12. Chapter 12

Chapter twelve

“A winemaker’s wife must be fluent in many languages, including the dialect of a husband’s stubborn silences and the unmistakable brogue of his mischief.” The Rogue’s Guide to Refinement

B oyd glared at his new office, its bare walls and empty corners taunting him. The architects had transported the bloody stone fountain from the Highlands—complete with the smug Lowlander bears—but had failed to furnish the estate’s most important room. Not a single desk, chair, or cabinet had arrived in time for the holidays. The most expensive architects in Europe had left him sprawled across wine crates, his ledgers stacked like forgotten parcels on the floor.

Sunlight streamed through the arched windows, casting a cold glow over the barren space. He scowled at the letter in his hands. French. Of course, it had to be in French, unreadable without his secretary. His Paris agent couldn’t bother to write in plain English, could he? Boyd traced the elegant script, catching fragments of meaning—Bordeaux, vineyard potential, varietals—all vital pieces of information slipping like sand between his fingers.

Frustrated, he slapped the letter onto a crate and tugged the ribbon from his pocket. He brushed the ribbon against his nose, inhaling sharply. Each of her belongings carried her elusive scent, but it was never enough. And her sounds? Everywhere she was not, held the silence of a tomb. If only that kiss hadn’t scrambled his thoughts...

The door creaked open, and the bane of his existence stepped inside.

She moved cautiously, her gloved hands holding the edges of her skirt to avoid brushing against the papers strewn across the floor, her gaze flicking over the scattered crates and haphazard ledgers. She looked every inch the society lady, her pristine green velvet day dress clinging to her curves.

Straightening, Boyd shoved the ribbon into his pocket, his color rising as if he were a Highland lad caught sneaking a sip of the laird’s whiskey. All this wealth, and she had to see him crouched on the floor.

Beth’s gaze found him, and she startled a bit, one brow arching.

“Yes, Lady Beth?” His tone was sharper than he intended.

“I’m presenting myself for my second challenge.”

Of course, she’d waltz in, expecting him to drop everything to cater to her whims.

“Some of us work for a living, Miss Croft. You’re free to pursue more pressing endeavors—a picnic, a bright butterfly, or perhaps weaving a tartan for a sheep. I care not which.”

An unwelcome image flitted through his mind—her voice floating over a meadow as they picnicked together, and he gritted his teeth. Look at him, wanting to eschew obligations for ridiculous pursuits.

Beth’s eyes narrowed, but a hint of a smile tugged at her lips. “Weaving a tartan for a sheep sounds positively riveting. Can I help with the work that’s so clearly keeping you tethered to reality?”

Boyd picked up the letter again, squinting his eyes at the damned words. Anything to keep his gaze from the white fur framing her bodice. “What do you understand about business, Lady Beth?”

“Not much.” Before he could blink, she plucked the paper from his fingers. If he allowed it, it was only because she’d startled him—not because his traitorous nose had brushed against her wrist in surrender.

“Is this French? I’m fluent in French.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “Drawing room French, perhaps—”

She raised the letter to her eyes and began reading. “Monsieur Sandeman, it is with the utmost respect and admiration that I convey my gratitude for the trust you have placed in our firm to represent your esteemed interests in the renowned terroirs of Bordeaux. Allow me to assure you that the opportunities here, should you pursue them, are as grand and enduring as the very chateaux that line our venerable hillsides.” Her words rolled off her tongue with maddening ease.

So, the lass could read French. He hadn’t expected that.

The minx lowered the letter and gazed at him with triumph in her green eyes. She was smug, was she not? Boyd felt an uncontrollable urge to reach out and ruffle her hair, so he could swipe a touch of her pride, the way a child licks icing off a cake when no one’s looking.

Grinning like a rogue who’d stumbled upon an unlocked treasure chest, he tugged her down to sit beside him on the floor. Before she could protest, he shifted deliberately, resting his head on her lap with the most innocent expression he could muster.

“Proceed, Lady Beth,” he drawled, eyes fluttering shut as if this were a common afternoon pastime.

Her gasp was practically a symphony. “This is unusual, Mr. Sandeman!”

“A true winemaker’s wife reads tae her husband each night. They say the words of a devoted wife soothe a man’s spirit, sharpen his mind, and keep his decorum intact.”

“You are making this up.”

A rush of warmth flooded his chest as his head sank onto her lap. His muscles loosened, the tension in his shoulders dissolving.

