Page 53 of The Trouble With Dukes
“To be homeless, friendless, and starving, with no hope of betterment is a plight. They are children, and entirely undeserving of such suffering.” Anwen would argue with the archbishop of London himself on that score.
“To be free,” Lord Colin replied, “to live by their wits, to come and go as they please, and take up with whatever mates they fancy, that is a plight many a Highlander would love to share.”
“They’d be free to starve on the streets of London,” Anwen retorted. “To freeze, to endure diseases without number, and to—I’m arguing with you.”
Or something. This discussion was like an unbonneted view of the garden, wider, more varied, not restricted to what was in sight directly ahead.
“We’re no’ arguin’, lass. We’re having a wee chat. Arguin’ imperils breakables in my family. My sisters excel at it. What else holds your interest besides poor children?”
What would it be like, toimperil the breakableswith Lord Colin? Anwen could hardly fathom the notion.
“Very little, if you must know. I’m passionate about my charitable work. Do you suppose we ought to wander past the music room windows?” The curtains were pulled, and the French door closed, so Megan’s privacy should be safe enough.
“You’d riskfreckles.”
Anwen rose, because that observation graduated from teasing to a challenge. “I can survive a few freckles, and you can tell me what interests you besides whisky.”
He prosed on about medicinal uses of Highland herbs, Neil Gow’s fiddle tunes—whoever that was—and a surprising range of topics, most of which related to his native Scotland. He put Anwen in mind of her boys—curious about many things, collecting interests like a mud lark would collect buttons and coins on the tidal flats.
“You don’t mean to tell me your every waking hour is concerned with a lot of dirty children,” he said.
“Not my every waking hour, and the boys aren’t dirty when I get through with them.”
“Aye, they are. The moment your back is turned, they’re off skinning their knees, tearing their trousers, and being boys. Getting dirty is part of it.”
She loved that about them. Normal boys got dirty, and all she wanted for those children was some normality—meals, prayers, a home, a few years of stability. Not too much to ask.
A comfortable silence stretched while Anwen cast about for some other subject in which she could profess an interest.
Lord Colin’s knees came to mind. Sitting on the bench in the shade, Anwen had resisted an urge to stare at his manly knees, exposed by his Highland attire. Who knew that a man’s knees could be interesting?
Not that her interest signified anything.
Maybe the preachers had the answers after all. Maybe joy and pain balanced, and divine justice put matters right if a man were patient enough. Hamish would ponder philosophy later—maybe.
For now, he’d seize the joy with both hands and hold tight, for Megan Windham intended to hold tight tohim.
“The past week has been an eternity,” he muttered, burying his nose against her throat. “I’ve seen you fluttering by on the dance floor, smiling at this baron or that twit—you smell like lemons. I love lemons. Always have.”
Lemons and cinnamon. The scent concentrated as he nuzzled lower, suggesting the lady had applied her perfume with an intent to entice. She need not have. Megan Windham fresh from a hog wallow would have scrambled Hamish’s wits beyond recall.
“Blast this bodice,” Megan muttered, shimmying. “Let me—That tickles. Do it again.”
She squirmed, she fussed, she flung orders and suggestions at him. When Hamish undid the bow in the middle of her décolletage, she sighed, her breath warming his ear. Instead of a corset, she wore old-fashioned country stays, which laced up the front, ending in another satin bow at the top.
“What is a mortal man to do when faced with such temptation?” Hamish mused, gliding his hands up the sides of Megan’s breasts. She was well endowed, a fact he’d managed to mostly ignore until she’d taken up residence in his very lap.
“You pick locks in the dark,” Megan said, untying his cravat. “Surely a pair of bows doesn’t exceed your abilities?”
Her fingers glossed over his throat and chest, which Hamish took for Megan’s version of an inspection. She might not be able to see him in detail, but she would know him as well as or better than a fully sighted woman could.
Hamish undid the second bow with his teeth. “Do you know, under Scottish law, a man and woman are considered married if they express an intent to wed, then consummate those intentions. Is that what you want, Megan?”
She paused, her palm resting over Hamish’s heart. “I want you, now and always. I’m not without experience, you’ll recall. You needn’t fret over my maidenly sensibilities.”
Megancertainly wasn’t fretting, which reassured the part of Hamish that hesitated despite the bounty before him. Sir Fletcher had much to answer for, which Hamish would also ponderlater.
“I wish your maidenly sensibilities had received the respect they were due, Meggie. I adore your passion, but—” How did a man with his lap full of half-undressed, willing, adult female express both regret for the loss of her virtue, and joy to be the recipient of her trust and generosity?
