Page 22 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
Silently, he exhaled. Thank God they wouldn’t have to share a bed, because the idea of lying beside her all night, her warmth seeping into him, her nocturnal sighs and murmurs drifting over him while she was close enough to touch... it would have been exquisite torture.
“I suppose it would be a fool’s errand to suggest that you take your supper up here or at least in a private room instead of in the taproom,” he said.
A corner of her mouth lifted. “It would be, yes.”
He opened the door and gestured for her to lead the way.
She glided past him, and even though it was the end of a long day, he still caught a touch of her fragrancecomingled with the faint musk of her skin. Surely it was because he was hungry that his mouth watered.
Despite the age of the building, the steps were surprisingly quiet beneath their feet as they descended to the ground floor.
Once they reached the bottom of the stairs, he held out his arm to her. She stared at it for a moment before setting her hand on it.
The lightest pressure of her fingers on him, even with the fabric of his coat and shirt as barriers, roused his senses. He’d touched her hand already, felt her palm on his stomach, and had spent most of the day within the confines of the carriage, and yet this physical connection with her shot through him. Any fatigue he might have been feeling disappeared immediately. He became aware of everything all at once—the weight of his garments against his body, the hitch in her breathing.
That catch in her inhalation made it difficult forhimto draw in air. Yet he was trained to be aware of his surroundings, even down to the minutiae of seeing the flutter of her pulse in her neck. That was all it meant—training and long-held vigilance. Nothing beyond that.
“Could eat a boar,” he announced and winced at the loudness of his voice.
“Let’s hope it’s on the bill of fare,” she said in a valiant attempt to match his tone.
Together, they walked into the taproom. It was much like the one in which they had taken their luncheon,though somewhat larger and containing more tables and more people. There was a long bar at one end and a fire at the other. Framed pictures of horses hung on the walls, each with a little placard, indicating that they were horses of some renown. The inn clearly had its share of travelers, because no one gave him or Lady Farris more than a glance as they entered the chamber.
He guided her to a table and held out her seat. With a murmur of thanks, she sank down into it. It was such a mundane thing to do—only today, he’d helped seat the countess and Miss Bradbury—but this time they were alone, which gave the task a domestic, intimate feel.
Fortunately, a man with thinning hair and an apron wrapped around his stout middle approached. He bowed. “Evenin’, my lord, my lady. Some supper for you fine gentlefolk?”
Lady Farris rubbed her hands together. “Any roasted boar on the menu?”
Duncan laughed—lowly, but she heard him anyway, and it made her smile.
“We’ve pork pie, mutton stew, an excellent roast with turnips, and cottage pie.”
“Yes,” the countess said with a nod.
The server blinked at her. “Madam?”
“I’ll try one of each—except the mutton stew. Today I had an encounter with some sheep, so I’d feel like I was betraying them if I made one my supper.”
“Those are all mighty filling dishes, madam,” theinnkeeper said. “Might be a bit too much for one person.”
Her smile was wide when she looked at Duncan, making his stomach tighten in a way that had little to do with food. “You’ll share them with me, won’t you, my dearest darling? That way we can experience every option. Who knows when we’ll come through again, so we might as well take advantage of the opportunity.”
“I...” It was probably more food than they needed, but her enthusiasm—combined with the sparkle in her eyes—was contagious. He heard himself say, “Why not?”
When the hell do I say things likeWhy not? Only with the Union of the Rakes did he discard caution and act impulsively, and even then that happened rarely. But when it came to spending time with anyone other than his friends, he trod carefully.
Her smile grew, illuminating the darkest corners of the rusted mechanism that was his heart. “Huzzah! We’ll feast like Henry the Eighth! Except we’ll refrain from executing our wives.”
“Very good.” The man bowed and retreated, leaving them alone.
After a serving woman brought them their beverages, he and the countess were silent for several moments, so Duncan offered, “If we’re supposed to be married, we ought to talk to each other to complete the illusion.”
Her laugh was oddly humorless. “My dearest Mr.Frye, I can assure you that married couples can spend hours if not days and weeks not speaking to each other. Even the ones that started out as love matches eventually become silent as tombs.”
He stared at her, appalled at the picture of life that she painted. If she spoke from experience, how bloody awful. It wasn’t the first time she indicated that her own marriage had been less than ideal, if not outright terrible.
His own parents’ marriage was a companionable if not passionate union. But Rotherby seemed blindingly happy with his duchess, and when Duncan did see Holloway now, every other utterance out of his friend’s mouth wasmy darling wife.