“Am I? You owe me this, anyway.”

“How so?”

Boyd cracked an eye open. “Because of your serenade, I hardly slept last night. I’m tired.”

Beth’s cheeks flushed a delicate pink, and she huffed, “Very well.” Yet she adjusted her posture with an air of importance, her chin lifting slightly.

Boyd bit back a grin. Who knew French correspondence could hold such intrigue?

Her lap was surprisingly soft beneath him, her skirts carrying a faint scent of lavender. Her fingers hovered briefly on his shoulder, light as a butterfly testing its perch.

She started reading again, her voice flowing like warm honey, a steady rhythm that hummed in his ear. From his angle, he admired the delicate curve of her chin and the way her lips shaped each syllable.

His pulse slowed, his body sinking further into the floor as the last traces of tension melted away. He shifted slightly, his head nestling deeper into her lap.

“In light of your discerning reputation, Monsieur Sandeman, I recommend that you personally sample the wines from the estates currently on the market. By familiarizing yourself with each vineyard’s unique profile, you will be best equipped to determine which properties align with the quality and character you wish to bring to your portfolio. I trust that your refined palate will guide you in selecting befitting your impeccable standards.”

She lowered the letter and glanced at him. “I expect that crate to be the bottles he mentioned?”

His fingers twitched against his chest, and he let out a low hum of appreciation, reluctant to move. Was it over already? The way she made paperwork seem captivating was almost unfair.

With a groan of reluctance, he sat up, fighting the ridiculous urge to pull her into his lap and silence her smugness with a kiss. Just one. For research purposes.

Beth cleared her throat and glanced at the door. “Well, then, I’ll leave you now. You must have a lot of drinking to do, and I’d hate to be in your way.”

His heart, stubborn as a mule, kicked against his ribs in protest. Of course, he had work to do. Important, pressing work. But before he could think twice, his hand shot out and caught hers.

Her wrist was delicate under his rough palm, and he nearly released her, worried she might shatter at his touch. But no—the room would turn back into a catacomb without her, and he wasn’t quite ready for the silence to swallow him whole.

“You came here for a challenge, did ye not?” he asked, raising one brow.

“To pass my second challenge, yes.” She shot him a wary look, clearly suspicious of the grin spreading across his face.

He caressed her wrist lightly and met her gaze. “You’ve proven you can read French words. Now let’s see how you fare drinkin’ their wine.”

Her eyes widened, and she let out a breathy laugh. “Are all your challenges this demanding?”

“Aye,” he said, cursing his mind for conjuring exactly how demanding he wanted to be. “And they only get worse.”

Beth watched as Boyd shoved crates aside, his broad shoulders flexing beneath his shirt as he worked. While his back was turned, she allowed herself a small, private gloat. She would be lying if she denied the pride she felt at having helped him translate the French letter—a satisfaction amplified by the memory of his head resting against her lap.

And now, an impromptu wine tasting. Never a dull moment while courting Mr. Sandeman. Still, this time, she wanted more than to pass his test. She wanted to understand the man beneath the wine tycoon’s polished exterior. What drove him to be so ambitious? Why was he always so guarded? And why this relentless need to project a refinement that, deep down, he didn’t seem to enjoy?

“Are you excited about the Christmas banquet?” she asked. “The housekeeper said you invited all the winemakers in the village.”

His body stiffened, and he avoided her gaze. “Are you ever excited to spend time with people you hardly know, who only get closer because they want something from you?”

Beth hugged herself, the question landing heavier than she expected. Wasn’t that what she was doing? “Then why invite them in the first place?”

“Did your family only have guests they cared about? Or are you implying that, because of my birth, I don’t—”

“I’m implying that a man who got where you are should enjoy more freedom than the rest of us.”

Boyd Sandeman had earned his place among the privileged but seemed heart-wrenchingly unable to settle in it. What would it be like to feel so... out of place?

Boyd’s gaze darkened, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he shrugged. “When my agent sent me this crate, I thought he was giving me a Christmas present.” He pried open a wooden box and extracted several bottles.

“What do you want for Christmas?”

“You should be looking at it. But alas, it seems I’ll spend Christmas empty-handed.” He gestured to the surrounding room. “I commissioned state-of-the-art wine-tasting facilities. The best money can buy, Lady Beth.”

