Page 10 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
Boring. She was quite certain of that. He’d be mechanical and rote, with nothing resembling actual lovemaking. It would be brief and cursory, and then he’d click his heels together in a military salute before quitting the bedchamber.
“Forgive me, ma’am,” he said on a growl, “but other than the fact that I was a major in His Majesty’s Army and your awareness of my friendship with the Duke of Rotherby, you know nothing about me.”
“That was quite a soliloquy,” she said.
“It won’t happen again.” Seemingly tired of glaring at her, he looked out the window.
“Goodness,” she said and sighed. “Youaregrumpy.”
His blue gaze swung sharply back to her. “Excuse me?You’re calling me a... a pig?”
She gaped at him. “I did no such thing. I said you were grumpy.”
“Precisely,” he bit out. “Grumphieis a pig’s name—in Scotland.”
“Ah.” She sat back against her seat. “I didn’t know that. I only meant that you were quite cantankerous and sullen.”
He narrowed his eyes. “That isn’t much better, ma’am.”
She exhaled. “This has to rank as one of the most frustrating conversations I’ve ever had, and, given that I did raise three children, that’s saying something.”
“As I said before, ma’am,” he rumbled, “I am not a child. I’m a grown man.”
He did not need to remind her of that. Even though it was still morning, and probably not long after his shave, his reddish beard was already starting to appear on the angles of his jaw and cheeks.
“Was your training strictly in field tactics,” she asked, tilting her head, “or did it extend to the negotiating table?”
He raised one of his eyebrows. “I arbitrated but never surrendered.”
“Did you take prisoners?”
“When necessary.”
“And denied them bread and water, I’d wager.”
“Oh, no, ma’am.” He leaned forward slightly, bracing his forearms on his thighs. “If someone does what I tell them to do, I treat them very well.”
She couldn’t stop her laugh. “What a positively despotic attitude. What if you’re met with resistance?”
“That depends, ma’am.”
“On what?” She didn’t want to be intrigued, and yet each laconic statement from him pointed to depths she hadn’t anticipated.
“On whether or not they can meet me blow for blow on the battlefield. I respect a worthy opponent.” A corner of his mouth hitched, which did nothing to soften his features. He looked, in fact, like a man eager for combat.
“Prepare yourself, then, Major,” she said, smiling. “Because you have met your match.” She steepled her fingers, tapping them against each other as a throb of something moved her. Something that felt suspiciously like anticipation.
Chapter 3
Duncan leapt from the vehicle before it had come to a complete stop at the coaching inn. Though he and the countess had reached a kind of détente, he wasn’t used to sitting still for so long, and his body buzzed with the need to move.
Still, he wasn’t a churl and waited to help Lady Farris and Miss Bradbury down. When the countess set her hand in his, it was the briefest of touches, but a quick pulse of awareness vibrated through him.
He straightened, the movement sudden and automatic.
She looked at him then, her lips parting, a stain of pink forming on her cheeks. Goddamn it, but she felt it, too. That was bloody inconvenient.
“Stopping for luncheon, sir?” A freckled woman in a tidy cap and apron hurried forward to speak to the major. Behind her, a man and a boy trotted out of the inn itself, which seemed a fine, well-maintained roadside establishment. “We’ve a lovely private room.”
