Page 57 of Never Kiss a Scot
“Thank you,” Tate said before Brock turned and left. He went to the stables and called for the groom to ready his coach. It required some service, but it would do. He was not going to let Joanna leave his side until he was positive that she was feeling like herself again.
And in the meantime, he would figure out what exactly Tate was up to and why.
21
Joanna climbed out of the coach and looked about the village. It was only three miles from Castle Kincade, and it was larger than she expected. There was a milliner’s, a modiste, a blacksmith shop, a bookstore, and a market with quite a few inns. Boxes full of brightly colored flowers sat just beneath every window. Purple florets bloomed from Scottish thistles mixed with the red bog myrtles, Scottish bluebells, and the bright-yellow gorse blooms.
Brock noticed her studying the flower boxes as they passed by a window full of their fragrant scents.
“They keep the midges away.” He chuckled and nodded to the bog myrtle.
“Midges?” Joanna hadn’t heard the term before.
“Aye, you were lucky not to have seen a cloud of them yesterday while we rode. Wee biting beasties.”
“They’re insects?” She cringed, not liking the idea of a cloud of tiny insects swarming her at all.
“They aren’t everywhere, mainly around the livestock and in the fields far from towns. The females are the ones that bite you. Bog myrtle has a honeyed scent, which confuses them. They canna smell a person whilst they’re near this plant. The Kincade gardens are full of it, so you needna worry about feeding the midges, lass.” He winked, and Joanna gently poked a finger in his ribs to tease him back.
“This is a lively town,” she admitted, surprised to see the bustle of people and the relative quality of the buildings. She’d expected it to be more rustic, but it was far more like a small city than a village.
“Farmers come here to sell livestock, make breeding arrangements for their horses, or to buy whatever else they need. And since it’s near a trade route, you have others stopping by on their way north or south.” Brock offered her his arm as she gazed up at him. He was taller than most men and cut a striking figure among the men and women walking down the row of shops.
“It’s a darling place.” She smiled at a little girl who held her mother’s hand as they passed Brock and Joanna. The little girl waved a chubby arm at her.
“I suppose it’s small and rustic compared to what you’re used to,” he said with a hint of concern.
“I rather like it. To be honest, I never really was fond of the bustle of life in London or Bath,” Joanna said softly. “I much preferred Hampshire but we rarely stayed in the countryside.”
“Oh?” Brock paused in front of the milliner’s shop, and she joined him at the window, gazing at the fancy hats resting on pedestals in the window. The poke bonnets with delicate lace, the shining satin ribbons, the intricate embroidery. They were just as well made as English ones.
“Well, I never really cared for all the balls and the dinners—or the gossip.” They started walking again and paused only when they reached the bookshop. “I miss the dancing, I suppose. But being here… Things feel real.” She laughed a little, knowing she sounded like a fool. “That doesn’t make much sense, does it?”
Brock leaned against her from behind as she opened the bookshop door, and the press of his warm body made her burn with hunger. Yet she yearned for other, deeper things as well.
They entered the shop together, the musty smell of the books a comfort she had missed. The scent brought back memories of her curled up in bed, reading late into the night by candlelight, or the sunny afternoons in the gardens where she read until she drifted to sleep on a blanket beneath a tree, only to wake when she heard the steady hum of a fat bumblebee exploring a nearby flower. Reading had become a way for her to lose herself and forget the sorrows and the worries of her day. But now reading was a bridge between her and her husband. It was a way for them to find each other.
“I think it makes perfect sense,” Brock said as they walked down an aisle. “But you don’t have to give up dancing. I’m fond of it myself.” He shot her a cocksure grin. “I’ll even teach you cèilidh dancing.”
She looked up at him, wanting to ask a question that had been on her mind since they had danced over a week ago. “How did you become such a good dancer?”
His lips twitched. “Shocked to find a barbarian Scot has more skill than those English popinjays?”
“Well, yes, exactly. Although I would never call you barbaric,” she answered with a smile.
“Oh no? What would you call me, then?” He cornered her against the nearest bookshelf, and her body lit up with fresh desire. What was it about bookshelves that seemed to turn her and Brock into primitive creatures only focused on making love?
“Er…” She tapped her index finger on her chin, pretending to think. He curled one hand around her waist and leaned in, lowering his head, almost kissing her. “Exquisite, intense, brooding…sweet, protective, thoughtful.” There were a dozen words she could put to him that would tell the story of what sort of man he was. But even those words were only the beginning.
“Is that all?”
“I’ve only started…”
He moved a hair’s breadth closer, and she knew the inevitable kiss would be worth the wait. The pull between them in that breathless instant before their mouths met was magnetic, an ancient force as old as the moon and tides. Her pulse skittered, and she closed her eyes. The heady sensation of his searching lips made her exhale in quiet joy. When he kissed her like this, it felt like the first caress of the morning sunlight when she pulled back the bed-curtains after a long, dark night in bed.
The kiss slowly burned her at the edges, making her feel alive. The warmth of his mouth welcomed her tongue as the kiss deepened. His hand on her waist tightened, yet he didn’t do anything more than kiss her, albeit most sinfully. If she’d dared to do this in London or Bath, even with her husband, the scandal would have spread within hours, but here in this beautiful rustic village in a musty little bookshop, warm with summer sunlight…it seemed right.
It was perfect.Hewas perfect. And he was all hers. The swell of joy inside Joanna was unstoppable. She smiled against his lips, her lungs filling with laughter, and it made him smile as well when their lips broke apart.