Was it a gift if he had to buy it himself? Her heart ached for him. He had no family, did he? Christmas Eve was tomorrow. She should have brought him a gift. A wristwatch or a cane—something a gentleman might appreciate. But in her haste to leave Oporto, she’d forgotten.

He reached for a tapestry, shaking it out before tossing it into the center of the room. Their very own picnic blanket.

“It seems the furniture industry conspired against us, and you’ll have to experience your first tasting on the floor.”

Beth stepped closer, smiling. “I’m certain the wine will taste the same on the floor as it would on your polished table.”

He looked at her then, surprised, a boyish smile tugging at his lips. Lifting his arm, he extended it to her as though inviting her to a minuet rather than a wine tasting on a dusty floor. His warm hand steadied her as she lowered herself, arranging her velvet skirts to cover her legs. She shifted slightly, adjusting for the bustle pressing into her sides. Clearing her throat, Beth mimicked Boyd’s relaxed posture, trying to summon the camaraderie of men over port. What better way to share secrets than over a drink?

His fingers wrapped around a bottle, the curl of his wrist and the flex of his forearm exuding effortless strength. As he twisted the cork free, his gaze flickered to her.

The pop was soft but sharp, and she jumped, chiding herself for her nerves. When he opened a third bottle, then a fourth, she gulped.

“How much do you expect me to drink?” she asked. “A lady may partake in wine, but only in modest sips. Never more than a glass.”

He grinned. “Lucky for you, we’ll be drinking from the bottle. Here, let’s try this first. Chateau Montclair.”

He held the bottle close to her lips, and Beth’s heart sped up. How on earth would she pass this test?

She raised her palms. “Will you really buy a vineyard in France?” She tried to keep her tone light, but her eyes searched his, hoping to glimpse the man beyond the business.

“More like two or three. The scale of the investment must be worthy.”

“Do you need to expand so much? Won’t it mean more work?”

He lifted a brow. “Are you stalling, lass?”

No, I’m trying to get to know you. Who are you, Boyd Sandeman?

“What should I do?” she asked. “Are there any criteria I should be aware of? Wouldn’t it be best if we had a notebook to annotate our findings?”

“A fine wine isn’t meant to be tasted with the mind.”

He offered the bottle to her again, daring her with a mischievous glint in his eye.

Well, then. Gentlemen friends shared wine from the bottle... from time to time. The finish was smooth against her lips as she drank. The quantity was far more than her usual dainty sips, and she had to swallow quickly to keep from choking. A rich taste coated her tongue with layers she couldn’t quite place but sensed were important.

“Well?”

She straightened, lifting her chin, and forced a thoughtful expression. “It’s well-balanced. The aroma is compelling, with, um... notes of dark cherry and leather.”

As if aware of her pretense, he removed the bottle from her. “You must taste the wine with your nose and mouth, not your bloody corset and fichu.”

The skin beneath her corset tingled as if in agreement. “Mr. Sandeman! I hope you’re not suggesting I should drink in the nude, because some lines—”

He laughed, the sound startling and new. It rolled off him in waves, his chest shaking with it. This was going well. Gentlemen shared moments of humor, didn’t they? Beth didn’t mind being the cause of his mirth if it made him laugh more often.

“Not bare-assed, lass. But you’ll have to wear something else.”

He reached for his cravat, his rugged fingers pulling it free with practiced ease.

Beth gasped, her gaze caught on the exposed skin of his neck. So that’s what a man’s throat looks like... unbuttoned, vulnerable. She quickly glanced away, her cheeks warming. Her goal was to understand his thoughts, not ogle his... assets. But curiosity won out, and her eyes flicked back to him. After all, the more she knew about the man, the better. Right?

He let out a low, rumbling chuckle, as if fully aware of the effect he had on her.

“Is it necessary for you to get so familiar?”

“I swear tae ye, this is the only bit of clothing comin’ off today. Unless ye find yerself curious, then I might consider indulgin’ ye. But that’s for later, mind. If ye caught sight o’ me in all my splendor, ye wouldn’t pass yer challenge.”

The brogue, the wine, and indeed, the cravat made her shiver under her stays. He moved closer, inexorably so.

Beth stiffened as he leaned into her, his chest brushing her side, his warm breath ruffling her ear. If her mother saw her now, seated on a dusty floor with Mr. Sandeman, allowing him to—her thoughts scattered as silk slid over her eyes. He tightened the knot gently, and the world plunged into darkness.

