by Fiona Faris
“So?” she asked a minute later as she raised her glass to her mouth. “Am I able to stay here tonight? I have plenty of money to pay for the room and meal. And I will be out early, so I can see that Eddie and Harold are taken back to London to be buried,” she said, her voice taking on a slightly subdued tone as she spoke of the recently departed servants.
“Well,” Brodie said, buying time with his own long sip of ale. “They dae hae a room.”
“Oh, good. I do think after this meal, I’ll be ready to fall straight to sleep.” She took a bite of mashed potatoes.
Brodie gave a weak smile, which the lass noticed, having looked up at her plate at just the right moment.
“Oh, dear. What is wrong?”
“What dae ye mean?”
“Something is wrong. I can tell from your expression. My husband used to wear the same one when he was trying to keep bad news from me. But you know what he eventually realized?” She leaned in closer and lowered her voice conspiratorially.
“What?” Brodie asked, unable to stop himself from leaning in as well, only to be hit with the most intoxicating mix of honey, lavender, and blueberries. The scent was coming from her, from all over her—a sweet, fresh smell that made Brodie immediately want to reach over and taste the part of her neck he had been so intrigued by earlier.
Thankfully, the lass spoke, once again distracting him from the tightening in his nether region—which had not lessened in the last ten minutes but rather continued to augment, making it slightly uncomfortable to sit down.
“He eventually figured out that it was always best to be honest with me. Women do not take kindly to being trifled with, I’m afraid. It makes us angry, and I’m sure you know all the idioms about angry women. We can be rather beastly,” she said with a lift of her eyebrows that Brodie assumed she meant to be menacing, but instead made her look rather silly.
He tampered down his laugh, though, nodding gravely at her. “Aye, well, then I suppose I ought to tell ye that the only room left is mine.”
The eyebrows that had raised a moment earlier were now arched in what Brodie assumed was a combination of surprise and shock.
“You can’t mean—” she started, and all at once, Brodie realized what she thought he was implying.
“Nay, lass! Nay! Nay, nay, ye misunderstand me. That’s no’ what I want at all,” he said, realizing too late that the man did protest too much, as the bard would say.
“Not that it wouldnae be the honor of a lifetime, to share a bed with a lass as bonny as ye,” he added. This only seemed to increase the look of surprise on the lass’ face, and she seemed unable to respond, her mouth opening and closing but no words exiting, allowing Brodie to thoroughly soak in his foolishness until he was drenched in embarrassment.
He was just hoping that the ground might suddenly turn into a bog just under his seat and swallow him up in its muddy depths when the lass barked out a laugh far louder than any she had thus far emitted.
“Well,” she said, and Brodie noticed her cheeks were flushed, the pink accentuating the blush of her eyes and the subtle auburn tones in her otherwise black hair. “Thank you. I think.”
“What I meant was—”
“No, I understand perfectly what you meant,” she said, holding up a hand that Brodie knew was clearly a plea for him to shut his foolish mouth. “And I will take your room. Normally, I would refuse such an offer, but I am tired and have had a rather upsetting day. I have much to organize in the morning, and good sleep is integral to ensuring everything gets done before I continue on my journey,” she said.
Brodie was relieved; both that she did not begrudge him his slip of the tongue and that she was accepting his room without argument. It made everything so much easier.
“Excellent. Once you have finished your meal, I will lead you to the room and remove my possessions from it.”
“But…” she said, her voice trailing off and her eyes clouding over with contemplation. “Where will you sleep?”
“Daenae worry about me, lass. One night of sleepin’ rough will dae me some good. Keeps me humble.”
“And why would you need to stay humble?”
“I’m a wealthy man blessed with a verra good life,” he said, purposefully avoiding any thoughts of Gavin that were threatening to slip into his mind, “and it’s important tae remind myself o’ it now an’ again.”
“Ah,” she said, nodding her head in understanding. “Then we are cut from the same cloth, for I too am rather blessed,” but Brodie could tell from her eyes that while she might be noble, she had not avoided suffering.
Her husband, he realized. She had mentioned a dead husband when arguing with the maid.
He wanted to ask her about it, desperately so. She was the only person he had met who had gone through a tragedy like he had with Gavin. Though his mother and father were gone, their deaths had been from old age. They had slipped into sleep together in their bed, a sleep from which they had not woken. No one else in his family had died; he and Marcus had led a charmed life free of adversity or calamity, for the most part.
No one else understood his pain, but this lass might. Maybe that was why he felt so protective over her, so connected to her despite her being a stranger.
Yet he knew it would not be proper to ask her about her past, about her suffering. They were strangers, for all that he felt as though they had this special connection. He ought to leave her alone now, rather than pester her with questions. It was not becoming of a man of his station, nor the proper way to act around a lady of her status.
