her eyes and drew in her breaths slowly, evenly, until the images went away.
In this life, she could only rely on herself.
And as for the captain? She couldn’t count on him—as much as the primal side of her wanted to.
If she didn’t shore herself up, she’d fall for his charms, and then what? She’d end up right back where she started, only this time likely with a bairn in her womb.
That was what had happened to her friend Alice. Duped by a charmer and left with a bairn on the way. She’d had to give the wee thing up and ended up in a workhouse herself. Bronwen wasn’t sure what had happened to the bairn after that. She hoped it was alive and healthy, but Alice… She’d not fared so well. The workhouse was a death sentence for most. Or at least those of Bronwen’s acquaintance.
Nay, she needed to remind herself that she was her only ally in this situation. The only one who would look out for her, put her best interest at heart.
She shivered, rubbing her arms, feeling colder than she already was. She couldn’t seem to get warm in this castle. Didn’t matter that it was the middle of summer. There was a constant draft; she was sure of it. Else it was her nerves and the worry for her undecided future. The outdoors looked so inviting. She pressed her palm to the cool glass. The sun indicated the warmth on the other side of it.
“One day at a time,” she told herself. “One day at a time.”
A sound outside of her bedroom door startled Bronwen away from where she’d been making calculations at random on the window. There was a shuffling sound, and then a whoosh as a thin package was slid beneath her door a few inches.
She stood and marched over, prepared to tug open the door and reveal her visitor when her eyes caught her name scrawled on the brown wrapping.
Bronwen knelt and picked it up. She carefully unwound the twine, unfolding the paper and gaping at the book in her hands, her heart thudding against her ribcage.
Lady Edinburgh’s Guide for Gentleman
With shaking hands, she opened the book to find a long-winded letter to the reader about the book’s purpose in guiding gentleman in society. What in the world?
This was exactly the resource she needed to be successful. But who had given it to her? Who knew that she was clueless when it came to the position she’d agreed to?
Still trembling, she yanked open the door and peered out into the corridor, expecting to see one of the sisters, or perhaps even her maid hiding a few feet away and waiting. But there was no one. Only the sound of her breath and the pounding of her heart.
Bronwen closed the door quietly, leaning against it, staring down at the book in her hands. Then without delay, she rushed back to the window seat and cracked it open. She had only the remainder of the day to become an expert in manners and gentlemanly behavior. Perhaps even less so if she was invited down to dinner again. Declining one night was fine but feigning a headache again would only bring suspicion.
Curled into the window seat, she opened the book once more and began to read.
My good gentleman, if you are in possession of this book, I hereby commend you for taking further actions on comportment and gentlemanly manners. No doubt before now you thought you’d been taught everything there is to know. But, dear reader, I am obliged to inform you, if you’re holding this book, that is simply not the case…
5
As Bronwen had suspected, a dinner invitation arrived, along with a maid who would help her dress for the occasion. It was the first time someone else had done her hair since she’d been a wee lass and suffered the brush at the other end of her mother’s arm.
She watched as the maid laid her white evening gown out on the bed. Not that she’d even realized there was such a thing as an evening gown, and what was the difference?
