Page 36 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
Focus on the task at hand, soldier.Right now, it was getting her safely up the hill. “We’ll take the easternslope. It’s got the gentlest grade and the fewest rocky patches.”
“No need to accompany me if you are less enthusiastic about Roman ruins than I am.” She shielded her eyes as she scanned the rise. “I can manage on my own.”
“From this vantage,” he said, “I count no fewer than four spots where you might turn an ankle.”
“If I get into trouble,” she answered cheerfully, “I’ll call for help, and Green can be up there in a trice. Isn’t that so, Green?”
“Yes, my lady.” Despite his words, the postillion looked slightly more dubious about the prospect of scrambling up a hill to retrieve his injured mistress. There seemed every chance that a city dweller like Green might hurt himself on unfamiliar terrain.
“No need to involve him,” Duncan said firmly. “I’ll go with you and can guide you up so that no one gets hurt. Besides,” he added when it looked as though she’d object, “the last Roman ruin I saw was Miróbriga, and it’s time I saw one under better circumstances.”
She was quiet for a moment, then asked softly, “That’s on the Peninsula?”
“Near Santiago do Casém. Spent years fighting across Portugal and Spain—I’d heard it said they were beautiful places, but I couldn’t tell you if they were. What I saw was not beautiful, and what I did was less so.”
The words had come to him before he could thinkto hold them back. He glanced at her warily, unsure what she’d do with the information.
Her gaze was soft and full of gentleness, and there was gratitude, too, as if she appreciated what it meant for him to reveal part of himself to her.
His throat tightened—but he didn’t look away, letting her glimpse this part of who he was. She didn’t turn from him in disgust, and she didn’t make a jest in an attempt to skirt away from uncomfortable things because she couldn’t bear to dwell in unpleasantness.
After a moment, she waved him forward. “Lead on, Major McCameron.”
He released a breath, glad she didn’t demand an explanation, appreciative of her acceptance. “Don’t suppose you have stouter boots, ma’am.”
“Thesearemy stouter boots.” She held out her foot to examine her footwear. They were cunning little things made of pale blue leather, and he tried very hard not to continue his perusal up past them, higher to her ankle and calf, but he had eyes, didn’t he? The temptation to follow the curves of her stocking-clad leg was high—too high for him to ignore. Even the glimpse he’d had back at their picnic hadn’t been enough.
Duncan needed to stroke his hand up that leg, up to her thigh, and untie her garter, just as she’d done back at the meadow. Last night, he’d caught glimpses of her leg as she’d lain in the bath, luscious and slick with water. Much as he’d tried to avoid it, he’d comeinto brief contact with the softness of her flesh. No doubt she was soft all over.
Enough. The mission, McCameron.
As he’d explained, he took them to the eastern slope of the hill, where there was minimal scree and a lady might find easy purchase in flimsy shoes. The day had grown blustery, and winds buffeted them as he led them upward. He kept his pace relatively easy to ensure she stayed close. No sense providing an escort if he bounded up the slope like a mountain goat and left her behind.
Notlooking at her, with her skirts blowing against the curves of her body, became even more challenging as she moved beside him. He grew fascinated by the movement of her hips and, yes, even the lush form of her arse and knew with certainty that she would fill his hands abundantly.
“Take that switchback,” he said, pointing toward what appeared to be a game trail. “I’ll follow.”
She saluted—he rolled his eyes at that—and scrambled along the worn patch of earth. And then the stones tumbled beneath her feet, and she stumbled backward.
He moved without thought, darting forward.
She spun and landed in his arms, all of her softness against him, her arms flung around his neck, her breasts snug to his chest.
Her face was inches from his. She had the most incredible mouth, as lush and edible as a basket of summer berries. Nothing could make him look awayfrom her lips, which were parted as she drew in quick inhalations—she panted slightly, either from her exertions, or surprise at her stumble, or his nearness.
He smelled a hint of perspiration comingled with ripe flowers, a scent of pure sexuality.
The desire he’d felt for her last night and this morning had not dulled with time. If anything, it had intensified. He was primed as a rifle, and all it would take was a single touch of her finger to create the spark that ignited the powder.
Hauling his attention up to her eyes, he saw her pupils were wide, and she looked at him as if he was a sweet she’d been denied and now no longer knew why she couldn’t eat him.
“Are you hurt, ma’am?”
“Not a scratch,” she said breathlessly. The tip of her finger hovered above his jaw, and he burned to turn his face to feel her caress him. Yet she checked herself and lowered her hand. “Given that you’ve seen me at my most, ahem,privatemoment, and that you prevented me from tumbling down this hill like a wheel of cheese, you need not call me ma’am. I’m Beatrice.”
“Beatrice.” He liked the feel of her name on his lips and in his mouth. “Duncan.”
“Duncan.”
