Page 37 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
It was delicious to hear her speak it. And terrifying that he craved the sound of it so much.
“What a bonnie, braw name,” she said with a smile.
“Ach, aye, lassie.”
His exaggerated burr had the intended effect of making her laugh, breaking the cocoon of intimacy that had enveloped them. Its absence was a relief and also a loss, and he wasn’t certain which was the better result.
Reluctantly, his whole body protesting, he released her so she stood on her own.
“So you aren’t hurt at all from that tumble?” he asked.
She bounced slightly on her feet, testing them. “Not a bit. Hale as ever. Shall we continue our climb?”
What he had to do to get her safely up, and despite it being dangerous for him, made him crave her touch even more. Wordlessly, he held out his hand to her.
She did not hesitate and clasped it with her own. His heart thudded and his body grew hot, but he threaded their fingers together before resuming their ascent.
It was surprisingly easy to take the rest of the hill. She relied on him to guide her to the most secure footholds, but he didn’t have to pull her behind him. Beatrice moved with energy and purpose, though she breathed heavily from exertion.
His own breath came quickly, and his heart pounded. It wasn’t from the climb, buther. She was far more thrilling than anything he’d ever experienced.
Chapter 9
“A moment... if you please,” Beatrice gasped. “Haven’t much... experience climbing... rocky hills... over the past twenty years.” She leaned against a low stone wall to catch her breath, while Duncan watched her, poised and ready to come to her aid if she required it.
She tried to rationalize that her breathlessness had nothing to do with the man who’d helped her up this rise. It didn’t come from his care for her safety. It wasn’t from the wounded self beneath his warrior’s thick armor nor the sheer pleasure of watching a vigorously healthy man use his body to conquer obstacles.
Keep telling yourself that, she thought.
It made a woman wonder what else his body could accomplish.
Her own gown was stuck to her sweat-slicked back, whilst he seemed as calm and composed as if he’d risen from perusing the newspaper in his favorite chair.
“I’ll be . . . perfectly fine in . . . just a moment,” she assured him, though she panted her words. “Only need to . . . walk.” She tried to push off the wall, but her limbs were a touch gelatinous, and he was at her side in a moment, offering his arm for support.
She didn’t want to lean on him. There was too much temptation there. She’d already been in his arms earlier, and the experience had been torturously pleasurable. Never before had anyone held her with such perfect expertise, as if he could do so forever without tiring. All his focus had been on her and the moment between them.
Whenever Edward had touched her, he’d done so either being completely attentive to only his own needs or else he’d been distracted, ready to move on to another point of interest. A point of interest that wasn’t her.
The hell with Edward. After his passing, she’d created a life for herself that she loved, and she refused to dwell in his shadow.
It felt good to be close to Duncan, even if it led nowhere, so she let him guide her around the site.
“It’s in marvelous condition,” she said, pleased that she didn’t wheeze her words as she looked around.
“Aye, from here I can see there’s more than one column, and they’re almost complete.” He nodded toward them standing in a row in the middle of the hilltop. “This might have been the entrance to a temple.”
More remains of walls formed lines in the earth, andwhile there were no half-buried statues of gods nor sherds of pottery or bits of bronze, she was transported.
“This place brings to mind images of robed priestesses performing rites as the pious come to honor their deities,” she murmured. A cloud-studded sky spread overhead, creating more mystical atmosphere. “I can almost catch the aroma of incense or perhaps the sharp scent from a blood sacrifice.”
She stepped carefully across bricks that were over a millennium old. “The world had to have been a very different place back then, and yet people themselves hunger for the same things: food, shelter, community. Love.”
“Aye,” he said lowly. “Love.”
That word from his lips seemed weighted, a whole history contained within it. But he seemed disinclined to elaborate, and she would not press him to talk about something that might make him uncomfortable.
She slipped from his hold, and she moved toward what looked like the remains of a mosaic floor. The image was of an oak tree—the symbol of Jupiter, ruler of the gods, and a perpetual philanderer—with tiny tiles coming together to form something greater than themselves.
