Tomorrow, all the Douro Winemakers would come to witness his triumph. High society would know that Croft’s daughter had not been worthy of him. She, the woman who made him laugh and drank wine from his lips. The woman who had filled these last days with warmth and sound.
He should leave her alone. Let her sleep off the wine and forget that her lips had ever been tainted by this uncouth Scot.
Boyd splayed his hand over the wood. The silence mocked him. He should damn well leave. But his legs refused to carry his carcass away from the lass inside.
Thank God the lowlander bears weren’t here to see him. He pushed the door open.
She awaited a challenge, didn’t she? He wouldn’t leave her waiting.
The warmth of the fire greeted him first. The scent of lavender wafted from the adjoining bathing room.
Beth waited by the window, framed by the glow of the firelight. Her face was clear, her cheeks still carrying the faintest flush, and her red hair tumbled around her shoulders. She looked fresh, as if the afternoon’s overindulgence had left no mark on her.
She had changed into a white muslin gown, something she would wear for her husband on her wedding night. Or perhaps a muse from one of those paintings that depicted family bliss. He was unworthy of either.
Her presence spilled across the guest chamber—a shawl draped over the couch, impractical bonnets scattered on the vanity. Utterly frivolous, yet utterly alive. The only place in the house that seemed so.
His heart sped for no reason but that this being was under his roof, under his will.
Boyd’s eyes found hers. He envied her youth. How could she look so untouched by life? He, who had tried so hard to keep control, felt the cracks in his restraint widening with every passing second.
“What will my challenge be tonight, Mr. Sandeman?”
Boyd swallowed, his mouth so dry not even all the lochs in Lochaber would make it moist. The words he had intended to say—something ridiculous about having her wash his feet like a dutiful winemaker’s wife—died on his lips.
His eyes swept across the room and landed on the wooden crate.
“I want you to play the cello for me.”
Her breath caught as he opened the lid. He reached for the instrument, his fingers brushing against its lacquered surface. In his hands, it was nothing more than a piece of fine craftsmanship, beautiful but lifeless. How the hell did she make it come alive?
How did she conquer silence like that? It was a power few possessed, a luxury he’d never had.
The hours it would take to master such an instrument—the patience, the dedication—he had spent wearing his hands to stubs, building his empire. There was no time for music when every day had been a battle for survival, a war to prove himself in a world that cared for power, not talent.
He ran his calloused fingers along the cello’s neck. A pang of something hit him—regret, perhaps. Or envy.
Beth blinked, startled. “The cello?”
“Why didn’t you mention this talent? Isn’t it another asset for a wife-to-be?” Surely a society belle with such a skill would showcase it, flaunt her worth.
“I can’t play in public.” A flicker of hurt crossed her face.
“Why not?”
“A woman cannot play it,” she said quietly. “The position is improper. We have to sit with our legs apart, the instrument between them. It isn’t decent.”
All the blood in his veins went to his cock. “How did you learn, then?” His voice was harsh, tainted by jealousy for a young musician who might have seduced her.
“My uncle. He’s a maestro in London. He taught me as a child—to amuse himself, mostly. But I fell in love with it.”
Boyd lifted the instrument, extending it to her. “I want you to play it for me... in the nude.”
Her eyes widened. “Nude? That wouldn’t be—”
“Decent?” He stepped closer, his voice dropping. “But you just said the cello isn’t decent. And a winemaker’s wife—”
“Would obey her husband’s every capricious whim?” She tilted her chin defiantly. “The answer is no.”
