“Maybe we’ll rethink the entire wardrobe, aye? Last thing I need is another close call with yer skirts.”
His balls wouldn’t survive another encounter.
Boyd rose with her still draped over him like an expensive doll. Placing his arms beneath her armpits, he sat her atop theterrace, her knees level with his chest. If he but lifted her skirts, he could be inside her, damn the consequences.
She needed to go back to the house. Preferably behind a locked door. And he needed a damned drink.
Straightening, Boyd rubbed his nape, fighting the impulse to reach for her again. A treacherous part of him even calculated the merits of tossing her back onto the schist just to catch her again.
Keeping her gaze trapped, he grasped her calves. Her delicate stockings bristled against his calloused palms. She gasped, a question flickering in her green eyes. She wasn’t sure what had shifted between them, but he knew damn well. His balls would be blue to tell the story later.
Boyd reached for her ankle, his fingers brushing along her calf. Her skin was impossibly soft, her foot delicate and light in his grip.
He took hold of her shoe, his movements deliberate. Her breath hitched again—he heard it and saw the way her eyes widened, uncertainty pooling in their depths.
Without a word, he grasped the heel and snapped it clean off.
“Right. Those heels of yours. A winemaker’s wife doesn’t skitter over gravel like a fawn on ice.”
“Mr. Sandeman! This is Italian craftsmanship—”
He broke the second heel, ignoring her indignant glare as he tucked the broken pieces into his coat pocket.
Before she could protest further, he caught her under her arms and placed her gently on her feet.
Beth sputtered, trying to salvage her composure as she steadied herself on her new, shortened shoes.
“There. Much better. Now, let’s return, Miss Croft. Before the others think I’ve devoured ye.”
The thought was painfully true—in want if not in action.
So bloody much for keeping his distance.
Beth dragged her feet into the bedroom and closed the door behind her. Panting, she leaned against the surface, eyes shut. Yet still, Mr. Sandeman’s jewel-blue eyes seemed to follow her, searing into her thoughts wherever she turned. Her pulse fluttered, the warmth of his touch lingering far too long for comfort.
“I see the vineyards were a resounding success, Miss Beth. Should I send for the cobbler now, or do we wait until you lose the rest of the shoes?”
Groaning, Beth turned to find Dora perched on the edge of the bed, her curious gaze traveling over Beth’s disheveled state. What a sight she must be. Beth resisted the urge to wince, though her cheeks burned as she recalled the way Boyd’s hands had gripped her ankles.
Why was the man so insufferably close and so completely... solid? If she flapped her skirts, she was sure the whole Douro schist would tumble out of her pockets.
“Mud, no heels, and hair like a windstorm hit it,” Dora continued, plucking a twig from Beth’s disheveled locks. “I’m assuming Mr. Boyd wasn’t quite as taken with your fashion choice as you hoped?”
“Oh, no, it’s not that. It’s just... he was... very close. Very, very close.” Beth’s voice dropped to a whisper as she moved toward the bed, her calves tingling with the ghost of his touch. “I’m going to lie down now. Just for a minute.” Or maybe an hour. Or until the memory of his hands faded. “Please wake me in time for dinner.”
Dora’s teasing smile vanished, replaced by a rare flicker of alarm. “Did that Scotsman hurt you? If he did, I will—”
“It wasn’t like that!” Beth cut her off, sitting heavily on the edge of the mattress. “He was helping me, but then—oh, Dora, I’ve never—”
“Fallen in the mud for a man before?” Dora grinned again. “There’s a first for everything, Miss Beth. I’m sure it’s very romantic.”
Romantic like an overturned cart in a rainstorm. Or an encounter with a lion. A big, grouchy, rugged lion... one with smoldering eyes.
“Dora, stop. This isn’t romance at all.”
“Of course not. He only swept you off your feet. Seems he’s done a fine job of that, even if he’s left your shoes behind.”
Beth sank back onto the bed, wrapping her arms around herself. “Shoes have nothing to do with this.”
