Page 11 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
The innkeeper’s presence seemed to break the thrall that had fallen between Duncan and Lady Farris. She immediately released her hold on him as she stepped down.
Before Duncan could speak, Lady Farris replied, “The taproom, if you please.” She smiled at the proprietress.
The innkeeper raised her brows in astonishment at the countess’s request, and Duncan shared her surprise.
After he helped Miss Bradbury down, he turned to the countess. “Don’t know how long you’ve been out of mourning,” he said lowly, “but you might not know that ladies don’t usually take their meals with the public.” He knew this thanks to his mother and his three sisters, who were always decorous about where and when they ate.
Humor flashed in Lady Farris’s eyes. “It’s been ten months since I left behind my lavender and gray, Major McCameron. I know the customs of mourning. But I’ve never eaten in a taproom before, and today’s the day I do.”
He pulled his timepiece from his waistcoat. “I’ve budgeted half an hour for us to take our luncheon, and we’d have faster service in a private room.”
“Oh, Major, you are setting yourself up for a long and frustrating journey if you think I’m to be ruled by your clock.” She plucked the watch from his hand and tucked it back into the pocket of his waistcoat, giving his abdomen a pat as she did so.
He stilled beneath her fingers.
Her gaze flew to his, and for the barest moment, they both froze. Her hand lightly pressed against his stomach, yet he sensed her touch everywhere, as if his body had been dozing before but was now fully awake.
A throng of people passed by the coaching yard, laughing and singing patches of song. At the sound, the countess pulled away from him, leaving a palm-shaped imprint of heat on his skin. Still, they stared at each other as though ensnared and unable to break free from the net surrounding them.
Dimly, he heard Miss Bradbury ask, “Where are those folks headed?”
Duncan managed to drag his gaze away from Lady Farris to watch more people walk by the coaching yard. They wore large straw hats, with sheaves of green wheat woven around the crowns, and in their hands they waved streamer-adorned sticks.
“Local custom, madam,” the innkeeper answered. “A fortnight before the wheat is harvested we have a procession. We sing songs and the like.”
“How enchanting,” the countess said and perhaps he imagined it, but she sounded slightly dazed, as if she was still reeling in the aftermath of their brief physical contact.
“If you’re in not too much of a hurry to get back on the road,” the innkeeper said, “you ought to stay and watch.”
“That depends on whether or not the schedule permits it,” Lady Farris answered, shooting him a dry look.
And then she sailed toward the inn, with Miss Bradbury, the innkeeper, and her family following. The countess made an impressive figure as she marched away, her shoulders back, her steps confident.
He stood there, watching the space she’d occupied, his mind continuing to remain the consistency of porridge.
Finally, his brain congealed, and he became aware of Wiggins gazing at him. Looking up at the driver, Duncan asked, “Need anything?”
“My thanks, sir. We’ll see to ourselves.” The coachman touched his fingers to his tricorn before urging the horses in a walk toward the stables.
For several moments, Duncan stood alone in the yard, gathering himself. He stared up at the cloudless sky, brilliant in its late-summer hue. There had been skies overhead like this in Portugal and Spain. Some of the worst things he’d ever seen had been beneath perfect blue skies. Blood looked especially vivid in the sunlight.
He shook his head. He’d survived, hadn’t he? He’d even kept a good number of his men alive. There was nothing to complain about. In truth, he should rejoice that he’d made it out the other side to take this journey with Lady Farris. He could bear all of this with calm and patience. She would breeze in and out of his life, and he could go on with the path he’d setfor himself—and hope that it settled the restlessness within him.
After taking a deep breath, he headed inside.
Lady Farris and Miss Bradbury sat at a small circular table at one side of the taproom. Within the chamber itself was a collection of groups and individuals, including shopkeepers and plowmen and travelers, all partaking of a midday meal. A trio of tradesmen—their clothing dusted with plaster—were seated near the countess and kept glancing at her with the same kind of prurient interest men had used for millennia when looking at women. For her part, Lady Farris either didn’t observe or pretended not to.
But Duncan noticed. He walked up to the tradesmen and said in a mild but firm voice, “Eyes to yourself, gentlemen.”
“We can look, can’t we?” one of them said over the rim of his tankard.
“You can,” Duncan agreed. “But then I’d have to introduce your face to my fist, and the sound of a nose breaking can put delicate constitutions off their luncheon.” To make his point, he rested his fist, knuckles down, on the tabletop.
The men all glanced down at his hand. One of them cursed softly, having no doubt seen the scars that marked his knuckles.
“Earned these scars,” Duncan said. “Beginning with the Battle of Bussaco. Bit of hand-to-hand combat witha French soldier intent on slitting my throat. Given that I’m alive and having this friendly chat with you now, you can well imagine how things ended for that soldier.”
One of the men swallowed audibly. “We’ll keep our eyes on our table.”
