Page 50 of The Laird’s Lost Wife

That was what Lady Pilbury always said: to look a person in the eye when one was serious. It had even more of an impact when coming from a woman, since women were meant to be modest and demure, keeping their eyes glued to their own shoes. Proper ladies never looked men in the eye, certainly not for any extended period of time. Popular novels were full of morals like that, where Proper Ladies were rewarded, and improper ladies (who looked men in the eyes or even did more bold things, such as touching a gentleman’s arm with an ungloved hand) met fitting fates. Fitting fates included being sent to an asylum, or perhaps falling ill with some terrible disease. If they were lucky, they repented before they died. But die they did, of course. After all, a message had to be sent.

Don’t look men in the eye, was the message, or else.

But if you didn’t look a person full in the face, they could ignore you more easily. They could convince themselves that you didn’t mean it. And, of course, proper ladies weren’t supposed to mean anything, certainly not a no.

Pamela, Daphne thought dizzily.

Pamela was the heroine of a novel that had been exceptionally popular at some point. Daphne had once read it to Lady Pilbury, and they had come to the conclusion that Pamela, while being the ideal woman in the eyes of Society, could not possibly have led a pleasant life or a practical one. After all, her ‘reward’ at the end of the novel was to marry a man who was, quite simply, the worst fellow in the world, as far as Daphne could tell.

And once again, Pamela’s way of dealing with life would simply not work in the real world.

After all, most women couldn’t simply swoon to get out of being assaulted. It simply didn’t work. They often didn’t go ahead and marry the men who’d tried to hurt them, either. And, generally speaking, women had opinions of their own.

Not Pamela, of course.

I’m nae bloody Pamela.

“That kiss isnae worth talking about,” she insisted.

Hunter’s eyes darkened. He took a step toward her. Only half a step, yet it felt as though the walls were closing in on her. The air grew thicker, hard to breathe, and her palms started to sweat. She tried surreptitiously to wipe them on her skirt.

“Oh, nay?” he murmured.

“Nay. The plain fact is that we were both frustrated.”

He gave a short laugh. “Oh, aye. I forgot that ye like plain speaking. Well then…” He took more steps forward until he was less than an arm’s length away from her. She could smell petrichor on him, with a tang of whisky. “How about this? Frustration isnae the word I’d use to describe what I feel when I think of ye, lass.”

Her mouth dried out, forcing her to swallow just to work a little moisture into it.

The proper thing to do, of course, was to leave.

Instead of leaving, Daphne stayed right where she was, her feet planted to the floor.

Bloody Pamela would have left.

Fortunately, she didn’t like Pamela. Nor did Lady Pilbury.

“Gracious,” she’d murmured, several times during the story. “What a milksop of a woman. I can only hope that the story gets better.”

The story hadn’t got better, naturally. But this particular real-life story was one that Daphne was writing herself. At least, she thought she was writing it, but there had been several changes of late that didn’t feel as if they were within her control at all.

“Laird MacCrimmon,” she began, sounding shamefully breathless. “Hunter, I…”

He took another step forward until he was right in front of her, his warm breath tickling her forehead. She had to tilt her head back to look at him once more. He could have reached out and pinched her chin like he did before.

Stop it! Stop thinking about it! It’s time to be a lady. Remove yerself from the situation. Do the sensible thing.

She might as well have been talking to a wall.

“Come on now, lass,” Hunter breathed, leaning an inch or two closer.

She could count the grey flecks in his eyes. There was a gold band in his iris, right around the black pupil. She could see where a curl had fallen forward over his forehead, glossy with sweat. He smelled of horse, but not unpleasantly so. No, it was the sort of clean, animal smell that made a person think of freshness and healthy animals. The sort of smell that made a person lean forward, it seemed.

“Daenae tell me ye havenae thought about it,” he murmured. “Daenae tell me ye arenae thinking about it right now. It would be easy, ye ken. I could kiss ye, put me arms around ye. I could sweep everything off the table right now, pick ye up, put ye down on it. Oh, the things I’d do to ye if I got ye on the table, lass. Ye drive me mad, did I ever tell ye that?”

Her heart skipped a beat; she could have sworn it. A pulse thrummed through her body, deep and insistent, gathering between her thighs.

She’d felt that sharp-sweet pleasure before, even though she barely remembered it now. It had only been once, after all, before the business of life and a baby crowded in to make her forget.