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> Why was she so nervous? He inspected her profile as though he could read the truth if only he searched hard enough.
Perhaps she was cold, but too shy to ask for a fire. He let his eyes roam her figure. She was certainly a willowy wisp of a creature, her trembling only making her seem all the more insubstantial. She hadn’t an ounce of flesh to spare, and he wouldn’t be surprised if she spent half her life chilled to the bone.
She remained focused on her work, and so he let his eyes linger. She raised an arm to her ink jar, and with a shock to his loins, he realized that perhaps this Elspeth did indeed have an ounce or two of flesh to spare. Her breasts were modest, but lovely and well formed, a pair of treasures hidden beneath her layers. He had to shift in his seat to adjust himself, spying that, yes indeed, the woman was cold. Her pert nipples formed two faint shadows along the front of her bodice.
Just who was she? She seemed so nervous, reciting her letters. What might she be hiding that he wasn’t seeing, and more importantly, what would he have to do to find out? Because, oddly, he found he wanted to know. There’d been many women in his life, and never had one held any mystery for him.
Most importantly, he needed to discern if she could be trusted as much as his sister had promised. He decided he needed to test matters. See if he could get a rise out of her. If she had deceitful intentions, he’d uncover them.
“There’s no need to whisper on my account,” he said, pitching his voice and curling his mouth in a way that’d gotten a perfect rise out of dozens of women before her. “You have a fine voice. ”
Her hand hung in midair. Slowly she raised her head to him, her eyes gaping wide as a fish’s. He bit his cheek not to laugh at the sight.
The girl was innocent as an angel, or he wasn’t the devil’s own. She clearly hadn’t an ounce of deceit in her. It was as Anya had said—Elspeth would be discreet about their meetings and his identity. So what, then, was the source of her discomfort? And who was she to be so book-learned?
At first sight, he’d assumed she was just another of the mindless, entitled lassies as plentiful in Aberdeen as cured fish. But now he suspected she wasn’t so easily pegged. She’d been reduced to tutoring for pay, after all. And that was in addition to work she did for her father. He’d gathered she didn’t have siblings either. The girl seemed to have even less support than she did prospects.
By reflex, he gave her one of his smiles, though his mind was racing. “Go on. I didn’t mean to interrupt. ”
Elspeth lowered her face back to the page, looking rattled. It was almost as though she didn’t realize how fine she was. Not that she was pretty. Not exactly.
He stared hard, taking the opportunity to graze every inch. She was, on the face of it, quite plain. Especially when compared to a rosy-cheeked spitfire like Bridget, or the walking grace that was their eldest sister, Anya.
But Elspeth was unassuming and gentle, and those were qualities he hadn’t encountered in… perhaps ever.
He watched her mouth form each letter. When she concentrated on the page, she looked relaxed. Books appeared her element, putting her at her ease, and oddly that pleased him.
He studied her lips. They were neither thin nor thick. In fact, there was nothing about her that stood out. Nothing too grossly large, nothing too unusually small.
She wasn’t unappealing, he decided, which made it surprising that she hadn’t yet married, for she wasn’t a young maid. Rather, she was Anya’s age, and his widowed sister already had a half-grown son.
He wondered why Elspeth might not be considered pretty. What alchemy made one girl stand out from the rest?
Not that he cared for pretty. He knew the saying handsome is that handsome does, and he’d found it borne true in his own experience, time and again. How many plantation women had he seen, with skin like cream and eyes like jewels, wielding their whips so very prettily? It’d been up to the men to discipline the adults, but children had been the women’s domain, and after a beating, a plantation wife’s pretend remorse was very pretty indeed.
He knew because he’d been one of those children. He had the jagged scars on his back to prove it.
“And zed,” Elspeth said, writing out a perfect Z. She’d finished the alphabet and now held the quill out to him. “Now it’s your turn. ”
He swallowed hard. Scythe, plow, shears, hoe, shovel,
rake, sword, dagger… These were all tools he’d held in his life. But a quill? Last time he’d held a quill, he’d been a ten-year-old studying at the kirk schoolhouse with the other children.
But he had no choice. If he was going to present himself as a wealthy lord, he needed to know how to read. How to sign his cursed name. And so, like a child, he had to learn the basics.
But it didn’t mean he didn’t hate it, and hate himself for his ignorance.
“Fine,” he said, grabbing the quill from her. It felt so tiny in his hand, his fingers so awkward and thick. It was his hand that trembled now, and he pressed it onto the table to anchor himself. He slammed his other hand onto a blank page and slid it under the tip of the pen.
She nudged the inkpot toward him. “Don’t forget, you must dip it first. ”
Of course. He’d known that. With a tight nod, he dipped his quill then brought it to the paper. He pressed too hard, and ink bled from the tip, forming a sloppy puddle.
“Hang it,” he muttered. His life was black luck, a black soul, and now worthless black blots of ink. He moved to crumple the ruined page.
“Don’t. ” She touched his hand, and they both grew still.
He tilted his head to catch her eye. She looked nervous. He wanted her to stop looking so damnably nervous. He wasn’t that terrifying. She hadn’t even seen his scars yet. He raised his brows impatiently, waiting for instruction.
