Page 28 of The Scot Who Loved Me

Will leveled a hard look at her.

She feigned innocence and tucked her hem an inch higher. “Should my hem be here?”

Will’s gaze locked on the bit of skin exposed at her knee.

“Or... here?”

She baited the beast, nudging her hem another fraction of an inch. So her skirts had climbed that high. Blame the potent drink coursing her veins.She was deliciously light and free. It had been, well . . . forever since she’d last danced. Dancing was a frivolous pursuit when there was much work to do. A household to run, a warehouse to manage, Jacobite gold to hunt and steal. A woman’s work was never done.

And if she was perfectly honest, it had been forever since she’d satisfied thatotherfrivolous pursuit.

“No man will ask me to dance. Not with you hulking about.” She toyed with lace trim on her underskirt. “It’s getting rather lonely... me and my hand.”

“What did you say?” he asked incredulously.

She dragged a finger over rum dripping down her cup and sucked her soft wet fingertip.

“A woman pleasuring herself.” Defiant words rolled off her tongue, fueled by rum and frustration. “The widow’s consolation prize.”

A slow grin fought his scowl. “What have you been pouring down your throat, lass?”

“A toddy.”

Will checked the bowl. Nutmeg dusted a mixture of rum, water, and sugar.

“Don’t you think you’ll need a clear head for tomorrow?” His voice roughed with concern.

“I’ll be fine.” She raised her mug in salute. Duty was her middle name.

Her spine hit the wall, and she was grumpy again, slouching as best a woman could in stiff stays. Neither of her two dead husbands ever worried over her. The newness of it was rather like tasting a foreign dish for the first time—did she like it? Or not?

“You could dance with me.”

She jerked at his gruff invitation. The beast would devour her, and by the currents snapping under her skin, she’d welcome it.

His mouth on her. Anywhere.

Everywhere.

Yes. That is the problem.Will was delectable and masculine with a tender underbelly, though few saw it. The outside was just as tempting. Light touched each teeth-achingly beautiful angle of his face, and tomorrow, they were supposed to work together. If sex muddled clear thinking, dancing with Will would baffle her senses. Hands touching, bodies brushing, faces close.

She gulped rum. “No.”

“Suit yourself.” He grabbed a Mortlake jug of ale and poured it into an empty tankard, muttering, “If you did, at least your legs’ll be decently covered.”

Her Catholic highlander was such a Puritan. His offer to take a turn at the reel was born of propriety. In the White Lamb? Where harlots flashed knees and thighs?

“Take a look around you. No one is going faint at the sight of my shins.”

His grunt was primordial. Will angled himself just so, shielding her from the rest of the tavern, and drank his ale. The beast on watch. No poaching here! His back stretched impossibly wide, narrowing by degrees to his waist. He was comfortable in his cast-off velvet coat, and she liked that about him. She always had. No airs, just Will being Will. A common laborer and one-time warrior, an unashamed man of the land. Byday he worked with his hands, and by night he read, as evidenced by his collection of pamphlets and lone book,Dante’s Inferno. An interesting choice.

Will had depths worth exploring; their summer together she’d barely scratched the surface. But he was better suited for tame country assemblies with harmless punch and proper reels, though she couldn’t be completely sure. She’d never danced with him.

A crack split her heart. She never would.

Will would go his way, and she’d go hers. Again.

The room hazed. Duty was a lonely banner to carry. Leaning over, she dragged her mug through the toddy bowl atop a barrel beside her, her table for the night.