Page 25 of Taming the Scot
“All right.” The captain sat at his desk, pulled out his writing utensils and stared at her. “What shall I write first?”
Bronwen could hardly breathe for the way he looked at her. So strong behind his desk, taking ownership of his space and command of the quill. Did he realize how very handsome he was with the barest hint of stubble on his face, as though he’d shaved the night before and let it grow slightly?
“Any ideas,” he urged, and she realized how long it had been she’d remained silent.
My God, get it together!
Bronwen cleared her throat, folding her hands behind her and started to pace as she expected someone deep in thought would do. “Are there any ladies who have piqued your interest before that ye want to see when ye go to town?” Please say nay. Och, nay, say aye!
“Nay.”
Bloody hell. The handbook spoke specifically about ladies a man had an interest in. And that he should write her a polite note inquiring upon a visitation, which would open the doors to communication and potential courting.
Well, she supposed she’d have to fall back on the book’s reliable other tools. “Then let us pretend, Captain, that there is a lass who has piqued your interest, and ye have great wish to see her when ye get to Edinburgh.”
“All right.” He wiggled his brows at her and flashed a conspiratorial smile. “This is like the arrival for a call we did yesterday.”
“Indeed it is.” Bronwen forced her gaze away from him. It wouldn’t do for her to get sidetracked by looking at him again. He was so very…distractible.
“I am ready. How should I address her? Dear? Dearest? My dear?”
Bronwen had no earthly clue. What had the book said? Och, but she couldn’t remember. The simplest, that was what she’d have to choose. “I should think ‘dear’ since ye are no’ so well acquainted with the lady, and then her proper name.”
“All right.” He bent over the letter, strong fingers taking possession of the quill. The bones and muscles of his hand flexed and rippled as he wrote. “‘Dear Miss Holmes.’”
That stopped her in her pacing tracks. She whirled to face him, bumping into Owen, who she’d not realized had been following her back and forth. “Nay, ye’re no’ to write to me.”
“Why no’?”
What was a good reason? “Because I have no’ given ye permission to write to me.”
Euan let out a loud, short laugh. He pressed the quill back into the inkwell. “But this is a game of pretend. I am playing ye have. And what’s this with permission? Must I gain a ladies’ permission to write to her before I do? How’s a man to make any headway if she says nay as ye have?”
“It is a tricky thing, Captain, to be sure.” One in which Bronwen again had no idea how to answer and would have to bluff her way out of it—which she was quite good at doing.
“Then let me pretend, at least for this lesson, and we can work on how to get around a woman denying permission later?”
She let out a huff of a sigh. “Fine.”
“‘Dear Miss Holmes.’” Why did his voice have to be so cheery when he said it?
The sound of the quill scratching on the paper filled the room, even as she inched her way back to the window, a feeling of unease in her limbs. Looking out, she had the feeling of being watched. Owen nudged her thigh, and she rested her hand on his head, gaining some measure of comfort from the animal. Still, it felt as if the hell’s henchmen were waiting to leap out from their hiding places to point at her and shout, “There she is, we’ve found her!”
“What’s next?” Euan asked, pulling her from the anxiety-ridden thoughts.
Bronwen turned to the window, finding his expectant gaze on her. Owen gave her fingers a little lick, and she scratched him behind his ears.
“Since the lesson was originally for ye to write to a lady in town ye had an interest in seeing, I suppose we should continue along those lines because at some point, hopefully, ye will need to know. And we shall pretend that there is another Miss Holmes there waiting for ye.”
Euan feigned a pout. “I think I should be offended at your disinterest, Miss Holmes.”
“Ye should be nothing where I am concerned.”
“Impossible.” But before she could give him a tart reply, he said, “All right, and so, I should say, ‘Dear Miss Holmes, might I have permission to call on ye Saturday next?’”
“That would do.”
“No flattery?” He cocked his head to the side.
