“All this visiting of your brothel friends makes you sound as if you belong there,” he said through gritted teeth, a cruel comment that sent indignation spurting through her with the pulsing force of an arterial wound.
“At least I have friends. It must be lonely up there on that high moral ground. Now, if you are not too damaged to walk, may we make haste in this mission to escort me home? I do not have all day to waste.” She turned to throw him a challenging stare.
“Very well,” he said offering to take her basket once more. “If you promise not to pull a trick like that again.”
She handed over the basket. “It wasn’t a trick, nor a fluke, but I shall promise to behave more demurely if you promise to curb the urge to strangle me. It is most ungentlemanly to grab a woman from behind.”
“Oh lassie,” he said in his rolling Scottish lilt, “resisting the urge to grab you from behind is harder than you think, but I shall try.”
“That would...” her voice suddenly faltered, “…please me well,” she croaked, her throat inexplicably as dry as sunbaked leather. “I would rather not be enemies, but friends.”
“Truce then,” he said, turning to look at her face-to-face. “You will find I am more a lover than a fighter given the choice. Though possibly not for some time as you kindly pointed out.” A glint of amusement was playing once again in his eyes. She reached her hand out to shake and seal the truce, but Robert McCrae had other ideas. He took her proffered hand and kissed it tenderly, as if she was indeed already his lover, letting his lips and fingers linger while she squirmed and clutched her rapiers to her side.