Page 16 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
“Slowly drizzle the water into the mixture,” Mr. Baines instructed. “Then knead it together.”
“Major McCameron,” she said, “I’ll need your help.” With her chin, she gestured for him to stand beside her.
He frowned but marched over to her. “Aye, ma’am?”
Holding up her hands, she said, “I’m covered in butter and flour and will make a horrible mess if I put my hands on that.” She glanced at the water pitcher. “If you please, give me a good drizzle.”
The pleat remained between his brows, but he did as she asked, adding the water in a slow but steady trickle into the bowl. As he did so, she worked the mixture with her hands.
“Remarkable how everything comes together,” sheexclaimed. “Like alchemy. Major, you must experience it for yourself. Get your hands in here.”
“I...”
“Ever made shortcrust before?” she challenged playfully. At his silence, she continued, “Thought as much. Give it a try—I promise it’s an almost entirely painless experience. Unless...” she eyed him “...you’re worried about maintaining your spotless appearance. Don’t want a fleck of pastry on your cuffs. It might not pass muster, and that would be a disaster.”
His blue gaze flicked toward her, as if he was well aware that she was deliberately teasing him, and she waited for him to again remark that they were wasting time.
Instead, he shucked off his coat—the movement did wonderful things with his clothing pulling across his shoulders and arms—and rolled up his cuffs to reveal veined forearms lightly covered with reddish-gold hair. They were capable looking forearms. Very capable indeed.
“Challenge accepted, ma’am,” he growled and plunged his hands into the bowl.
His blunt-tipped, slightly calloused fingers tangled with hers. Heat shot up her hands, along her arms, and rocketed through her body. She’d never believed fingers could be so masculine, yet now she had proof that they were—thathiswere. Yet they were dexterous, too, as he worked the water into the pastry with adept, efficient movement.
How could shenotimagine what it would feel like to have his hands move with the same capability on her body? How could she not watch the flex and play of his muscled arms as he turned the act of making pastry dough into something unexpectedly sensual?
Her throat went dry, so she licked her lips—and he stilled beside her. His gaze fastened on her mouth.
“How does it feel?” she asked, hearing the huskiness in her words.
His expression sharpened, becoming almost predatory. His voice a deep rumble, he said, “Ma’am?”
“The... ah... pastry. You’ve never made it before. I wondered... I wondered how it felt.” How could she feel so undone? She planned on attending a week-long orgy, and yet this simple act of having her hands interwoven with his made her at a loss for both breath and words.
“Surprisingly good,” he answered in that rough burr.
My goodness, did that sound delicious. Far more delicious than anything she’d eaten today, or any day.
“Ah, you have it perfectly done,” Mr. Baines boomed. “We can move on to rolling out the crust and filling it.”
As Beatrice blinked back to rationality, Major McCameron backed away, reaching for a towel. He made quick work of cleaning his hands before rolling down his sleeves to, unfortunately, cover his forearms. “From here out you’ll likely have no need of my services.”
That word,services, brought too many images to her mind, too many thoughts she wasn’t supposed to have about him. Yet she made herself nod and smile brightly, pretending that this stop at the inn’s taproom hadn’t been unexpectedly revelatory. Because when he pulled on his coat and strode from the kitchen, disappointment needled her, and she realized that she actually might enjoy his company.
She might enjoyhim.
Sitting alone in the taproom, Duncan tucked his watch back into his waistcoat, and the unlikely twin emotions of impatience and sensual awareness stung him.
They ought to have resumed their journey by now, and he couldn’t help noting the ticking down of each dawdled minute. At the same time, the mundane gesture of handling his timepiece brought to mind the countess’s hand on his stomach, which plunged him deeper into the memory of their fingers entwining as they’d made pastry. The desire to have her hand, her fingers, on his bare skin came on so fiercely it stole his breath.
Another drink of ale ought to steady him. Yet it didn’t.
He shoved his tankard away. Drowning these unwanted needs in drink was no solution, and he had a duty to uphold. He couldn’t keep Lady Farris safe if he was sottered.
“Ah, Major, thank you for waiting.” Miss Bradbury approached, wiping at a spot of flour on the front of her skirts.
“It’s my duty to do so,” he said, standing. “Is the class in cookery finished?”
“We made our very own Bedfordshire clangers, and Mr. Baines was gracious enough to write down the recipe.” She patted her reticule.