Her breath quickened, her skin tingled, and her heartbeat thrummed in her ears. This was utterly extreme! Surely, he wouldn’t make his gentlemen friends wear pieces of his clothing during a wine tasting.

“Easy now. I’m here with you.”

Far from diminishing his presence, the blindfold made him even more real—the only solid thing in a world gone dark. The quietness between them felt like a fragile gift, and she wanted to tuck it away, safe with the other impressions he had left on her.

When the bottle touched her lips, the wine’s aroma enveloped her senses, its acidity and bitterness sharper in the dark.

“There now, lass. What do you feel?”

“Can I have some more, please? To be sure?”

The wine unsettled her empty stomach, heat blooming between her breasts.

“There’s no right or wrong with wine,” he said softly. “The only thing that matters is whether ye like it.”

“Not what is proper or expected?” A ripple of excitement ran through her, a thrill at tasting and deciding for herself, unburdened by others’ expectations. “Then I don’t much enjoy this one. It feels too raspy. Can I have the next one, please?”

His breath was close to her forehead now, warm and steady. “Only if you demand it from me.”

She gasped. A gentleman didn’t demand things from his friends—only satisfaction. And she was not about to duel with him. Not over wine. “Boyd—”

“Just a wee joke, lass.” He brought the next bottle to her nose, but when he tipped it, the liquid spilled over her chin.

“This won’t do. Can’t have a lady leaving my office with more wine on her dress than in her belly.”

Before she could protest, his hands slid around her waist, lifting her from the floor. He guided her onto his lap, settling her securely there.

She was quite sure no gentleman tasted wine blindfolded while seated with a friend on his lap. Gasping, she grabbed his lapels for balance.

The heat of the man. Beth would have felt colder in a furnace. Shamelessly, her thoughts mulled, and she nestled closer. Well, if propriety had anything to say, it would need to shout over the liquor... and his chest. Perhaps he’d be more inclined to share his secrets in such an intimate position.

“Taste the wine, lass,” he murmured, his breath warm against her cheek.

His cool lips brushed against hers, a whispery contact that sent a shiver along her spine. His hand slipped to her nape, anchoring her as he deepened the kiss, and the wine poured into her mouth. Heat pooled low in her belly, and she touched his cheek, not sure if she had to push him away or pull him closer. Tongue brushing against hers, he coaxed her to take more, to savor the taste.

Bold and dark, rough and refined, fierce and intoxicating—the wine was as complex as the man. Her pulse quickened, and any thoughts of propriety dissolved in the heady warmth spreading through her, as if she’d sipped from his essence. The world beyond the cradle of her Scotsman’s arms ceased to exist.

She was willing to bet no friendship allowed the intimacy of sharing wine like this. Thank goodness for that—she would rather reserve the privilege for herself.

She pulled back, breathless, and removed her blindfold.

He was staring at her lips, his breathing rasping against her forehead. “Did you like this one?”

“I think,” she whispered, her voice trembling, “I liked this one very much.”

She gazed at him openly. Beth doubted a gentleman would ever look at his friend with such rawness in his eyes, but the drink had made her bold. What was she doing? Trying to understand him, yet spilling reckless words that exposed far too much.

Frowning, Boyd glanced down. “I think I ruined your gown.” He brushed her bodice, where a drop had bloomed into a red rose. “Tell me, lass, why d’ye always wrap yourself in layers and layers? Isn’t it tirin’ to be so perfectly attired?”

“A person looks their best when dressed appropriately for their station and occasion,” Beth said, though her voice lacked conviction. The places he touched burned to life, mutinying against the fetters of fabric.

He traced the fur lining her decolletage. His lips followed, and his breath fanned across her chest, the warmth delicious and forbidden.

“I dare say you’d look best dressed in the freckles covering yer skin.”

Beth’s cheeks flushed hot, and she poked him in the chest—or had she missed and stabbed his ear? The wine had left her hazy, her propriety faltering. “I have no freckles, sir.” Her voice was soft, slurred, far too breathless for a proper lady seated on a man’s lap. “And it’s rude to point out a lady’s flaws.”

His fingers lingered, tracing slow circles along her collarbone. “And what if I want to do much more than pointin’?” His voice dropped to a husky whisper, his eyes darkening as they searched hers.

Her breath caught. She met his gaze, utterly unmoored. What sort of gentleman friend was she?

“Don’t look so alarmed, Lady Beth,” he said, a teasing smile softening his features. “I made a vow to you, did I not? A Highlander never breaks his word unless he’s ready to face the consequences. But enough about vows. Let’s taste this one from Alsace.”

