by the fragrance of dried herbs and sheaths of plant life Randolph hung to dry from the rafters. She tripped up the narrow staircase past portraits of unknown Scotsmen, thinking she was seeing the man whose image was branded on her brain in every one.
She paused on the threshold of her room, her hand on the latch, her heart pounding all the way to her ears. Scarcely ten minutes ago, she had been resolved to never see her evening’s partner again. She could not explain her body’s reaction now to the thought of doing just that. Green eyes and a strong, beard-framed jaw were burned into her memory, but the man’s temperament was an unknown thing. The state in which she had left him had scarcely registered as she had bolted into the house, but now she paused, sucking in mouthfuls of herb-scented air. If he was here, surely he was none the worse for wear for the little incident with the chamber pot.
If he was here, surely he had forgiven her.
She hovered a moment, her hand a hairbreadth from knocking, pondering her choices. But what could she do beyond confront the man?
The door swung open, almost of its own volition, and Georgette stepped inside. Her skin felt flushed, her limbs loose with anticipation.
But instead of the man she expected—nay, wanted —to see, she was greeted by the sight of a woman lounging in a copper hip bath. The woman’s head was stretched back, rich auburn hair damp and curling, her neck exposed to the ceiling. The unexpected joy that so recently kindled in Georgette’s chest fell away to abject discomfiture.
Because the only thing she hated more than her own nudity was that of other people.
And this woman was clearly, unabashedly naked.
Chapter 5
J AMES STEPPED OUT of the inn, still simmering with anger, only to find himself accosted by brilliant sunshine and happy citizens. Moraig was bustling, a seaside Scottish town fully in the throes of market day. All around him the town swirled, bits of business and pleasure being transacted on every corner.
Normally, James enjoyed a good market morning. It was one of the things he had missed most about Moraig during the ten years he had spent in Glasgow, apprenticing with a curmudgeon of a solicitor. For all its urban bustle, Glasgow had felt sterile to him after Moraig’s small-town warmth. Market day was something to look forward to. It offered a chance to greet neighbors, to catch up on gossip, to snatch up a currant bun and hold its sticky sweetness between his teeth with the enthusiasm of the young man he had once been. It was one of the things that had called him home a year ago, when he had considered where to set up his first solo practice.
But the pleasures to be had on market day were meaningless to a man who couldn’t even afford to pay his evening’s debt. Six pounds was not a bloody lot of cash to someone like William, who was heir to the Kilmartie earldom.
But it was almost a month’s salary to James, and money he could ill-afford to waste.
He settled his hat gingerly atop his head, taking care to place it so it covered the injury on his scalp without rubbing to further damage. As a result of its precarious perch, the hat provided precious little shade. He stood a moment, blinking and adjusting to the insistence of the day’s sunlight. A sharp tap in his rib cage from William’s elbow made his head jerk in annoyance and sparks dance behind his eyes. “What?”
“Nice bit of handiwork.” William nodded to their left.
Despite his attempts to remember something of the night, James’s recollection remained little more than a string of hazy pictures. But the jagged shards of glass beneath his feet and the row of smashed windows taunting him beneath the wooden Blue Gander sign gave life to his imagination. A disbelieving groan escaped him. He could see a maid with a busy broom in her hand through the ruined opening, and he could hear hammering coming from the depths of the building. The sound echoed inside his skull with
She paused on the threshold of her room, her hand on the latch, her heart pounding all the way to her ears. Scarcely ten minutes ago, she had been resolved to never see her evening’s partner again. She could not explain her body’s reaction now to the thought of doing just that. Green eyes and a strong, beard-framed jaw were burned into her memory, but the man’s temperament was an unknown thing. The state in which she had left him had scarcely registered as she had bolted into the house, but now she paused, sucking in mouthfuls of herb-scented air. If he was here, surely he was none the worse for wear for the little incident with the chamber pot.
If he was here, surely he had forgiven her.
She hovered a moment, her hand a hairbreadth from knocking, pondering her choices. But what could she do beyond confront the man?
The door swung open, almost of its own volition, and Georgette stepped inside. Her skin felt flushed, her limbs loose with anticipation.
But instead of the man she expected—nay, wanted —to see, she was greeted by the sight of a woman lounging in a copper hip bath. The woman’s head was stretched back, rich auburn hair damp and curling, her neck exposed to the ceiling. The unexpected joy that so recently kindled in Georgette’s chest fell away to abject discomfiture.
Because the only thing she hated more than her own nudity was that of other people.
And this woman was clearly, unabashedly naked.
Chapter 5
J AMES STEPPED OUT of the inn, still simmering with anger, only to find himself accosted by brilliant sunshine and happy citizens. Moraig was bustling, a seaside Scottish town fully in the throes of market day. All around him the town swirled, bits of business and pleasure being transacted on every corner.
Normally, James enjoyed a good market morning. It was one of the things he had missed most about Moraig during the ten years he had spent in Glasgow, apprenticing with a curmudgeon of a solicitor. For all its urban bustle, Glasgow had felt sterile to him after Moraig’s small-town warmth. Market day was something to look forward to. It offered a chance to greet neighbors, to catch up on gossip, to snatch up a currant bun and hold its sticky sweetness between his teeth with the enthusiasm of the young man he had once been. It was one of the things that had called him home a year ago, when he had considered where to set up his first solo practice.
But the pleasures to be had on market day were meaningless to a man who couldn’t even afford to pay his evening’s debt. Six pounds was not a bloody lot of cash to someone like William, who was heir to the Kilmartie earldom.
But it was almost a month’s salary to James, and money he could ill-afford to waste.
He settled his hat gingerly atop his head, taking care to place it so it covered the injury on his scalp without rubbing to further damage. As a result of its precarious perch, the hat provided precious little shade. He stood a moment, blinking and adjusting to the insistence of the day’s sunlight. A sharp tap in his rib cage from William’s elbow made his head jerk in annoyance and sparks dance behind his eyes. “What?”
“Nice bit of handiwork.” William nodded to their left.
Despite his attempts to remember something of the night, James’s recollection remained little more than a string of hazy pictures. But the jagged shards of glass beneath his feet and the row of smashed windows taunting him beneath the wooden Blue Gander sign gave life to his imagination. A disbelieving groan escaped him. He could see a maid with a busy broom in her hand through the ruined opening, and he could hear hammering coming from the depths of the building. The sound echoed inside his skull with
Similar Books
