Page 9 of Waiting for a Scot Like You
McCameron glowered at her, likely appalled that she would permit her servants such liberties, but she didn’t give a fig about what he thought. She sailed past him and toward her carriage.
But before the footman could help her up into the vehicle, McCameron was there, offering his hand to assist her. She looked down at it for a moment—given that he wasn’t an especially tall man, he had rather large hands, and he wore no gloves—then lightly rested her fingers in his palm.
Looking up into his face, she could see that his eyes were not just brilliantly blue, but they also contained tiny flecks of gold in a corona around his large, dark pupils.
She tried her best not to lean too much on him as she climbed inside, but it was impossible to miss how effortless it had been for him to bear her weight.
Beatrice settled on the squabs of the carriage, then edged closer to the window to make room when McCameron helped Jeanie into the vehicle. As much as she didn’t want to, she couldn’t stop herself from watching as the major climbed aboard, catching quick impressions of fabric stretching across taut muscles.
“All secure, Major?” she asked him sunnily once he’d taken his seat opposite her.
His response was again another grunt.
“You’re welcome to close your eyes once we’re underway,” she said with treacly sweetness. “Might as well get some rest, Major McCameron. I hate to disappoint you, but we are going to have averyenjoyable journey.”
With that, she knocked on the roof of the carriage. A moment later, they were underway.
Jeanie nodded off long before the major so much as blinked. In truth, they had barely reached the northern edge of the city before Beatrice’s companion was asleep and very gently snoring.
Without that option, however, Beatrice was left with only Major McCameron for conversation. The landscape itself was not remarkable enough to demand attention, and as she couldn’t read in a moving carriage without feeling ill, there was really nothing to do except attempt to speak to the infuriating man.
“Have you done much travel since the war?” she asked.
“No.”
She waited a moment, but it gradually became clear he did not intend to elaborate.
Trying again, she asked, “Have you known the duke for long?”
“Yes.”
Once more, silence fell.
“Are you now determined to answer me in single syllables, Major?”
To this, he didn’t say a word, only tightened his jaw and scowled at her.
“When my children were little,” she said brightly, “and we had to amuse them on long carriage rides, weused to sing a song about what we observed out the window. Would you like to sing that song now?”
“I’m four and thirty, ma’am.”
She couldn’t resist a triumphant smirk at finally provoking him into speech. But she couldn’t ignore the fact of what he’d just said. “Gracious. Thirty-four. That makes me old enough to be your... aunt.”
“Aunt, ma’am?”
“This isn’t the Middle Ages, Major McCameron. I did not start having children at the age of twelve.” A thought occurred to her. “Are you married, Major?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Do you have any children?”
“None, ma’am.”
“That you know of,” she added.
He shook his head. “I am careful, ma’am.”
“I’m certain you are.” Unfortunately, this line of inquiry made her consider whether he had lovers, and if so, who they were, and what it was like for them to have him in their beds.