He tipped the bottle, the column of his throat flexing with the motion. Beth couldn’t stop her eyes from tracing it. What a fine throat it was—such a shame to keep it covered.

When he leaned closer, Beth opened her mouth eagerly, wanting more of his lips—his wine, of course. The floral notes flooded her senses. This one, she tasted a long time, sweeping her tongue around his, sucking it a little, to be sure.

“Did you like this one?”

“I’m not convinced... yet.” Her gaze dropped to his mouth, and she closed her eyes.

“Ach, lass. You’ll be the death of me with your demanding lips.”

He drank more and then obliged her.

When she bit gently on his lower lip, he groaned low in his throat, a sound that vibrated against her chest. One of his hands threaded into her hair, pulling her closer still. Her thoughts scattered like startled birds, leaving only the feel of him—the scrape of his stubble, the warmth of his lips, the heady thud of her heart matching his.

So much for staying poised and clever. Her grand plan to extract his secrets was fast slipping through her fingers, along with any remnants of dignity. She broke away, breathless, her thoughts a swirling mess. Focus. She had learned nothing about him yet, only felt herself sinking deeper into his thrall.

“If one were to... learn a wine’s secrets,” she panted, “how would... er, one go about it?”

His thumb traced the seam of her lips, his touch feather-light, maddening. The pressure coaxed her mouth open, and before she could think, she closed her lips around his finger, sucking gently. Her eyes fluttered shut as a fierce wave of heat overtook her. How did he know she needed this?

“To learn a wine’s secrets,” he murmured, his voice low and velvety, pooling warmth deep in her belly, “one has to keep drinking—and not shy away from the bitterness.”

Bitterness. The word lingered in her mind, an ache. Secrets were often bitter—bubbles rising inside a chest, begging to burst free.

He bit her lower lip, the sharpness catching her off-guard, then soothed the sting with his tongue, leaving her weak and unmoored. “Tasting it over and over,” he whispered. His lips brushed the delicate curve of her neck, the moist warmth of his breath drawing a shiver up her spine.

His hand drifted downward, grazing her nipple with a feather-light touch that sent heat rushing through her. She arched instinctively into him, her thoughts unraveling as her heart pounded against her ribs.

“When one has learned all its nuances...”

Nuances. Yes. More. Nuances. His hand cupped her breast, his palm warm and firm, igniting a flush that spread through her like fire.

“The wine will reveal its most precious secrets.”

“I tire of wearing the corset all the time,” she blurted, and then immediately cringed. Why had she said something so intimate? He hadn’t even asked her anything.

She glanced up at him, expecting mirth, but he only nodded, his gaze steady and understanding, as though he knew she wasn’t just talking about clothing.

“It’s a heavy thing to carry, isn’t it? The weight of what they want you to be.” His voice softened. “But I saw you playing the cello, lass. Why—”

“Why... wine?” she interrupted, her breath catching. She wasn’t ready to speak of herself, of a girl who longed to be a butterfly but lacked the wings to fly.

He blinked, his mouth quirking as though surprised by the shift. “You’re wondering why a Scotsman isn’t brewing whiskey?”

“It’s just... You seem like a man who could create anything you set your mind to. Why vineyards over any other industry?”

His gaze grew distant, as though he was weighing his words. “To make good wine, you need good soil, water, and a bit of luck from nature. No fancy degrees, no lordly titles, no judgment from men who think they’re better than you.” His voice hardened. “Wine doesn’t care where you’re from. It doesn’t need society’s stamp of approval. It’s true, even when people aren’t. Wine doesn’t judge ye.”

His words carried a surprising bitterness, roughening his tone. He turned away, reaching for another bottle, as if the motion might erase what he had revealed. “It’s like the land itself. It doesn’t care who you are or where ye come from. That’s more than I can say for most.”

Beth watched him, the weight of his words settling heavily on her chest. “Who hurt you, Boyd?” she asked softly, her voice trembling. If she ever met the person who had mistreated him, she’d find a perfect use for her newfound shear-wielding abilities.

He looked away, his jaw tightening. “No one’s powerful enough to try.” His voice was cold now, closed. “I made sure of that.”

A sharp knock at the door shattered the fragile moment, pulling them both abruptly back to reality. Beth gasped, her eyes widening as the warmth between them dissipated, leaving her feeling cold and disoriented. Boyd’s gaze shifted, guarded once again, and he rose swiftly to his feet.

