Page 13 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
“There was the garter, as well. As for other things...” He held her gaze. “I never steal them. They’re always given freely, and with great enthusiasm.”
A slight flush rose up in her cheeks. “Sound quite certain of that.”
“I am, ma’am, and unless you were in the room with us, you’ve no reason to doubt me.”
The bustle of the taproom ebbed as he and the countess stared at each other. What had started as a throb in his chest spread throughout his body.
“So, Major McCameron,” Miss Bradbury said as she returned to the table, “you were in the army. The 79th Regiment of Foot, correct? I believe I read that it was also known as the Queen’s Own Cameron Highlanders.”
Fortunately, the companion’s reappearance quieted his body’s attempt to mutiny. “Aye, ma’am.”
“You fought mainly on the Peninsula?” Miss Bradbury asked.
“Mainly, aye.” Though he respected her endeavor to converse, he’d no desire to elaborate on his years of service. Besides, what he’d seen and done in Spain and Portugal were not fit topics for a roadside luncheon with ladies.
“And you were at Waterloo, correct?”
“Aye, ma’am.” He’d fought with the ferocity of a man with no hope. His fiancée Susannah’s letter had arrived three days before, and with that letter, he’d lost the future he had assiduously planned. In a way, he owed Susannah for freeing him from fear. Had he believed that a wife and the prospect of a family awaited him on the other end of the battle, terror would have shadowed him through every moment, imagining that he had so much more to lose.
Damn—memories of the war were strong today. Some days, he barely thought of it. There were others, however, where he had to spend hour upon hour exhausting himself at the sporting academy just to keep the thoughts at bay.
He had no physical outlet now, trapped as he was for hours in a carriage. That left ample space for images, sounds, even phantom smells to crowd his mind. Miss Bradbury’s questions weren’t helping, either.
“The longest day of my life. And the end of many others’.” He stared down at his hands resting on the table, and though they were clean now, he’d seen them many times caked with dirt or rusty with blood.
“Forgive me, Major,” Miss Bradbury said kindly. “My curiosity gets the better of me sometimes, and I forget that there are things people do not wish to discuss—especially men who have gone to war.”
“My thanks, ma’am.” His gaze flicked toward the countess, who looked at him with a soft sort of curiosity. It wasn’t invasive, her interest; more considering,and a thread of gratitude unspooled—both for Miss Bradbury’s concern as well as her mistress’s gentle assessment.
Fortunately, the talk of war stopped when their food arrived, along with ales for Duncan and the countess and Miss Bradbury’s lemonade.
“This side has the mince pork,” the innkeeper said, pointing to one end of the pastry. “The other side’s the sweet plum.” She hovered nervously as Lady Farris took her first bite of Bedfordshire clanger.
Duncan had to admit, he was curious, too, what the countess’s reaction might be. She likely wasn’t familiar with plain country cooking.
After chewing and swallowing, Lady Farris looked at the innkeeper. “Before we leave,” she said gravely, “I ask that your cook writes down the recipe that I may pass it along tomycook.”
“Of course, my lady. Happy to, my lady!” Excitedly, the innkeeper hurried away.
“Do you truly like it?” Duncan asked after the woman had gone. “Or were you merely being polite?”
She lifted one brow. “Would you ever accuse me ofmerely being polite, Major?”
He raised his hands. “Fair enough.”
“But it is delicious,” she continued after taking another bite. “Flavorful and rich but not heavy.” She cut a piece from the end that contained plum and popped it in her mouth. Clearly, she didn’t care about moving back and forth between luncheon and dessert.
Her eyes closed, and she made a small, pleasured hum that shot right to Duncan’s cock. “The plums are a marvel. It’s as though someone took the essence of late summer and baked it into a shortcrust. What do you think, Major?”
He didn’t expect her to ask his opinion. Quickly, economically, he cut himself a piece from the savory part of the clanger. “It’s good.”
“And?” She propped her chin on her palm.
He chewed. “I like the taste of it.”
“Does the flavor bring anything to mind? Any descriptors besidesgood?”
Setting his fork down, he said, “Ma’am, I’ve spent over a decade bolting down rations as quickly as I could. There wasn’t time to learn gastronomic appreciation.”
