Page 50 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
She glanced back uncertainly at Duncan. He, too, had seen the almost loving way Curtis attended to Rowe.
Would he be horrified? Would he storm from the room in disgust?
Duncan’s expression shifted into something quiet, something bittersweet. “Everyone but me,” he murmured.
Seeing his melancholy look, her chest throbbed with sympathy. Mr. Holloway had fallen in love and married, just as the Duke of Rotherby had done. Here now it seemed that there was some romantic affection between Rowe and Curtis, leaving Duncan the only one of his friends to lack a sweetheart. Perhaps he felt left out, or perhaps he wanted someone of his own... She didn’t know, but there was yearning in his eyes.
Yet what could she say to him? Men could be such prideful creatures, careful and protective of their poor hearts, instructed from birth to shield that muscle. So much so that when they were hurt, they didn’t know what to do with themselves and usually lashed out.
She’d seen it many times over her life, with all the men she’d known.
So instead of pressing him, she finished cleaning the scratch on Duncan’s face. “What did you learn about the mail coach?”
He snapped out of his reverie. “There’s one leaving in an hour that should take us in the right direction. I also spoke with Wiggins and Green, and they’ve already engaged a few men from this village to retrieveour belongings. They’ll rendezvous with us at Lord Gibb’s. In the interim, there’s a shop here that sells ready-made linen and few other items we’ll need for the remainder of the journey north.”
“A very thorough accounting, Major.” She smiled at his meticulousness.
He straightened, his bearing utterly military. “Ma’am. Just doing my duty.”
The urge to kiss him on his uninjured cheek gripped her, but she didn’t know how he would feel about public displays of affection. Instead, she smoothed her hand down his lapels and adjusted the folds of his rumpled neckcloth. It felt so perfectly domestic, but rather than being confined and smothered, this was intimate and personal, and a sharp yearning throbbed through her.
The unexpected longing made her blink. She and Edward hadn’t ever shared tiny moments of quotidian familiarity, yet she had one now, with Duncan.
He seemed equally caught up in the cocoon enclosing them. His face was tight with wanting, and in that moment, she ached to give him whatever it was he so desperately craved.
“The hero of the taproom,” Curtis said, appearing beside them. Rowe stood at his shoulder, and though they did not touch, the feelings between the two men were nearly palpable. The barrister smiled at Beatrice. “I meant you, my lady. You felled an entire room with your tone alone.”
She inclined her head. “I’m not angry with everyone, just disappointed.”
Rowe snickered, and Curtis smirked.
Duncan got to his feet. “For the first time, Curtis, you missed the fight.”
“Between the three of you, everything seems to have been handled, and no one too injured that they couldn’t live to fight another day.” Curtis’s gaze held Rowe’s.
A smile touched the other man’s lips.
“You’ll join us on the mail coach to Nottinghamshire,” Duncan said.
“We part company here,” Rowe said. “We’re headed west.”
“That’s a pity,” Beatrice said sincerely. “I’d hoped we could continue our journeys together.”
“We’ll encounter each other again, my lady,” Rowe answered enigmatically. He bowed over her hand, before glancing at Duncan. “And we’re cursed to see this varlet’s face wherever we go.”
“Get you gone, donkeys,” Duncan said affectionately. He clapped both his friends on their shoulders before the two men ambled from the taproom. Briefly, Mr. Curtis took Mr. Rowe’s hand, before letting it go. Then they were gone.
“Are you all right?” she asked Duncan softly. “And don’t tell me that pain doesn’t hurt.”
He inhaled and exhaled slowly as he watched the empty space his friends had occupied. “I’ll be fine. Always am.”
Chapter 12
Beatrice surprised him continuously.
The mail coach jounced sharply on the muddy road, and the eight people crammed inside it slammed against each other. A baby in a fair-haired woman’s arms began to wail. One of the male passengers kept pulling hard-boiled eggs from his pockets, sprinkling them with pepper, and shoving them into his mouth. The smell of sulfur clung to the interior of the vehicle as though it was a portal of Hell.
It was by far one of the least comfortable rides Duncan had experienced as a civilian.