“What is it, Reggie?” His voice came out deeper than usual.

“It’s Reginald, sir. The furniture for your office has arrived.”

Beth’s pulse still thrummed, her body humming with the imprint of his touch. She reached for his hand, and he pulled her effortlessly to her feet.

The room tilted unexpectedly, and she stumbled.

Strong hands gripped her waist, steadying her. “Careful there, Lady Tipsy,” he murmured, a faint smile softening the tension in his features.

Her cheeks flushed. “I’m perfectly fine.”

“Reggie Reginald, assume here. I’ll escort Miss Croft to the house.”

“It’s just Reginald, sir.”

The world seemed suspended in magic. Beth’s steps faltered as they reached the veranda overlooking the Douro River, its surface shimmering like a silver ribbon under the moon’s glow. The crisp winter air nipped at her cheeks, already flushed from the wine they had shared. Boyd’s arm around her waist steadied her, a warm anchor against the chill.

She peeked at him, admiring his handsome profile. In the moonlight, he seemed less the calculating wine tycoon and more the romantic Highlander of her dreams. Though obstinate and guarded about his past wounds, there was no denying he could stir a woman’s heart. Perhaps, in time, he would reveal those scars to her.

Boyd glanced down, catching her gaze with a half-smile. “You’re quiet. Lost in the Douro?”

She laughed softly, the sound carrying on the cool breeze. “I was remembering a scene from one of Mr. Scott’s stories—Waverley, speaking with Flora by a Highland brook.”

He arched a brow, the moonlight catching the depths of his eyes. “Adventure is only there for those who take it. Lady Beth would never allow herself to do something wild.”

The challenge in his voice stirred something restless in her. The world around her felt tilted, dreamlike, as though anything could happen in this place between the vineyards and the river. She lifted her chin, meeting his gaze with a wobbly smile. “You’re wrong, sir. I can be quite adventurous when I... when I choose to be.”

His hand tightened on her waist, his voice dropping low. “Then dance with me, Lady Beth. This is not a Scottish brook but a Portuguese river, but I bet the moon is the same here as it is in the Highlands.”

Could she allow herself such freedom? “Public displays of intoxication are unbecoming for a lady. It would mark her as wild.”

Boyd’s grin was roguish. “Only the stars are watching. A winemaker’s wife should know how tae dance by moonlight—intoxicated or no.”

“I’m not intoxicated,” she said with a huff—then promptly tripped on her hem. She would have landed in an undignified heap if Boyd’s hand hadn’t steadied her.

“Then what are ye waitin’ for, lass? If ye aren’t tipsy, you can’t be displaying nothing, can ye?”

Before she could protest or overthink, he pulled her into a slow, deliberate dance. Their movements were guided only by the faint sounds of the night and the rhythm of their shared breath. The chill in the air seemed distant, a forgotten detail, as she allowed herself to be swept away by her charming Highlander.

The silk of her gown brushed against his legs as they turned. She closed her eyes, letting herself imagine she was a heroine in one of Scott’s tales, swept into the arms of a Highlander with a soul as rugged as the hills and a heart that beat only for her.

The night spun around them in a blur of silver light and whispered breaths. She lost count of how many waltzes they shared beneath the moon, the Douro and the stars their only witnesses.

All too soon, the door to her room appeared before them, stark against the dreamlike quality of the night. It was a reminder that reality had its limits.

Boyd pushed it open with a sure hand. “I’ll tell the guests you’re indisposed and won’t be coming to dinner. Take a bath and drink plenty of water to wash away the wine.”

Beth’s fingers tightened on the doorframe, reluctant to let the night end. Her chest rose and fell as she tried to steady herself.

“Thank you,” she murmured, hesitating. Her eyes searched his face. “See you tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? Have ye forgotten your challenge tonight?”

Her eyes widened. “The challenge? But... I thought... surely you wouldn’t—”

“Ye thought I’d spare ye because ye’ve had a wee bit too much wine?” His smile was playful, but there was an edge to it that made her pulse jump.

“Enter yer room, lass, and await me there.” His voice dropped to a low, rough purr, and the sound sent heat rushing through her.

“Wait for you?”

“Aye.” His grin widened, a roguish gleam lighting his eyes as he stepped back. “A gentleman might spare a tipsy lady... but lucky for ye, I’m not a gentleman.”