He didn’t.
Now what should she do? “I’m sorry, was I crowding you on the seat?” she asked. “Here let me move.” Of course there was no place to move to, but she made a pretense of doing so.
His hand stayed where it was. He didn’t look at her, but kept his eyes on the horses. Lyssa debated whether she should pretend his hand wasn’t on her person. She tried. They rode in silence, her hands in her lap—and then she could take it no longer. Although she was not anxious to make a scene.
“Yourwifemust be a nice person,” she reminded him.
“Oh, she is,” he agreed. “The very best.”
Then what is your hand doing on my knee?Lyssa edged over, thought about crossing her legs and rejected the idea.
Instead, she picked up his hand and put it on his leg. “I can’t wait to meet her.”
“The two of you will like each other.” He put his hand back on her leg.
Lyssa dodged, swinging her knees over to the far side of the wagon. Instead of being rebuffed, Mr. Anderson chuckled. “You are a tasty handful,” he replied, and eyed her breasts so she knew exactly what he meant.
Wrapping herself tighter in her plaid, she answered, “You’d best watch the road and not me.” A glance over her shoulder told her Mr. Campion blissfully slept on…but there was a hint of a smile around his lips.
Mr. Anderson leaned over to whisper in her ear, “I’d prefer to watch you. The horses can watch the road.”
Lyssa swiped him away as she would a gnat. Instead of being insulted, he laughed.
“Neither you nor your brother sound Scottish.”
“Both of our parents are,” she said coldly. “Davidsons.”
He shrugged. “If you say so. It’s a shame they never taught you the Gaelic.”
“I speak English, French, and Latin,” she answered haughtily, hoping to put him in his place by the disparity in their education.
“I can help you with the Gaelic,” Mr. Anderson said, completely unimpressed, “but it takes a nimble tongue. Tell me, Miss Campion, do you have a nimble tongue?”
It took a moment for the double entendre of his words to sink in, and when it did her temper sizzled. No one spoke to her that way. No one. She swerved in her seat to face him. “You, sir, are a boor!”
Instead of being offended, Mr. Anderson crooned, “When you get your temper up, you make a man believe you’d be worth the ride.” He punctuated his words with a low growl in the back of his throat.
Shocked, Lyssa doubled her fist but before she could punch, Mr. Anderson gave her a kiss—a wet, smoochy one right on the mouth. She wanted to gag. Instead, she struck out. Mr.Anderson laughed as if she played a game, reaching to catch her wrist—
“I had such a good nap,” Mr. Campion said, coming forward. Without an invitation, he started to sit down between them on the wagon seat, putting his arm around Lyssa’s waist so that she didn’t fall off the side.
She’d never been so glad to see anyone in her life—although she did want to bop Mr. Campion for not rescuing her sooner. However, now was not the time to quibble.
“Hey,” Mr. Anderson complained, “there’s not enough space for the three of us on the seat.”
“Of course there is,” Mr. Campion answered, putting his muscular arm around Mr. Anderson’s back in a gesture of bonhomie that had just a hint of threat to it.
Mr. Anderson understood the unspoken message, and Lyssa smugly enjoyed his dissatisfaction. Of course, that meant that she had to ride practically sitting on Mr. Campion’s leg…something that didn’t bother her at all. In fact, she felt very comfortable this close to him, and her shoulder fit beneath his very well.
Unlike Mr. Anderson, who reeked of unwashed male and sawdust, Mr. Campion smelled of the fresh wind and his sister’s homemade soap.
For the next several hours, they made better time than they would have on foot. Mr. Anderson was forced to stop his advances with Mr. Campion between them, although the two seemed to get along well while engaging in “man talk” aboutcrops and horses and what sports were to be had in the area. Mr. Anderson liked cock fighting, and once on the subject he carried on his own conversation.
The one thing she had to grow accustomed to was calling Mr. Campion by his Christian name.Ian. There was strength in the name. It suited him. Yet she preferred to refer to him as “brother.” It kept distance between them, a barrier. “Ian” was warm, inviting…intimate.
On the other hand,heseemed to delight in calling her “Lyssa.” He slurred the last syllable in a way no one else ever had, and she liked the sound of it.
Mr. Anderson attempted to call her “Lyssa” as well, but her name on his lips irritated her, and Mr. Campion quickly corrected him into a proper and respectful “Miss Campion.” She was learning that when a man of Mr. Campion’s size and presence said something, other men listened.
