Page 42 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
“Duncan!” she yelled above the storm. He was at her side immediately, and she pointed toward the lights. “We can get dry there.”
“Good spotting,” he said.
She tried not to preen. “And it’s closer than any inn.”
They found the track off the main road that led to the farmhouse, and she nearly wept with gratitude once they reached it, its cheerful interior spilling illumination into a muddy yard.
Duncan appeared beside the horse to help her dismount. Her legs were stiff, and her whole body ached, but at last her feet touched the ground. She held onto his shoulder to keep upright. Hard to believe that only hours earlier, she’d gripped those same shoulders during their fiery kiss. At that moment, nothing could be further from her mind and body. All she wanted was a place beside the fire and a mug of tea in her hands.
Together, they strode up to the door, which swung open to reveal a middle-aged man, holding a lantern, and a matronly woman beside him.
“Sir, madam,” the man exclaimed, “what happened?”
Beatrice’s teeth chattered, preventing her from answering.
“I’m Duncan Frye, and this is my wife,” Duncan said. “Our carriage met with an accident. Fortunately, no one was hurt, but the vehicle’s a loss, and we’re in need of someplace to dry off. And a roof for our horses, if you have it.” He glanced back to where Green and Wiggins stood with the animals.
“Can do better than that,” the man said vehemently. “You’ll all stay the night.”
“We’ll get you dry clothes,” his wife added. “In the meantime, get you in front of the fire. Bill, show their men to the stables.”
“Aye, Nell.”
When Bill hurried outside, his wife stepped back. “Come in, come in. Straight to the hearth.”
Beatrice was too weary to rush toward the fire, but when Duncan deposited her on a bench before the cheerful blaze, she could have wept with appreciation. Nell fussed in the kitchen, clattering pots and pans. Two cats, an orange tabby and a gray one, had been sleeping in front of the fire, but they ambled off in search of solitude when the newcomers took their seats.
Duncan sat beside Beatrice, his legs stretched out as steam rose up from his waterlogged boots. She rubbed her hands together, trying to bring sensation back to them.
“Careful,” he said gently. “You could damage them if you rub too hard. Just let them warm gradually.”
No doubt he spoke from experience, so she did as he instructed, holding her hands up and letting theheat from the fire penetrate her numbed fingers. They stung as sensation returned.
In the meantime, Duncan knelt in front of her and unlaced her boots. She was far too tired and still too cold to feel anything that resembled arousal as he touched her with impersonal efficiency. He pulled a small knife from an inside coat pocket and used it to cut the swollen ties of her boots before tugging them off. He peeled off her stockings and set them on the flagstones to dry.
He dragged a low stool over, placing it under her feet so that they were closer to the fire.
She couldn’t stop herself from hissing in pain as sensation returned to her toes in stinging jabs.
“Aye, it’ll hurt.” Shrugging out of his drenched coat, which he set beside her stockings, he returned to his seat beside her. “Not for too long.”
In response, she mutely nodded but sent him a look of gratitude for all his ministrations.
They were quiet together for several minutes before he spoke. “You were a fine soldier out there. Resilient as hell.”
That didn’t concern her. What shedidcare about she couldn’t keep silent about. “You saved my life. When the second branch came down.”
Avoiding her gaze, he muttered and mumbled, grumbling something that sounded like, “...nothing... duty...”
“Let me compliment you.” She touched her fingersto his chin and gently turned him to look at her. In the firelight, his eyes were richly blue, and she found herself riveted by the depths within them.
His gaze held hers for a breath, and then another breath, until she and the major seemed to breathe together, sharing air, sharing time.
Then he lowered his lashes, breaking the connection between them. Ruefully, he said, “I accept punches to the face more easily than compliments.”
“I’m too tired to hit you, so just imagine that I’ve planted my fist in your nose.” She took her hand away from his face but couldn’t keep from rubbing her fingers together, as if holding in the sensation of his skin against hers.
They gave each other small smiles, which warmed her far more than the fire.
