11. Chapter 11

Chapter eleven

"Though a gentleman may steal a glance, a ribbon, or even a kiss, a lady must never allow him to steal her composure." From The Polite Companion: A Lady’s Guide to Social Grace

B eth lowered the little leather-bound book, The Vintner’s Guide to Winemaking . She’d read the same sentence five times: Blending is both art and science, where each varietal brings its own harmony and complexity.

Complexity indeed.

What was she to make of him? An uncouth Scot her mother abhorred? The proud laird from Sir Walter Scott’s novels? A ruthless wine tycoon? A common thief? A tempting kisser?

A deep sigh escaped her. Her future husband? Could she mold him into the quiet gentleman required for a respectful marriage? Her lips curled into a reluctant smile as the memory of his kiss replayed. Boyd. How could she ever call him by his first name? Perhaps when they were alone. No, she mustn’t be alone with him.

“Awake already, Lady Beth? Did a big, grouchy Scotsman invade your dreams?”

Beth set the book aside and crossed to the window, ignoring Dora’s teasing tone. “I need to be prepared, Dora. I have another challenge today, and frankly, I—”

“Miss Beth, it’s a cellar, not a university. You just swallow the wine and pretend you like it.”

“This isn’t some casual tavern exercise!”

How could she pass his challenges if she lacked the knowledge? Not that it had stopped her with the kissing test. The flutter in her stomach returned as she remembered Boyd’s heat beneath her.

Dora rummaged through Beth’s belongings. “Where’s your kerchief? Don’t tell me it’s another piece of accessory gone missing. Your mother will blame me.”

Boyd’s pilfering fingers came to her mind, stealing the handkerchief from right under her chin. The same fingers that caressed her cheeks and then... Visions of him nibbling her lips passed behind her eyelids, and needing some air, she pushed the window open.

The Douro River shimmered in the distance, early morning light reflecting off its surface.

“Don’t you think this place is beautiful?”

The land’s magnetism was very much like Boyd’s rough charm. How could he be so infuriating, yet make her heart skip?

“I thought it would be too rustic for your tastes, lady Beth.”

“Rustic? Certainly not. The better word would be rugged. Untamed, perhaps.” She fingered the edge of the window frame, recalling the feel of his bristly beard beneath her fingertips. “Wild, unpolished—but not without its beauty.” Like him.

A rustling noise interrupted her thoughts.

“What in heavens is this?”

Her gaze dropped to the garden below. Mr. Sandeman sprawled among the begonias, low-pitched snores ruffling their delicate petals. Beth’s heart skipped a beat. Had he slept out there all night? The man was mad—or had skin as thick as his skull. Yet... he looked peaceful. More so than she had ever seen him.

His ambition, his restless hunger, seemed banked. He looked younger somehow, almost endearing.

Beth leaned over the sill, studying him. Surely, it wouldn’t be the worst thing to reach out and smooth that unruly hair from his brow. Her fingers twitched. She leaned forward, her breath catching—then stopped herself, heat prickling her cheeks. What are you thinking, Beth? Studying him like some knight beneath your tower! Hastily, she drew back, pressing her hand to her racing heart.

Dora leaned in. “Seems your suitor misplaced his bedchamber, Miss Beth.”

“I can see that, but why?”

“Perhaps the ground just seemed more inviting than his bed.”

How could he endure the cold? Her heart ached for him, all alone. There was something tender about how his arm curled under his cheek. Against her better judgment, she longed to jump from the window and cradle his head above her lap. “Should I wake him?”

“That, or offer him a blanket. Though I doubt it is necessary—he seems quite comfortable.”

“Surely, he’ll be embarrassed when he realizes where he is.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t count on that, Miss Beth. He doesn’t strike me as the contrite type.”

Beth frowned. “Nonsense. Any proper gentleman would be mortified.” She stole another glance at Boyd’s parted lips, recalling how they had pressed against hers the day before. Tempting lips. She had known them intimately yesterday. She wanted to—know them again.