“Well, I think I’m full,” the lass added a moment later, pushing away her nearly empty plate. She drained the ale from her glass and stood up, her bosom coming level with Brodie’s face. He immediately stood up as well, unable to stand the temptation of her tempting breasts so close to his face, to his mouth.
“I’ll escort ye tae yer room, an’ then ye can hae that rest yer after. Just tell me where yer lads are lyin’, an’ I’ll send someone out tae fetch them directly,” he offered his arm.
“Thank you…” she paused, looking up at him. “Do you know, we have not exchanged names! I’ve spent a good hour and a half with you, and I do not even know what to call you, other than The Benevolent Scot, and that is rather a mouthful.”
Brodie laughed at the comment, but inside he was cringing with embarrassment.
What kind of fool forgets to ask a woman’s name? he thought with chagrin. He had to remedy the situation immediately, and so he sat up, exacting a small bow of his head as he said, “Ye can call me Brodie.”
“Pleased to meet you, Brodie,” she said, lifting up her filthy skirts in a pantomimed curtsy that made Brodie chuckle. “My name is…” She paused, looking like she was considering something. Perhaps which iteration of her name to give?
“Margaret,” she continued a moment later, a beatific smile taking over her face. “Maggie, for short.”
Maggie, he repeated in his head. He imagined whispering it in her ear, accompanied by compliments and platitudes regarding her beauty and general loveliness.
His cock twitched, reminding him once again of the danger of such thoughts, and Brodie sent up a prayer that he could leave the lass sooner rather than later. It was clear that his body was unequipped to handle itself in her company. He needed solitude and the complete lack of ambiance and enchantment that only a barn smelling like horse manure and moldy hay could provide.
Chapter Seven
“Thank you, Brodie,” Beatrice said to the Scot as they stood in what was once his room, and was now hers. It was not terribly spacious inside, but there was a large, clean bed with newly washed blankets—Brodie had assured her of this—pushed up near two windows facing the road. A fire was going in the grate, creating pleasing waves of heat that licked at her ankles and slowly dried the still-damp hem of her dress.
At present, these were all the amenities that Beatrice needed. Anything else would have been frivolous, for she intended to retire immediat
ely after the Scot left. She could feel the fatigue settling into her bones, the high emotions of the day, making her brain and body sore.
She wanted nothing so much as to divest herself of her wet, muddied clothing and crawl between the sheets, falling into a deep, dark sleep that would hopefully find her well-rested the following morning. Sleep had been a fickle thing to catch since James’ death, but Beatrice had a feeling she would have no such troubles tonight. She was simply too exhausted to do any of the worrying or fretting that usually colored her nighttime activities.
“’ Course, Maggie,” Brodie replied with a smile. And oh, what a disarming smile it was. Light pink lips spread out between two cheeks roughened with reddish stubble that she found herself longing to feel beneath the pads of her fingers. Beatrice had not seen many red-haired men in her life, but she had never found herself particularly attracted to the Celtic coloring that so defined them. Until now, that is.
Because as she stood in front of him, his body towering over hers, muscles visible beneath the sheer linen shirt, her fatigue fell away—her desire to fall asleep replaced by the sudden urge to grab Brodie’s face and kiss him. Not just kiss him, but touch him, slide her hands past his cheeks, and into his hair, which she was hoping would be just as silky soft as it looked, falling about his ears in straight locks of copper-red. His hair was longer than was proper, but that was exactly why Beatrice liked it. Everything about Brodie was slightly unusual.
Though his accent was thick, his deep Scottish burr littered with rolled r’s that made her toes curl, his speech patterns reminded her of Marcus, Helena’s husband. He spoke with the authority of a man well-placed in society, one who valued decorum and deference.
Yet there was a certain wildness to him, something untamed in him that made her think he was not the typical nobleman. Of course, this had already been proven with how amiable and generous he had been to her.
He wasn’t the least bit suspicious about a muddied lass entering a tavern late at night and crying out for help, unlike that infernal barman who had been so rude to her. No, Brodie was willing to help, even going so far as to give up his own room to ensure her comfort. He was a cut above the rest, it was clear, which made him all the more intriguing. And attractive. Hence the desire to kiss him senseless.
That this corporal need was so overwhelming, her senses were surprising indeed. Beatrice had not felt like kissing anyone, being affectionate with any one of the male sex, since James’ passing. She had assumed that the passion she had shared with her husband was for him and him alone. It was not looked upon well for women of her station to marry again, and since she did not want to take a lover and risk impropriety, she had thought herself destined to a life of chastity.
Or perhaps not, she realized now.
For here she stood, in a tavern somewhere in the wilds of Scotland, imagining letting this red-haired Scot explore her mouth, and perhaps, even other parts of her as well. It was a desire that was overwhelming her, sending prickles of heat to skin that wasn’t being touched by the fire near her in the grate, but rather by the fire roaring within her, stoking desires she had long thought banked. Propriety and decorum and all thought of society flew out the window, until all she was focused on was the Scot and a strong desire to ravish him with her mouth.
