Page 20 of No One's Bride
“Aye! Ye did.” She seemed relieved he remembered. “And I said I’d nae taken ye for a jealous man. That ye’ve a gripe because yer legs are like spindles.”
“Let me correct you on that point. I fence, box and ride frequently. I have a gladiator’s thighs, and I’m not being conceited.”
Her gaze dared to slide down the length of his trousers. “Muscular thighs doesnae make a man heroic. Empathy and compassion are the qualities ladies admire.”
“I suppose you consider racing to a lady’s aid part of the strict criteria. How convenient when you have a problem you don’t wish to solve yourself.”
A mocking snort escaped her. “May I remind ye, I hid in the darkness ready to confront the intruder with nae thoughts of my own safety?”
“Wielding a blunt pair of scissors that could barely cut hair let alone stop a determined thief in his tracks. Admit you lack the brawn necessary to fight with your fists.”
Miss MacTavish stepped forward, so close the scent of apples consumed him. “Dinnae underestimate me. Like my forebears, I would fight to the death if need be.”
A tension thrummed between them. A charged sexual energy that came from nowhere but left him staring at her bow-shaped lips, left him battling against an inner ache that proved confounding.
“Why are ye looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” Like he was considering doing something as foolish as kissing her? Like he wanted to fist his hands into that mass of red hair and steal the last breath from her lungs?
A blush marred her cheeks. “Like ye’re dazed?”
Sebastian blinked. “I’m tired.”
He never lied, yet he could not tell her the truth.
I think I may have succumbed to the spell.
It would be enough to send her racing back to the Highlands. Enough to make her tear the pages from the grimoire and make a bonfire on the desk. Then she’d make them both dance around the flames as part of a wild Scottish ritual.
Heaven forbid he acted on these unwelcome urges.
A sudden hammering on the front door made them both jump. This woman knew how to turn a sensible peer into a bumbling wreck.
Miss MacTavish looked at him and frowned. “Who on earth can it be at this late hour?”
“As it’s not my house, I haven’t the faintest notion. But if I’m caught here, we may be forced to marry.” And he’d rather sever his tongue than shackle himself to any woman.
“Do ye think the spell works that quickly?”
Drawing on his aristocratic bearing to disguise his own hypocrisy, he said with some aplomb, “Madam, will you cease with these outlandish ideas? I know the Scots believe in folklore and fairies, but this is taking whimsical concepts a stretch too far.”
Miss MacTavish pressed a finger to his lips. “Hush now, else ye might offend the Lady of the Lake. Bad luck will befall yer family for a century.”
Who in hell’s name is the Lady of the Lake?That should have been his query. But three other questions bombarded his mind, each one fighting for supremacy.
If he sucked her finger, would she taste of apples?
Why would a sensible man find this illogical chatter so appealing?
And who in God’s name was banging on the front door?
“I should see who’s knocking,” she said, reminding him of their present predicament. “Hide here until the coast is clear.”
“You can’t go,” he whispered. “What about the intruder?”
“I doubt the intruder would want to wake the household.”
He gestured to the frumpy nightgown that had such an odd effect on him. “You cannot answer the door in such a state of dishabille. You’ll have to wake your footman.”
