Page 73 of The Trouble With Dukes
“I do. My mama especially, because I was a boy when she died. Part of my job as oldest is to keep her memory alive for my younger siblings, to tell the stories. My father hasn’t been gone as long, though I fancy he’d have made a proper duke, given the chance.”
“Was he stern?”
Megan’s caresses were soothing, making everything in Hamish relax and his eyes grow heavy. Desire hummed through his lassitude, sweeter than the usual ache he felt when near Megan, but no less demanding.
“Papa was more stern than most of the generals I served under, but I suspect now he was mostly bluster. This isn’t what I came here to discuss, Meggie.”
She yawned, which had the effect of gently raising and lowering Hamish’s pillow. “What did you want to discuss?”
Hamish owed Megan an explanation of how matters stood between him and Sir Fletcher Pilkington. That explanation wasn’t exactly urgent—he’d shied away from it earlier in the day—but neither had putting it off made the telling easier.
“This morning, you asked me about Spain.”
Megan shifted, or rather, commenced an ambush. Hamish had been floating on the cusp of bliss and torment one moment, the next he was being rolled onto his back, his intended positioning herself over him on all fours.
“This morning I changed the subject,” Megan said. “You weren’t mentioned in the dispatches, you don’t socialize with your fellow officers, and my soldier cousins haven’t much to say where you’re concerned. I have the impression that for some men, campaigning across Spain was the occasional inconvenient battle between taking out the hounds, flirting with the ladies, and playing jokes on fellow officers, but not for you.”
How easy it would be to make love with her. How delightful and necessary to join their bodies and fall asleep in her bed, carried off by a tide of physical satisfaction and intimacy.
And how quickly Megan would see through that subterfuge.
“You cuddle up,” Hamish said, gathering her into his arms. “This is not lovers’ talk, Meggie, but neither is it a topic to air in public. Spain was hell. We did the best we could—all of us, the Scots, the English, the Hussars, the French, the Spanish, and the Portuguese. We all did the best we could, and now we do the best we can to forget the bad parts.”
“Which is most of it, I gather. Go on.”
Go on. What a soldier did best, a good soldier. “I stopped Sir Fletcher from having a fellow flogged, though at this point, I don’t know if Sir Fletcher even recalls the incident.”
“I don’t understand flogging a soldier,” Megan said. “Seems if a man’s willing to risk death for his country, he ought to be thanked, not further threatened by his own officers.”
“There you’d be trying to apply logic to the army, which is always a risky bet. Army discipline isn’t as bad as it used to be. Soldiers are no longer flogged for having their hair in disarray, and Wellington frowned on anything more than fifty lashes.”
Megan was sprawled on Hamish’s chest, and her simple proximity had inspired the notice of his breeding organs. She didn’t seem to mind—worse, she seemed to have no self-consciousness at all about Hamish’s arousal.
Though if any topic ought to scotch a man’s wayward thoughts, talk of military discipline should.
“So Sir Fletcher wanted somebody flogged for no reason?” she asked.
“Oh, I expect the fellow was about to help himself to regimental stores. We were frequently short of rations, and marching on an empty belly grows wearying after the first twenty miles. Sir Fletcher made an allegation against this fellow and then summoned the provost marshal, who acted as a sort of roving military police.”
“You weren’t around to put in a word for the accused?”
“My men fetched me as the drum-head court-martial was in progress, else it would have gone very badly for my fellow. I supplied an alibi, said I’d seen the boy elsewhere at the time the alleged crime was to have taken place. The provost marshal decided it had all been a misunderstanding—mostly because nothing had been taken and the charge was theft, not attempted theft.”
“Sir Fletcher is like that—nasty but lazy, both. I am glad you stood up to him.” Her kiss suggested she was very glad, indeed.
“The point, Meggie mine, is that Sir Fletcher has no honor. He’ll lie, cheat, manipulate, and inveigle others into doing his bidding. In this case, he took out his pique on Colin with more foolishness between officers. Sent him into the hills knowing the French were scouting the area, though Colin got back to camp none the worse for his outing. I don’t trust Sir Fletcher, and I’d like to set a date soon and whisk you off to the Highlands.”
Megan ceased nibbling on Hamish’s ear. His kilt had twisted to the side, and her nightgown had somehow got bunched at her waist, meaning paradise—or perdition—was one well-placed wish away.
“There can’t be any whisking until my parents are back from Wales. Uncle Percy will negotiate the settlements with you, but Papa must approve them. Until Papa has given his assent to the terms, we shouldn’t set a date.”
Hamish knew that. He also knew that he’d once again not had the discussion with Megan he’d needed to regarding Spain, the military, and the havoc Sir Fletcher could wreak.
“I should be going, Meggie. If I stay here much longer—”
Megan kissed him to silence, then began undulating her hips in a manner calculated to part an angel from his last scruple, and Hamish was no angel. He was, however, a gentleman.
“Meggie, you lovely, daft creature … If you keep that up, I won’t answer for the consequences. I ought not to disrespect Moreland’s hospitality by stealing into your bedroom this way—”