She knew this need was in large part due to the Scot’s proximity. It was the closest they had stood all evening, allowing her the perfect opportunity to see up close those parts of him she had been admiring for the last few hours.
I need to get away from him, she realized. The feelings will go as soon as he does. And yet, though she knew the truth of this, she let it pass and continued staring at the Scot, making no move to throw him from her room. Rather, she relished the sight of him now, of his body up close.
Now that she was just inches away from them, his shoulders were even broader than she realized, his strength clear from their rounded shape. The strength continued in his extremities. Beatrice could see that his forearms, which were bare thanks to rolled sleeves, were corded with veins and barely veiled muscles. His legs were the same, his calf muscles clear from the width of his boots, which seemed scarcely able to contain them.
But though muscled, he was lean, not bulky like so many men with as much physical fortitude. Beatrice could well imagine that were he to undress in front of her, there would be no soft parts visible on him. Were she to run her hands down his chest and belly, she would find only hard, toned muscle.
These were scandalous thoughts indeed, she knew, but she couldn’t help her curiosity. She needed to see him; to see what hid beneath those clothes, and those eyes.
Oh, his eyes! They were the softest, deepest green, like dewy grass on a cloudy morning. Lines at the far corners of his eyes told her that he enjoyed a good laugh, and freckles dotted here and there on his face spoke of days spent outside, working in the sun. They looked jolly now, full of good humor, but a twinkle in them had been there all evening—one that told her that Brodie, for all that he was a gentleman around others, might have another side to him when the doors were closed.
Oh, how I wish to see that side, she thought now. She could only imagine how wicked he could be if given half the chance. She was already feeling wicked herself for even contemplating such a thing.
He was intoxicating, enthralling, this man—and suddenly, Beatrice knew she needed to get away from him now. Else, she did not know what she might be capable of. The grief and misery that had colored her days and kept her from doing anything enjoyable was gone, replaced only by need.
She had not felt out of control in so long, had not felt like she could not contain herself and her desires, since the early days of her marriage. Sex with James had been exciting at first, and then, after a few years had passed and heirs became of utmost concern, it had become perfunctory. Beatrice had not felt so aroused in years. It was strange to feel so excited after such a horrid day—but then, maybe that was precisely it. After the worst day since James’ death, her body was crying out for something to distract it. And it found that something in Brodie.
Knowing she needed to make him go, Beatrice once again drew herself up to her full height—doing so had always helped her feel more confident—and opened her mouth to speak.
However, Brodie must have read her mind, for before she could utter an “Oh dear, I’m very tired,” he was already asking, “Shall I leave ye, then?”
No! was Beatrice’s mind’s first reaction, which she quickly dismissed as foolish. Instead, she nodded her head. This was perfect. He was excusing himself. This was exactly what she wanted. Wasn’t it?
“Yes. I am rather drained, and I think it best if I go to sleep now, considering all I have to accomplish tomorrow. Thank you so much for your help, Brodie. I only wish I could repay you for all you have done for me,” she told him, giving him a small, grateful smile that she did not feel. She began to step forward, forcing him to move back toward the door. She did this not to get closer to him, she told herself, but only to make sure he was advancing toward the exit. She was helpful, hurrying the farewell process along. That it put her in almost direct contact with his chest was of no consequence.
“Och, there’s nae need, lass. Any good man wouldae done th’ same,” he said, his back now nearly touching the doorframe.
“Yes, well, I am not entirely certain about that,” she said with a nervous laugh. “I suspect that you, Brodie, are quite a special man indeed.”
Brodie blushed at this, his cheeks flushing a deep pink that nearly matched the auburn highlights in his hair, and it made Beatrice want to reach up and kiss him, to truly give him something to blush about. But instead, she stayed where she was, inches away from him, willing him out the door, so she did not make a fool of herself. Not to forget herself. For she was the Duchess of Marlow, a widow of seven-and-twenty, not some young trollop. She could not invite him to stay. It would not be proper or prudent, two words she lived by.
“Yes, well,” Brodie said, clearing his throat.
“I’ll leave ye then, lass. I hope ye rest well, an’ that yer dreams are a mite sweeter than th’ day ye’ve had. A lass like ye deserves only th’ most pleasin’ o’ night-time adventures.”
Oh, dear, Beatrice thought. He had to mention nightly adventures.
Her heart, her skin, every part of her responded to the mention of the night, of what happened when she was in bed. And it most certainly was not sleeping that she was thinking about just then. No, Beatrice’s desire to fall right into bed had vanished; instead, she wanted to fall into the Scot in front of her, preferably landing directly on his mouth.
Holding back her heart’s desire, Beatrice nodded, and Brodie took this as his signal to leave. She watched as he turned around and began to walk down the hall and back toward the tavern’s main room, which sounded just as lively now as it had been an hour ago.
Shutting the door, she turned around and looked back at her room.
