Page 80 of A Rogue to Watch Over Me
“Please, darling.” She nibbled her lip in that fetching way of hers. “Stop talking and kiss me.”
*
Reluctantly leaving thecomfort of Logan’s bed, Amelia accompanied him to the breakfast room. Mrs. Garrett’s delicious meal of raspberry scones with clotted cream and cheesy baked eggs was a true treat, quite a departure from the simple soft boiled egg and crumpet she typically made for herself.
“I’m starving this morning,” Finn Caldwell said good-naturedly as he joined them, plate in hand. “It’s a good thing Mrs. Garrett prepares enough food to feed a blasted regiment.”
“Good God,” Logan observed as he took a look at the heaping serving on Finn’s plate.
“A man’s got to eat,” Finn said, slathering butter on a thick slice of warm bread.
“Truer words have seldom been spoken.” Logan reached for a piping hot scone. “I take it ye did not return alone.”
“Actually, I did.”
Logan’s brows hiked. “The dragon refused?”
Finn smiled and shook his head. “To the contrary, Mrs. Johnstone is eager to assist. She insisted on driving that buggy of hers—the spider, or whatever she calls it. She’ll meet us here later.”
“The dragon is a maniac at the reins.” Logan took a bite of his scone.
“Some things do not change.” Finn’s expression turned darker. “I hear you ended up on the wrong end of a knife last night.”
“Ye could say that. But Miss Florence Nightingale here has got me on the mend.” Logan slanted Amelia a gaze that made her cheeks heat.
Finn’s gaze shifted to Amelia, lingering perhaps a moment longer than proper. “I’ll have to remember that if I ever encounter a villain in the night.”
Logan’s eyes gleamed with a blend of humor and possessiveness. “Not bloody likely, ye randy knave.”
“In the event you are injured, I will be the judge as to my ability to tend your wound.” Amelia kept her tone prim yet firm.
Finn flashed a cheeky grin, seeming to enjoy rankling his friend. “I do have a bit of advice for ye, Logan.”
Logan shot him a scowl. “Ye do, eh?”
“Next time, avoid the blade,” Finn said with an air of authority. “Ye’re not a blasted cat. Ye do not have nine lives to yer name. Only one.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Amelia passed apleasant morning in Logan’s study, pouring over the morning edition and savoring the quiet. Setting the newspaper aside, she refilled her cup with oolong tea from the silver pot on the sideboard, then relaxed upon a comfortable leather wing chair to take in the editorial pages.
Heathy sauntered in, arrogant as a wolf beneath a full moon, interrupting her peaceful bliss. A bootlace dangled from his mouth. Unfortunately, the leather string was attached to a shoe, the very same boot Logan had previously moved out of the dog’s reach. Or so he’d thought.
Amelia bit back an unladylike word.Drat the luck.
Heathy plopped the boot down upon the Aubusson rug as though it was the spoils of a hunt, sprawled over the carpet, and sank his teeth into the polished leather. If it were possible for a dog to grin, Heathy was doing just that.
“Oh, Heathy, you’re such a naughty boy.”
Drat. Drat. And double drat.
She’d confidently insisted Logan had no worries about her dog’s affinity for shoes. Heathy had certainly proven her wrong.
Ignoring the dog’s whines of protest, Amelia scooped up the boot while debating her next move. Surely Logan would understand. Wouldn’t he? Still, there would be no harm in placing the teeth-marked boot and the bits of well-chewed leather lace out of sight. It wasn’t as if she intended to deceive Logan. Rather, she’d simply delay the inevitable. At some pointin the future—well into the future, with any luck—she would find a proper moment to inform him of her dog’s newfound fondness for the taste of leather.
Yes, that’s what she’d do. She would simply wait for the right time.
But before she could stash the boot, the sound of a throat clearing rather purposefully rendered her deliberations moot.
