Page 43 of A Stranger’s Promise

“The man rides off north every morning, but returns to Maidens drunk afore the sun sets.”

Alistair nodded his thanks and turned back to Charlotte. He held out his hand and told the man, “We’ve come for Lady Cassilis’s rouge.”

“Ah, then step inside, step inside.” The shopkeeper waved for them to follow as he disappeared into his shop.

The pleasant scent of wet wool and dried lavender greeted Charlotte as she stepped over the dye-shop’s threshold. A long worktable ran down the center of the room, holding a collection of black iron pots and wooden tubs filled with crushed leaves and water. Discarded stems littered the floor and skeins of wool hung from the rafters, intermixed with bundles of dried flowers, leaves, and herbs. A large set of wooden shelves lined one wall, filled with rows of tiny clay pots.

Near the back of the shop stood a small table stacked with books, and one book in particular drew Charlotte—a leather-bound cookery book, like her mother’s. She picked the book off the shelf and slowly ran her fingers over the cover, then leafed through a few pages. Emotion choked her.

“That’s fine workmanship there, lass,” the shopkeeper said as he shuffled through a mound of paper-wrapped packages on his worktable.

Charlotte looked up and smiled. “My mother had one like this.” She blinked back tears and turned. Alistair watched from his position near the door. She averted her eyes. Strange. She hadn’t wept over her mother in years. She had no wish to do so now in front of onlookers.

“Lady Cassilis’s rouge.” The shopkeeper picked up a small package from the counter on the left wall and offered it to Charlotte.

Accepting it with a quick dip of thanks, she crossed the room and stepped out into the street as Alistair and the old man spoke.

The scattered clouds had vanished entirely, leaving the sky a rich, bright blue. Birds twittered from nearby trees. A dog barked in the distance. She closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sunlight on her face and the distant lull of waves breaking on the rocky shore.

At the sound of a boot scraping wood behind her, Charlotte glanced up as Alistair stepped from the store, a solemn smile on his lips.

“Shall we?” He nodded toward his horse.

The thought of sitting across his had thighs the entire way back both unnerved and excited her, but the notion was unwise. “I have been enough trouble, my lord—”

He closed the argument by plucking the rouge from her grasp.

The return journey was far more intimate. Alistair’s hand rested on her hip. He walked the horse at a slow pace. She hid a smile. He behaved like a green lad with a pretty girl. But he was no green lad. He felt so large and warm around her. She found it difficult to think of anything other than his thighs flexing beneath her buttocks and the warm chest she leaned her shoulder against.

“Join me at dinner tonight,” he said suddenly.

She snapped her head up. “Dinner?” she repeated.

He shrugged. “Why no’? Culzean is my home and a governess at the dinner table is common enough.”

An image flitted across her mind of shocked dinner guests, when they heard her flavorful brand of French. A snort of laughter escaped her lips before she quickly cleared her throat, and said, “Not I, my lord. I fear you would regret it.”

He lifted a brow. “Why? Are your manners uncouth? How do you eat? Do you snuffle the soup?” The corners of his mouth curved upwards. “I confess, now I am curious.”

“My lord, I may very well astonish you by drinking the rose water from the fingerbowls. Trust me, your reputation is the better for not knowing.”

He gave a hearty chuckle, in which she joined, but then his gaze dropped to linger on her lips.

“What of the ball?” The amusement had faded from his voice. “It will be thrown in my honor at the end of the month. Surely, you cannot refuse to attend?” He shifted beneath her and his hand slid lower on her hip.

Charlotte swallowed. It was dangerous to be so close to the man. “Surely, my lord, you wouldn’t chance such a thing. I fear I dance like a—”

His dark lashes lowered and he shushed her with a finger on her lips. His finger lingered a heartbeat, then slid down over her bottom lip.

“I have danced with you already, have I not?” he asked in a thick voice. “You were a feather in my arms, Charlotte.”

Her heart thudded wildly.

Alistair suddenly pulled rein. He hugged her close, then swung his long leg over the pommel and slid from the saddle. They touched the ground and he lowered her feet until she stood. He stared a moment then pressed his palm into the small of her back, locking her into place against him. Charlotte shivered at the hunger in his eyes. She was lost. She knew it. She couldn’t resist the man. He placed a finger beneath her chin and brushed the line of her jaw with his thumb.

He bent down and whispered over her lips, “I want to kiss you, Charlotte.”

“Please,” she whispered back. Please.