Page 34 of The Trouble With Dukes
“Meggie, no. You needn’t kiss—”
Her breasts pressed against Hamish’s chest. Her hand slid around his waist to anchor him more closely. A damp, sweet warmth swiped against the next protest Hamish would have made. Strawberries and tart lemons, daring and desire.
Arousal leapt into the affray, and that—that delightful, damnable, male reaction—fortified Hamish’s honor. He lifted his head, but cradled Megan’s jaw, so her cheek was pressed against the lace and linen of his cravat.
“Ye daft woman, you needn’t kiss me to get your letters back. It’s no’ like that.”
“You daft man, I’m not kissing you because I have to. I’m kissing you because I want to. Let me go.”
She spoke through clenched teeth.
Hamish held Megan a moment longer, becausehewanted to, because he had to, because a brief demonstration of self-possession on his part was a good idea all around. When he was sure she wouldn’t resume kissing him—and sure he wouldn’t resume kissing her—he let her go but did not step back, lest somebody catch sight of her.
“Your hair,” he said, passing Megan the long evening gloves folded on the table. “You’ll want to see to it.” He wanted to see to it—see to destroying what remained of her coiffure.
She ran her fingers through his locks, brisk, presuming gestures such as Hamish’s sisters might have made but never had.
“You’re presentable enough,” she said, tugging on the right glove. The undertaking was … ach, God help him,erotic. Megan was careful, smoothing out the wrinkles by caressing her own arm, until only a few inches of flesh between her shoulder and her elbow remained exposed.
Skin that Hamish abruptly wanted to get his mouth on. “I’m thanking the Highlander who started the fashion of wearing his sporran front and center on a stout belt, Meggie Windham. You plunder a man’s reason.”
The second glove went on even more slowly. A woman who’d eavesdropped on her male cousins and picked locks knew exactly why Hamish was so thankful to that randy Highlander.
“From one kiss?” she asked, looking entirely too intrigued with her evening glove.
“From thinking about one kiss. With you. I’m for Scotland after your letters are retrieved. If you’re not careful, I’ll kidnap you and steal you for my own.”
She passed him his gloves, and when Hamish would have snatched them from her grasp, she held on to them.
“I’d like that, Your Grace. You’ve said the Highlands are beautiful.”
They both kept hold of his gloves for a moment, not a tug of war, but some variant of the old May dances that connected a couple by the decreasing length of a colorful scarf.
“You would not like being ruined, gossiped about, and disgraced,” Hamish said. “I spoke in jest—poor jest. Scottish humor, there you have it.”
He’d spoken from the heart.
She released his gloves. “Take me driving early tomorrow,” she said. “Don’t wait for the fashionable hour. Tomorrow night is the Hendersons’ soiree, and the next night I’m promised to Lady Leighton’s musicale. Monday is the Halstrops’ ball, and Sir Fletcher has already claimed my supper waltz.”
She fixed her hair while she spoke, her movements competent despite her gloves as she rearranged pins without benefit of a mirror. She would not need a mirror, for without her glasses, she probably could not have seen her own reflection.
“Monday night I’ll retrieve your letters, then,” Hamish said. “By Tuesday afternoon, I’ll be on my way to Scotland and your troubles will be over.”
Megan paused, a hairpin tipped with gold in her grasp. “Must you sound so eager to depart?”
Hamish took the pin from her, surveyed the possibilities, and hissgian-dubhwas in his hand in the next moment.
“Hold still, Mad Meggie.” Before he could think better of it, four inches of russet curl lay across his palm. He stashed the knife back in his stocking, and pinned Megan’s hair in a soft loop over her ear. “Ye’ll do for now. More than do.”
She glowered at Hamish—though her glower had a bit of a gloat to it—then patted her hair, while he tucked the lock into his sporran and donned his gloves.
“Until tomorrow,” she said, slipping the loop of a painted fan over her wrist. “I thank you, Murdoch, for a very pleasant supper break. I ask that you not depart for the Highlands without personally conveying those letters into my own hand. The last thing I need is an intermediary losing them for me all over again.”
“I’ll turn over the letters to you and no other.” Meaning Hamish would leave for the Highlands by Tuesday noon, which would allow the turnpikes to clear out, after all.
And allow his heart to break, at least once more before he blew full retreat up the Great North Road.
Chapter Eight
