Page 18 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
“Such a forbidding expression, Major,” Beatrice said as the carriage swayed down the road. “Are youstewing over the fact that luncheon took far longer than you’d wanted?”
“I’m here to get you safely to your destination, ma’am. That’s the only thing that concerns me.” His voice was all military precision.
“Your dedication to duty is admirable,” she answered, “but I couldn’t resist. My first time making shortcrust pastry and Bedfordshire clangers. The first time I’d ever walked in a procession. So many wonderful chances to do things I’ve never done before.”
He made a noncommittal noise, but his brow furrowed.
“Surely there’ssomethingyou haven’t experienced butwantto,” she urged with a smile. “Let me guess. You’ve always wanted to ride in Astley’s Amphitheatre. I can just see you standing on the back of a wild stallion as it thundered around the ring, the audience’s applause showering down on you.”
The crimp between his eyebrows smoothed, and a corner of his mouth twitched, dislodging a fragment of pleasure from her heart so that it bounced around her chest.
“Never been a dream of mine,” he said, “but I’ll take it into consideration.”
“Oh, I know!” She tapped her fingers together. “You fantasize of living in Paris and becoming a painter who keeps tongues wagging with his scandalous behavior—and you walk around wearing grape leaves in your hair.”
His lips quirked as if he fought to keep from smiling. “Only thing I know how to draw are battle plans, and those were never praised for their artistic panache. One of my captains said my scrawls looked like they were done by a barely domesticated member of the canine family.”
“You could learn,” she pointed out. “And you would look quite fetching with a crown of grape leaves.” She curled her fingers against her palm to keep from reaching for his hair and running through the reddish waves—both because it would likely annoy him to have his locks mussed as well as her own sudden need to know its texture.
Perhaps he read her need to tousle his hair, because his hand came up to lightly touch one curl that fell across his forehead. “Sounds positively neoclassical, but I’m not suited for the aesthetic life. Give me a fortification to take or a battlement to storm.”
She peered out the window. “Alas, we seem woefully short on such martial objectives.”
His shrug drew her attention to the width of his shoulders, and she had no doubt that he hadn’t been one of those officers who ordered his men into danger whilst remaining safely behind. He would have led the charge and gotten just as dirty, just as bloody as the soldiers he commanded.
When she’d met other officers at sundry balls and dinners, they didn’t have haunted eyes and haunted words. They were exactly the sort of commanderswho let their men plunge into battle as they kept themselves secure. Not Major McCameron.
His words from their luncheon drifted back—The longest day of my life. And the end of manyothers’.
The things he’d seen... the things he’d done...
“It must be a challenge,” she murmured, “the transition to life in peacetime.”
He inhaled, his chest broadening with the movement. At first, she believed he would give her a quick dismissal—men did not like to admit that they struggled. But then he said lowly, “Aye, ma’am. Rotherby—I mean, the duke—thought this trip to Nottinghamshire might serve as something of a holiday for me.”
She’d observed His Grace interacting with the major, how comfortable they had seemed with each other, which appeared to be born from years of camaraderie. Major McCameron had been far looser in the duke’s presence, less of a soldier and more of a man in the company of a trusted friend.
The contrast in the major’s behavior had been startling, fascinating. There were layers to this man she hadn’t initially seen.
He likely needed diversion and pleasure just as much as she did. This journey might be a way for her to experience new things, but there was no reason why she couldn’t ensure that he enjoyed himself, too. Seeing him lose a little starch might be gratifying.
And alluring.
A bleat of an animal broke into her thoughts, andshe glanced outside to see a field dotted with fleecy sheep. It made for a charming picture, the green meadow adorned with white wooly creatures, although a breeze swept into the carriage, carrying with it rather pungent scents.
Jeanie, who had been reading up to now, set her book aside and frowned as she stared out the window. She pointed and said with concern, “See that ewe? She’s big with a baby.”
Both Beatrice and the major looked, and sure enough, there was a sheep that looked quite swollen. It paced restlessly, lying down and then standing up, making sounds of distress.
“Something’s wrong with it?” Beatrice asked.
“She seems ready to drop,” Jeanie said worriedly, “but can’t. And I don’t see any sign of a farmer. If she doesn’t get help soon, the baby will die, and she might, too.”
“How do you know this?” Major McCameron wondered.
“Grew up on a sheep farm,” Jeanie replied, still frowning anxiously. She gnawed on her bottom lip as they neared the ewe. “Poor creature.”
“You can help her?” Beatrice pressed.
