Page 52 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
“Why’s that?” she asked, her gaze full of interest.
“If I was too much their friend, they might question my orders, or think that the chain of command was negotiable—which is a dangerous way to run an army.”
“I hadn’t considered that,” she said thoughtfully.
“Reminds me that I missed the opportunity to tell you how ably you wielded that chair this morning.” He leaned back in his seat to watch the way damp tendrils of hair curled around her face.
She gave a quiet snort. “Fine job it did. The blighter barely felt a thing.”
“I’ve a feeling we could have thrown a ship’s anchor at him, and his only response would have been to yawn.”
“Youhandled yourself well,” she said admiringly. “Bloodied noses and put men on the ground.”
He shrugged, uninterested in discussing something that didn’t warrant praise. “Training, and nothing more.”
“Come now,” she said, holding up a finger. “I’ve met my share of officers, and not a one of them knew an iota about fighting.”
“It’s not a good thing to use one’s fists.” He couldn’t keep the grimness from his voice. “There are better ways of resolving conflict.”
“Be nice,” she said in an imitation of his burr. When she smiled, he found his own lips curving in response. In her own accent, she added, “Until it’s time to not be nice.”
“Until then,” he answered.
She leaned forward, resting her chin on her folded hands. “Can you teach me to throw a punch? I’ve never learned, and it seems a good skill to possess.”
He lifted a brow. “Planning on being in more taproom brawls?”
“It’s not my intention,” she replied pertly. “But should another arise, I would like to think I could defend myself. Especially when chairs against the backs of massive brutes are ineffective.”
He hesitated. It wasn’t precisely proper etiquette to instruct gentlewomen in the art of pugilism, but hell, seeing as how men continued to be oafs without any checks on their boorishness, it made sense that women should have the capability to protect themselves.
“All right,” he said, motioning for her to stand.
When she did so, he also rose, and he took one last sip of wine before setting his glass on the table.
“First thing you’re going to do is set your feet,” he said after they faced each other.
“I want to punch someone, not kick them. I’m very good at kicking,” she added with pride. “I had two sisters and three brothers, and the only way to keep anyone from stealing my biscuits at teatime was to let fly with a few kicks.”
She demonstrated, lashing out quickly with one of her feet. It was an impressive bit of defensive technique.
“That’s good. Kicking is excellent, especially when aiming for significant places on a man.” He noted her eyeing his crotch and said on a choked laugh, “Yes, that part. But don’t neglect the knees and the inside of the thigh. What I mean about setting your feet to throw a punch is that your power isn’t going to come from here”—he tapped her shoulder—“but from down here.”
He touched her thigh. Even this light contact with her speared heat through him. He could well picture her leg, having had it wrapped around his head last night.
She sucked in a breath. The languorous postsupper atmosphere quickly disappeared, replaced by a fine and almost exquisite tension.
“Stance is important.” His voice went raspy. To demonstrate, he got himself into the proper fighting position.
She attempted to mirror him, but it was not quite right.
“You’re going down too low,” he said, “and will lose your balance. Here.”
He moved behind her, his body close to hers, and he tried to impersonally arrange her limbs—yet when he felt her gorgeously soft, rounded shape, he became rock hard in response. His mind fogged with how it felt to have her come apart against his mouth as he’d held her silken thighs.
Her breath sped at his touch, and her cheeks turned rosy.
Yet he’d agreed to show her how to defend herself, and slavering all over her during his lesson was not fulfilling his end of the bargain. Although, with his cock pressing into the curve of her arse, she surely knew that his mind wasn’t fully on fisticuffs.
