Page 33 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
Though he’d fought alongside his men, he’d been careful that they didn’t see him as excessively vulnerable. They’d needed him to be a strong, steady leader, and so only in the privacy of his tent had he ever permitted the doctor to treat his wounds.
She eyed his feet as if she found them attractive, which was bizarre. Men’s feet weren’t attractive. They were big and a bit hairy and tended to smell if not cleaned regularly.
“Well, you don’t have iron feet,” the countess said with an approving nod.
“Aye. I’m flesh, like any man.”
Her gaze met his. The intimate wordfleshseemed to still the breeze and turn the meadow into a muchsmaller, more enclosed space. Last night rushed into his mind and body, remembering her hand between her legs, the other on her breast.
He quickly shook out the blanket. Hopefully the activity covered his half-hard cock, but in case it didn’t, he kept his back to her as he rummaged through the hamper.
A few long breaths helped him regain control over his body, and when he turned around, she had seated herself on the blanket.
She patted the fabric. “Sit. I’m famished, and while I still wasn’t able to secure us some boar to eat, I think there are some pork pies that will suffice.”
He laid out the aforementioned pies, wrapped in paper, as well as some pears, a packet of almonds, a jug of what smelled like cider, and two dented pewter mugs. They quickly began to eat, and he had almost—but not quite—congratulated himself for being unaffected by her, when she made another of her pleasured groans.
“Everything on the road tastes so good,” she murmured before taking another bite of pie.
It seemed impossible to contain the joy she felt in living. He admired it—envied it. What must it be like to find the world a place of exciting, limitless possibility?
“I warrant getting free of London’s smoke can whet the appetite,” he said.
“A prosaic answer, but a credible one.” She chewed an almond.
“Aye, that’s me,” he muttered. “Prosaic and credible.” They weren’t precisely the most thrilling descriptors, but then, he was a former major in His Majesty’s Army, not a retired pirate.
“There are worse things to be than plausible,” she said. “For example, if no one ever believed you. Or if your opinions were summarily dismissed on the basis of your gender.”
“Fair point.”
“Besides,” she went on, “I imagine an influential and popular man such as the Duke of Rotherby appreciates having a trusted friend. They’re in short supply.”
“He has enough arse-lickers—I mean, boot-lickers.” Even though he’d used coarse language in front of her last night, he still wasn’t used to speaking so crudely in front of a woman.
She laughed. “I preferred the first descriptor. More piquant. And I saw those arse-lickers in action at the business Bazaar. Thank goodness Miss McGale—I mean, the duchess—was there to provide some much-needed authenticity. Well, authenticity of mind and heart, if not identity. It didn’t hurt that he fell madly in love with her. Must have been strange, to see your friend—who was no stranger to rakishness—so besotted.”
Duncan snorted at the understatement, yet he mulled over what she said. “Strange, aye. Like seeing a tiger suddenly begin to eat exclusively carrots.”
“I can’t decide if comparing the duchess to a carrot is a compliment or an insult.” Her lips pursed into a smile.
“No insult meant,” he said at once. “The duchess is a fine woman, sharp as a saber.”
“And she loves the duke,” Beatrice added pointedly. “Surely a point in her favor.”
“Many points in her favor.” Duncan ran his hand back and forth over the grass, comparing the feel of it against his palm versus his feet. Contemplatively, he said, “Rotherby’s a rogue and a libertine, but there’d always been a part of himself that he kept closed off—even from me and the others. But when the duchess burst into his life... it’s like he could fully be himself.”
He shook his head, irritated with himself. “Don’t think that makes any sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” she said, quiet. “It’s a rare thing, for anyone to find that.”
They both fell silent. His own dashed matrimonial hopes were acrid in his throat, and he struggled to swallow them back down where he could taste them no longer. As for the countess, he had no idea what she was thinking—though, given what she’d said about life married to the late earl, he could hazard a guess.
Time to steer the conversation to something more readily navigable. He took a drink of ale and said, “We’ve more than Rotherby in common. There’s Sebastian Holloway, too.”
She smiled, spreading warmth through him. “Mr.Holloway and Lady Grace are what my younger son would callgood people. I was more than happy to have the opportunity to serve as their patron. They’re still in the planning stages of their expedition, but I’m eager to learn about their findings.”
“You’re interested in the sciences,” he noted.
