Page 55 of Too Scot to Handle
Winthrop picked up the decanter and headed toward the door. “I won’t cut MacHugh, much as I wish I could. He likely has money coming out his arse, but even more than money, he’s wallowing in honor, and Scottish honor can take a violent turn. He warned me that the joke is over, or else.”
“Or else what?” Win couldn’t control a dozen drunken fools, no matter how he might flatter himself to the contrary. If the joke wasn’t over for them, no telling who might end up calling out whom.
“That’s why I won’t cut him,” Win said, one hand on the door latch, the other wrapped around the brandy decanter. “He more or less threatened to lay about with his claymore if the fellows don’t stop their nonsense. I’ll start putting the word out tonight that the joke has run its course, else you’d not get me to move from my bed.”
Win sauntered on his way, decanter at the ready, and Rosalyn let him go.
He was a fine brother, but his version of friendship was mercenary even for Rosalyn’s tastes. No wonder Lord Colin was disappointed. Friends were for borrowing from, not stealing from. If one had to steal, better to steal from strangers.
Even the little pickpockets and housebreakers at the orphanage would know that much.
* * *
The door to the MacHugh library was locked, and Anwen’s heart was opening in a way that had nothing to do with a glass of cordial, and everything to do with the man she was kissing. Colin not only argued with her when the situation called for it, he confided in her, and he sought her counsel.
The physical intimacy he offered in addition was like the fragrance enveloping a colorful bouquet, another dimension, more subtle, and apparent only in close proximity. Precious, but by no means the only important attribute of the whole.
“Anwen Windham, you know how to start off a courtship.”
“Who swept me off my feet, Colin MacHugh?” Physically and emotionally. Colin had shifted, so Anwen lay across his lap, her back and legs supported by the arms of the chair. The posture was novel, also cozy and—with him—comfortable.
“I chose a chair for us. How would you like to be courted, Anwen, my dear?”
“Briefly.”
His expression turned fierce. “I’m no’ intent on dallyin’. I’m intent on making a proper fuss complete with all the nonsense. Walking you home from the kirk, sitting down to dinner with your family, callow swaining at its handsome best.” He leaned closer. “I want your supper waltzes, woman. Every one of them.”
He wanted her waltzes. She wanted to have his babies. “We have only a handful of weeks remaining to the season, Colin. Most people announce an engagement before polite society departs for the country at the end of June.”
His brushed the pad of his thumb over her lips. “We’ll be getting engaged, then?”
He clearly didn’t assume so.
“I hope we will, or I wouldn’t have agreed to let you court me.”
Colin cradled her closer, his cheek against her temple. “The English do things differently. Kiss me.”
What had he expected? That she’d lead him a dance for the next eight weeks, then flounce off for the dubious pleasures of the house party circuit?
The Scots apparently did things differently. Perhaps permission to court was a more tentative undertaking with them, but Anwen had made up her mind. No man—not her cousins, not their friends, not the endless procession of handsome bachelors or halfhearted suitors—had ever taken her concerns to heart the way Colin had.
He trusted her, he talked his frustrations over with her, he—
He kissed like Anwen’s every fantasy made real, like a raspberry cordial love potion, so Anwen was both bonelessly relaxed and increasingly restless. She scooted close and became abruptly aware that their kisses had affected him.
“I’m stirred up.” His smile would stir up a saint. “I hope you are too.”
“A lady doesn’t…that is…Whatever do you…?” Anwen had no idea what he meant. A glimpse of frisky livestock every so often hardly educated a woman about the details of courting intimacies. “I’m bothered.”
“Bothered is a fine start. I can show you how to get unbothered. I’d like to, if you’ll let me.”
His smile had muted to an expression both tender and determined.
“I can’t think, not when you insist on being so handsome.”
“Close your eyes, bonnie lady. You tell me to cease, and I will, but I won’t want to.”
Anwen trusted Colin MacHugh. That was what lay beneath all of this marvelous intimacy, beneath their ability to air a difference, to share cares and worries. She trusted him to be honest and honorable, and to offer her marriage in a very short time.
