this."
"Aye." He swallowed and turned his face to the restless water of the sea. "Quite attracted indeed."
* * * * *
H e got into an argument with the two footmen over his bunk when he returned to his room, and the next thing he knew he was engaged in a round of fisticuffs with the pair of them. It didn't take him long to win the fight, a few jabs and a stunning series of lefts to the chin, and in the end all three men shook hands and feigned a civilized forgiveness; his pride intact, Patrick returned to his bunk, where by this time his blood was pumping so hard he couldn't sleep a wink.
He listened to the clamor of the steam engine, the cranks, air pump, and cylinders oscillating. He tried to concentrate on the churning of the paddle wheels with their feathered floats, but it was of no use. He still thought about sex with Anne, how they had gone at each other like pagans in their youthful passion, and it had not been enough. He thought about kissing the length of her spine from her fragile nape to the cleft of her buttocks, and making love to her with a consideration it had taken him years to learn.
He stayed awake until dawn holding imaginary orgies and meaningful conversations with her so that when he actually saw her again the next day, he looked terse and haggard with shadows sculpting hollows in his face. He looked mean and angry and capable of unpredictable behavior, the sort of fellow a vulnerable widow like Lady Whitehaven should avoid.
At least that was what the Duke of Glaswell advised her as they disembarked on the silvery Firth of Tay to buy marmalade in Dundee. His Grace didn't bother lowering his voice to spare Patrick's feelings either. He hustled Anne along the gangplank with a proprietary air.
"I do not like the looks of your manservant, my dear, I must say. He's got an antagonistic manner about him. Has he been with you long?"
Patrick swore that a spark of genuine evil sprang into Anne's eye when she answered. "Long enough, your grace, but do not worry on my account. The man knows his place, I assure you."
H e knew his place, all right, and given the chance it would be in Anne's life as a suitor and in her bed, on top of her or beneath, whichever position she preferred, he wasn't particular as long as he had her to himself. Worshipping at her feet, he would soon restore her self-worth and faith in him.
They spent four days at sea, Patrick playing cards with the pair of footmen, Anne playing the unattainable widow. Another man might have been discouraged by her aloofness, but as he studied Scotland's bold rocky coast from the deck, he took comfort in the knowledge that he would soon fight for her on his own turf. Anything could happen in a wild land of peat bogs where dragons had devoured helpless virgins, and black lochs where monsters lurked. His beloved Grampian Hills gave home to over a hundred fairy-tale castles; it engendered legends of heroes who had been slain in the name of freedom. No invader had ever conquered the fierce Scottish spirit for long. No foreign king could challenge the wizards who cast spells from primitive cairns on the moor.
A rakehell might ruin a young girl, then repent and win her back years later as ancient chieftains had abducted brides and turned them into loving wives.
He could already feel the magical power of the "haars," the sea mist that haunted the wild cliffs and smugglers' coves of the Meams coast. The conqueror in his soul awakened; the warrior in him rose to forge into battle, the only hitch in the fantasy being that he would carry a silver tea tray as his shield.
8
` " I don't know what you're up to, Auntie Nellwyn," Anne said as they steamed into the granite city of Aberdeen. "I only want you to know I don't believe you're doing this solely for Uncle Edgar's sake."
Nellwyn snorted, gathering her mantilla and embroidered gloves. "You have a most suspicious mind, my dear."
"If you're hoping to make a match between us, it
"Aye." He swallowed and turned his face to the restless water of the sea. "Quite attracted indeed."
* * * * *
H e got into an argument with the two footmen over his bunk when he returned to his room, and the next thing he knew he was engaged in a round of fisticuffs with the pair of them. It didn't take him long to win the fight, a few jabs and a stunning series of lefts to the chin, and in the end all three men shook hands and feigned a civilized forgiveness; his pride intact, Patrick returned to his bunk, where by this time his blood was pumping so hard he couldn't sleep a wink.
He listened to the clamor of the steam engine, the cranks, air pump, and cylinders oscillating. He tried to concentrate on the churning of the paddle wheels with their feathered floats, but it was of no use. He still thought about sex with Anne, how they had gone at each other like pagans in their youthful passion, and it had not been enough. He thought about kissing the length of her spine from her fragile nape to the cleft of her buttocks, and making love to her with a consideration it had taken him years to learn.
He stayed awake until dawn holding imaginary orgies and meaningful conversations with her so that when he actually saw her again the next day, he looked terse and haggard with shadows sculpting hollows in his face. He looked mean and angry and capable of unpredictable behavior, the sort of fellow a vulnerable widow like Lady Whitehaven should avoid.
At least that was what the Duke of Glaswell advised her as they disembarked on the silvery Firth of Tay to buy marmalade in Dundee. His Grace didn't bother lowering his voice to spare Patrick's feelings either. He hustled Anne along the gangplank with a proprietary air.
"I do not like the looks of your manservant, my dear, I must say. He's got an antagonistic manner about him. Has he been with you long?"
Patrick swore that a spark of genuine evil sprang into Anne's eye when she answered. "Long enough, your grace, but do not worry on my account. The man knows his place, I assure you."
H e knew his place, all right, and given the chance it would be in Anne's life as a suitor and in her bed, on top of her or beneath, whichever position she preferred, he wasn't particular as long as he had her to himself. Worshipping at her feet, he would soon restore her self-worth and faith in him.
They spent four days at sea, Patrick playing cards with the pair of footmen, Anne playing the unattainable widow. Another man might have been discouraged by her aloofness, but as he studied Scotland's bold rocky coast from the deck, he took comfort in the knowledge that he would soon fight for her on his own turf. Anything could happen in a wild land of peat bogs where dragons had devoured helpless virgins, and black lochs where monsters lurked. His beloved Grampian Hills gave home to over a hundred fairy-tale castles; it engendered legends of heroes who had been slain in the name of freedom. No invader had ever conquered the fierce Scottish spirit for long. No foreign king could challenge the wizards who cast spells from primitive cairns on the moor.
A rakehell might ruin a young girl, then repent and win her back years later as ancient chieftains had abducted brides and turned them into loving wives.
He could already feel the magical power of the "haars," the sea mist that haunted the wild cliffs and smugglers' coves of the Meams coast. The conqueror in his soul awakened; the warrior in him rose to forge into battle, the only hitch in the fantasy being that he would carry a silver tea tray as his shield.
8
` " I don't know what you're up to, Auntie Nellwyn," Anne said as they steamed into the granite city of Aberdeen. "I only want you to know I don't believe you're doing this solely for Uncle Edgar's sake."
Nellwyn snorted, gathering her mantilla and embroidered gloves. "You have a most suspicious mind, my dear."
"If you're hoping to make a match between us, it
Similar Books
