Page 12 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
“Good lads.” Satisfied that the situation was under control, Duncan walked to Lady Farris’s table and seated himself.
“Were you talking to those men, Major McCameron?” the countess asked.
He grunted. If he told her what he’d been doing, she’d no doubt chastise him for looking out for her best interests. She’d likely consider such measures unnecessary. But he’d given Rotherby his word that he’d protect Lady Farris, and even if he hadn’t promised his friend, he would have done it just the same.
Glancing at Miss Bradbury, she said brightly, “As usual, his conversational skills are delightful.”
To her credit, Miss Bradbury did not voice her agreement. Instead, she adjusted the folds of her fichu.
“Talked just fine with those tradesmen,” he noted.
“Speaking in the common tongue of grunts.” The countess batted her lashes at him as if in challenge.
“You’ve never heard a Shakespearean sonnet until you’ve heard it grunted,” he answered. “Be wise as thou art cruel—” he grunted “—do not press my tongue-tied patience with too much disdain—” he grunted once more.
A smile bloomed slowly across her face, a true smile,and something hard and insistent throbbed in his chest. He dug his knuckles into it, trying to banish the sensation. It had to be because he was hungry since his breakfast had been long ago and spartan.
“O! learn to read what silent love hath writ,” she said, eyes sparkling. “To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.”
No denying it: the quick, insistent flare of hunger wasn’t for food.
The innkeeper appeared beside their table. “It’s our cook’s habit to make one dish a day. Today’s is Bedfordshire clanger.”
The countess’s expression brightened. “I’ve never had a Bedfordshire clanger.”
“’Tis very humble fare, madam,” the innkeeper said apologetically. “A shortcrust pastry with savory filling at one end, sweet at the other. I can have Cook make you something special.”
“No need.” Lady Farris smiled warmly. “A Bedfordshire clanger sounds just the thing, and I’m sure your cook makes a delicious one.”
The innkeeper beamed. “Oh, it is, my lady. I’ll bring them out right away. An ale for you, sir?” she added, looking at Duncan.
“That will suit,” he answered.
“For me, as well,” the countess said.
“Wouldn’t you prefer a lemonade, madam?” the innkeeper offered.
“Ale,” came the cheerful but firm reply. Lady Farris’sgaze was on Duncan as if daring him to contradict her request.
“Lemonade for me,” Miss Bradbury said.
The innkeeper murmured something indistinct before fading away to fetch their food and drink. After they were left alone, the countess’s companion quietly excused herself and headed toward the back of the inn, where presumably the necessary was located.
“You’ve much familiarity with ale?” Duncan asked once Miss Bradbury had gone.
“Not a bit,” she answered and chuckled.
“Possible you’ll regret your choice,” he felt obliged to point out.
“Itispossible,” she replied, “but the only one who’ll suffer for it is me. No one’s life or happiness hangs in the balance, so it’s a risk worth taking. What about you, Major?” She rested her chin on her fist. “When was the last time you did anything risky? Reversing the order in which you put on your stockings doesn’t count.”
From her smirk it was clear that she believed she knew him and understood all there was to comprehend about who he was. But she didn’t know him truly, and the need to shock her down to the tips of her own stocking-clad toes was sudden and devilish.
“I clambered up a courtesan’s balcony to steal a garter and a kiss.” Granted, he’d been dared by Rotherby to do so, and that had been last December, which didn’t make it particularly recent, but she didn’t need to know that.
Her eyes went wide. Perhaps what he’d said was shocking, but damn if it wasn’t worth it to see the look of astonishment on her face.
With what sounded like deliberate nonchalance, she said, “Stealing merely a kiss?”