“Ah yes. I’m sure he’ll be positively ashamed.”

“He will. He has to be.”

Beth hesitated, then leaned out of the window. “Mr. Sandeman?”

The absurd man stretched his long arms over his head and yawned. Then he pulled himself up and shook the dirt from his trousers as if he had just lifted himself from the couch of a grand hostess.

“Mr. Sandeman! What on earth are you doing down there?”

He propped his elbows on the windowsill and winked. “You agreed to call me Boyd, Beth. Or have you forgotten our night interlude?”

Heat rushed to her face. “You’re trespassing!”

The early light brought out glints in his dark hair, and the corners of his eyes crinkled as he grinned. In his crumpled state, he looked like a pirate who’d just raided a maiden’s dowry.

“I was under the impression I owned the place.”

Dora moved behind her. “He is right on that account, Lady Beth.”

“Lady Beth?” He chuckled. “I like her already.”

Beth glared at her maid. “Don’t encourage him.”

“Lass, ye’ve got yerself tae blame.” He pillowed his face in his hand.

The mellow brogue was back, and only her corset prevented her from melting.

“Your serenade last night was loud enough tae wake the whole parish. Ye should be thankin’ me for shooing the swains away from yer door.”

The cello! How mortifying. Her mother would be positively ill if she knew a gentleman had caught her playing the indecent instrument.

“I... I wasn’t serenading anyone! A lady’s true charm lies in her grace, modesty, and quiet dignity.”

“If she wants tae put her man tae sleep, perhaps. But a winemaker’s grace?” He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “Is better felt in the bedchamber. And trust me, lass, she never needs to be quiet.”

Her face turned crimson. She stared at him, caught between outrage and a delicious thrill in parts of her anatomy she dared not name. “That is... shockingly improper.”

“Aye, lass, but proper can be borin’, wouldn’t ye say?” His gaze dipped toward her bodice.

Beth gasped, realizing she was still in her camisole. Before she could cover herself, he plucked the ribbon keeping her bodice in place. A single tug, and it floated free.

Heat prickled her cheeks as Boyd’s gaze dipped to her disheveled bodice. Gasping, Beth crossed her arms in front of her chest. She was suddenly, inexplicably aware of her heartbeat... and his watching eyes.

“Just a wee souvenir, lass. Don’t worry—ye’ll hardly miss it.” A devilish gleam danced in his gaze as he toyed with his prize.

“Give it back this instant!”

Boyd chuckled. “I’ll take care o’ it.” With a wink, he tucked the ribbon into his pocket.

“You are a—a common thief!

“I’m no such thing, lass.”

“Do you call yourself an uncommon thief, then?” A very handsome, very charming thief who stole her breath?

“No, ye see—he who steals a cow from a poor widow, or a calf from a cotter, now that’s a thief. But lifting a thing or two from a Sassenach? That’s a gentleman’s work. And as for taking a tree from the forest, a salmon from the river, a stag from the hill, or a bauble from a bonnie lassie—well, that’s just Highland instinct, and no Highlander worth his tartan would feel the slightest shame in it.”

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

“Dinnae go gettin’ conceited, lass. A winemaker’s wife is humble as she is bonnie.” He took her chin in his rough hands, leaned in, and claimed her lips with a quick, possessive kiss.

Beth sputtered, her eyes wide. “Mr. Sandeman! That was—”

“Just a wee taste. Don’t forget your challenge today in the cellar, Beth. And close your pretty mouth, will ya? A winemaker’s wife doesn’t gawk.”

Dora cleared her throat. “He’s taken your ribbon, Miss Beth. Shall I fetch you another? Or perhaps it’s time to start locking your accessories away from sticky fingers.”

With a cheeky grin, Boyd tipped an imaginary hat and strolled off, looking far too pleased with himself. Where in all A Lady’s Guide of Proper Behavior did a woman find guidance to deal with such an irresistible, totally impossible suitor? “That man is insufferable.”

“Indeed, he is, and who knew—not the contrite type, after all.”