Page 39 of The Nabob's Designing Daughter
“Can you come back?” he called. “I’m just going to fetch an ale.”
“I’ve brought you a basket,” a breathless voice said.
Ann stood, all but hidden by the blue mantle that dipped down to her eyebrows and covered everything down to her gloved hands and the large basket draped with a white cloth.
He crossed to the door in two strides and took the heavy thing. She pushed her hood back and he could see that her cheeks and nose were bright red from the cold.
“Good God, did you walk from the castle?”
“It’s not far.”
He glanced out the window. He hadn’t noticed the sky darkening. A gust of wind blew the door open, and he went to close and latch it.
The weather was changing. If he wasn’t mistaken, they’d have snow for Christmas. Or worse, icy sleet that would keep him penned up in the Highlands until the next thaw.
“Cook made meat pies for you,” she said. “And there’s some wine and a jug of ale. I’ve brought a tin of tea, some bread, butter, and biscuits and dried fruit as well.” She eyed the door and then shot him a challenging glare. “I should like to stay and have tea with you before I return.”
He didn’t know whether to glare back or laugh at her bossiness, so part and parcel of her high-handedness. Before he could decide, her gaze dropped, long lashes hiding what she was feeling, lashes beaded with moisture—from the walk in the cold or were those tears?
She lifted her chin and said in a haughty voice. “Very well. Give me the b-basket…” She cleared her throat. “And I’ll put away the food while you go to the inn.” Her hand shot out, her lower lip jutted, and she tugged at the handle.
Now he did laugh, and that set her eyes to flashing. “Blast you and your arrogant pride, Errol.” She let go of the handle and with more speed than he could have imagined, turned, jerked the door open and ran out.
“Ann, wait.”
She heard footsteps behind her, and she yanked her skirts higher and ran faster. The muddy lane was slickening with the freeze, and it was bloody cold, the mist prickling like fine shards of glass.
Bloody Errol. The basket had been merely an excuse; she’d called on him for a chance to speak in private. To release him from any commitment. To beg him to not sell Glenthistle to her father. To explain.
Now… forget him. She’d direct Henderson to send him a letter.
The clomping behind her grew louder. Chest aching, she picked up her pace. A little further and she’d be on the high street, and he wasn’t likely to chase her there.
A hand clamped over her arm. “Ann, stop.”
She tried to yank out of his grasp, her boots skidded, and they both went down.
Just like the day in her uncle’s garden, only this time, Errol was on top of her.
“Get off, you oaf.” She shoved at his shoulder.
He stared down at her, that same expression of wonder she’d seen that day, right before he—
His lips touched hers, and a hand slid under and lifted her head.
Oh.Heat sizzled through her. His lips pressed and moved, and his tongue touched hers, tender, and then more firmly, he took control, addling her brains, sending desire coursing through her and pooling in a warm muddle of something she’d never felt and couldn’t describe.
“Ann,” he murmured into her ear, directing his kisses to her neck. “Forgive me, Ann. I oughtn’t to have laughed.”
Laughing was the least of their problems. With her heart pounding, and his lips evoking waves of pleasure in her, it was hard to think straight.
Why had she come? Oh yes, to talk to him.
She didn’t want to talk. She wanted to kiss him, and more, to carry the kissing through to the logical conclusion.
To experience lovemaking before being forced into a loveless marriage.
The duchess had described the new surgery building in detail. The cottage had four bedchambers.
