His fingers lingered, tracing slow circles along her collarbone. “And what if I want to do much more than pointin’?” His voicedropped to a husky whisper, his eyes darkening as they searched hers.
Her breath caught. She met his gaze, utterly unmoored. What sort of gentleman friend was she?
“Don’t look so alarmed, Lady Beth,” he said, a teasing smile softening his features. “I made a vow to you, did I not? A Highlander never breaks his word unless he’s ready to face the consequences. But enough about vows. Let’s taste this one from Alsace.”
He tipped the bottle, the column of his throat flexing with the motion. Beth couldn’t stop her eyes from tracing it. What a fine throat it was—such a shame to keep it covered.
When he leaned closer, Beth opened her mouth eagerly, wanting more of his lips—his wine, of course. The floral notes flooded her senses. This one, she tasted a long time, sweeping her tongue around his, sucking it a little, to be sure.
“Did you like this one?”
“I’m not convinced... yet.” Her gaze dropped to his mouth, and she closed her eyes.
“Ach, lass. You’ll be the death of me with your demanding lips.”
He drank more and then obliged her.
When she bit gently on his lower lip, he groaned low in his throat, a sound that vibrated against her chest. One of his hands threaded into her hair, pulling her closer still. Her thoughts scattered like startled birds, leaving only the feel of him—the scrape of his stubble, the warmth of his lips, the heady thud of her heart matching his.
So much for staying poised and clever. Her grand plan to extract his secrets was fast slipping through her fingers, along with any remnants of dignity. She broke away, breathless, her thoughts a swirling mess. Focus. She had learned nothing about him yet, only felt herself sinking deeper into his thrall.
“If one were to... learn a wine’s secrets,” she panted, “how would... er, one go about it?”
His thumb traced the seam of her lips, his touch feather-light, maddening. The pressure coaxed her mouth open, and before she could think, she closed her lips around his finger, sucking gently. Her eyes fluttered shut as a fierce wave of heat overtook her. How did he know she needed this?
“To learn a wine’s secrets,” he murmured, his voice low and velvety, pooling warmth deep in her belly, “one has to keep drinking—and not shy away from the bitterness.”
Bitterness. The word lingered in her mind, an ache. Secrets were often bitter—bubbles rising inside a chest, begging to burst free.
He bit her lower lip, the sharpness catching her off-guard, then soothed the sting with his tongue, leaving her weak and unmoored. “Tasting it over and over,” he whispered. His lips brushed the delicate curve of her neck, the moist warmth of his breath drawing a shiver up her spine.
His hand drifted downward, grazing her nipple with a feather-light touch that sent heat rushing through her. She arched instinctively into him, her thoughts unraveling as her heart pounded against her ribs.
“When one has learned all its nuances...”
Nuances. Yes. More. Nuances. His hand cupped her breast, his palm warm and firm, igniting a flush that spread through her like fire.
“The wine will reveal its most precious secrets.”
“I tire of wearing the corset all the time,” she blurted, and then immediately cringed. Why had she said something so intimate? He hadn’t even asked her anything.
She glanced up at him, expecting mirth, but he only nodded, his gaze steady and understanding, as though he knew she wasn’t just talking about clothing.
“It’s a heavy thing to carry, isn’t it? The weight of what they want you to be.” His voice softened. “But I saw you playing the cello, lass. Why—”
“Why... wine?” she interrupted, her breath catching. She wasn’t ready to speak of herself, of a girl who longed to be a butterfly but lacked the wings to fly.
He blinked, his mouth quirking as though surprised by the shift. “You’re wondering why a Scotsman isn’t brewing whiskey?”
“It’s just... You seem like a man who could create anything you set your mind to. Why vineyards over any other industry?”
His gaze grew distant, as though he was weighing his words. “To make good wine, you need good soil, water, and a bit of luck from nature. No fancy degrees, no lordly titles, no judgment from men who think they’re better than you.” His voice hardened. “Wine doesn’t care where you’re from. It doesn’t need society’s stamp of approval. It’s true, even when people aren’t. Wine doesn’t judge ye.”
His words carried a surprising bitterness, roughening his tone. He turned away, reaching for another bottle, as if the motion might erase what he had revealed. “It’s like the land itself. It doesn’t care who you are or where ye come from. That’s more than I can say for most.”
Beth watched him, the weight of his words settling heavily on her chest. “Who hurt you, Boyd?” she asked softly, her voice trembling. If she ever met the person who had mistreated him, she’d find a perfect use for her newfound shear-wielding abilities.
He looked away, his jaw tightening. “No one’s powerful enough to try.” His voice was cold now, closed. “I made sure of that.”
