Page 28 of The Scot Beds His Wife

“That’s a conflict of interest, and youknowit!”

“We’re not as worried about such things here as Americans are. Servants of the crown are most often served by it, as well.”

Her superbly squared shoulders slumped, and he glimpsed a flare of panic beneath her expression of defeat. “There has to be something I can do,” she said, more to herself than to him, he surmised.

The hollow exhaustion he’d initially recognized created a twitch and a tug in an altogether more dormant organ than the one that had taken to responding to her presence. One Gavin had long since deemed infinitely less reliable.

He idly rubbed at his chest as he asked, “Were ye not a Ross, and I not a Mackenzie, would my offer to buy Erradale tempt ye?”

She eyed him warily. “I—I couldn’t say.”

He took a careful step forward, and then another when she didn’t shy away. “Just because our fathers were enemies, doesna mean we have to be,” he reasoned, reaching out to tuck one silken strand of hair behind the shell of her ear. The motion was astonishingly familiar… almost… natural. “Ye can still sell to me, bonny, walk away a wealthy woman instead of a ruined one.”

Her lower lip disappeared into her mouth as she seemed to consider his words very carefully. Then, it slowly reemerged glossed and plump.

Lord, but he wanted a taste of it, as well.

“This isn’t fair… or right…” she murmured weakly. “You have me bent over a barrel, here.”

“Not yet,” he breathed against her ear. “But if it wouldconvince ye to sell, I might be persuaded to bend ye over and—”

“I’m not falling for your wicked, arrogant attempt at seduction.” She enunciated every word with clarity. Jerking away from him, she leaped for the paper they’d both abandoned to the desk, and brandished it at him like a hatchet poised for the death strike. “You can shove this up your ass, you son of a bitch.”

“’Tis proper to address the magistrate as ‘Yer Worship,’” he corrected, crossing his arms so they didn’t feel so empty.

“All right then…” She took a centering breath. “You can shove this up your ass, Your Worship. You’ll not get Erradale through some closed-door deal or by treating me like a back-alley whore. I’ll make you fight for it.”

All the while she said this, he stalked her until she landed with her back to the office door.

“Perhaps,” he said, feeling like a lion about to pounce on a gazelle. “It seems, bonny, that neither of us are inclined to back down from a fight.”

His hand grazed her hip as he reached for the door and pulled it open, crowding her toward him. She ducked beneath his arm and sidled out of his reach but not before losing her hat.

“You aresucha bastard,” she accused, swiping the frilly thing out of his offered hand after he’d bent to retrieve it.

“For a legitimate son, ye’d be surprised how often I hear that.”

“No,” she spat, “I wouldn’t.” She whirled on her boot and stalked past his slack-jawed clerk.

Gavin suppressed the disquieting urge to call her back by watching the furious sway of her skirts. All he could think as he adjusted himself and reclaimed his seat was that he missed whatever those blue trousers were she’dbeen riding in the other day. The ones that had appeared to be painted on like a second skin.

Blue, like the fire in her eyes.

It occurred to him just then that blue fire burned the hottest.

***

“I’m not speaking to you.” Samantha slammed the door, opened it, swiped the offering of plucked grouse from Callum’s hand, and then slammed it once again.

“I brought salt,” he called through the keyhole. “And some fresh rosemary and fennel that grows wild by the cliffs. But it only comes in if I do.”

Her mouth salivated at the thought of succulent salted fowl, but she didn’t make up her mind to invite Callum out of the driving rain until poor Calybrid’s quivering voice replaced his at the keyhole.

“Ye’re not sore atus,are ye? Because I canna quite stomach another winter of Loc’s potted meat stew. I’ll go daffy.”

Samantha couldn’t quite catch Locryn’s low-registered reply, but it sounded something like “Then cook for yerself, ye tarty invert.”

With a put-upon sigh she only half meant, Samantha released the latch and stepped aside, allowing the small parade of misfits to drip bog mud and freezing sleet onto the ancient entry.