6. Chapter 6

Chapter six

"Elegance shines brightest when paired with quiet determination." From The Polite Companion: A Lady’s Guide to Social Grace

“ W ork those legs, Miss Croft. I promise your first challenge will be more entertaining than being stuck in a stifling ballroom,” Mr. Sandeman’s voice rang out ahead, more taunting than encouraging.

“I suppose a winemaker’s wife must be quick on her feet, then, Mr. Sandeman?” she yelled at his back, hoping he’d slow his brisk steps. If only the Scotsman had shorter legs—or wore a kilt—then she wouldn’t have so much trouble keeping up.

Still, if he thought a few rocks and several leagues of walking would make her give up, he was sorely mistaken. Whatever rustic challenge he proposed, she would pass.

“Quick feet, brawny arms, and a stomach for bad wine. I hope you’re prepared.”

“Well then, traipsing through rocks. How romantic.” She looked back longingly at the house, now a speck down the hill. “Exactly what I envisioned when I imagined the allure of vineyards...”

“I can hear you, Miss Croft. These terraces are from Roman times, and those Romans were experts in acoustics.”

“Romans? More like barbarians to me,” she mumbled.

Boyd stopped suddenly, and she bumped straight into him.

“Here we are.”

The river shimmered below, winding around the mountain and stretching to the horizon. The browns, russets, and golds of winter glowed under Portugal’s incomparable blue sky. Mr. Sandeman looked perfectly at ease among the vineyards and rustic terraces, the afternoon sun kissing his bronzed skin.

Beth quickly averted her gaze to the dangerous slopes below, a much safer location. “The view is most enchanting.”

“We didn’t climb up here for sightseeing.”

He reached for her wrist, and before she could protest, he began peeling the glove from her fingers. The gesture was so unexpected, so intimate, that she scarcely breathed. His touch was deliberate, his rough fingers brushing against the fine fabric as he slid it free. Did he know how he stirred her pulse?

A brisk breeze ruffled his dark hair. She found herself wondering, absurdly, what it would feel like to reach up and tuck that stray lock into place.

Once the glove was off, he tucked it into his pocket as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

She wanted to ask why he kept her things. Why he always took. But the words slipped away, replaced by a soft warmth spreading through her chest. She could only watch, her ungloved hand feeling strangely exposed, strangely... his.

She had been prepared for tea, polite conversation, perhaps a walk through the vineyard. But not this. Not this quiet boldness.

Boyd traced the subtle calluses on her fingers. The dull skin, muted from hours of playing, seemed to come alive under his touch.

“From the hard labor of embroidery?” he asked. “Or perhaps wielding a teacup with excessive zeal?”

He saw her only as a society lady, didn’t he? What would he think if he knew about her instrument? “Can I have my hand back now, Mr. Sandeman?”

“Not yet. I have a gift for you.”

Cold steel touched her palm.

“A scissor? How terribly romantic.”

Grinning, he tugged her toward the nearest terrace. “The vineyard is a demanding mistress, Miss Croft. A winemaker’s wife must learn how to prune the dead branches in winter, so the plant can produce the best crop in summer.”

He knelt before a row of vines. Sunlight streamed through the red and brown leaves, dancing across the schist. She cringed at how ruined his perfect trousers would be after this pointless exercise. Thank heavens he didn’t expect her to sully her sunshine dress by doing the same.

He glanced up at her, lifting his brows.

He did. God help her, Mr. Sandeman did.

Gingerly, she lowered herself beside him, carefully arranging her skirts to ensure no glimpse of her legs was displayed. “Rustic work. How incredibly appealing.”

She picked up the dratted instrument—a Greek present, more likely.

Staring at the vine before her, she grimaced. It felt almost violent, cutting the poor plant. Placing the blades against a brown twig, she pressed. The blasted thing refused to cooperate. While cuttings surrounded Mr. Sandeman’s knees, she had yet to chop her first branch.

His hands moved over the vines with an ease she couldn’t understand—but wanted to. Why did he have to make it look so effortless?

The shear slipped from her hand, snapping her nail. She sucked in a breath, barely suppressing the impulse to hurl the instrument at the Romans who built these vineyards.

Boyd raised a judgmental brow. “Has no one ever taught you how to hold a scissor, Miss Croft?”

Ridiculously, tears sprang to her eyes. Would he find fault with everything about her?

“It’s only a broken nail. It will grow again.”

“A lady’s hands should be clean and delicate.” How would she play the Variations on One String with a bruised nail?

“A winemaker’s wife has dirt under her nails. Ye’ll learn tae love it.” Boyd traced the long line of her palm, his mellow brogue caressing her as much as his words. She much preferred it to the polished tones of the tycoon.

“I doubt that.”

“Here.” He held her wrist, leaning closer.

His chest brushed her back as he positioned their hands over a withered branch. His touch was strong, rough, and steady, making her head spin.

“This one.” He guided the scissors to the brittle vine.

Together, they applied pressure, the blades snapping through the branch with a satisfying crunch.

She flinched at the sound.

“Aye, there ye go now, lass.” His hand steadied hers, guiding their movements.

The work was tiring—or perhaps it was just his presence that left her overheated. With each cut, her heart beat faster, her senses overwhelmed by the intimacy of the moment. His warmth against her back, the texture of his skin on hers, the quiet focus they shared as they pruned the sleeping vineyard.

Her world, so often defined by fine manners and polite restraint, felt impossibly small—insignificant in the face of his silent, assured presence.

When the last branch fell, he didn’t release her hands.

“See, Miss Croft,” he murmured, his lips brushing her ear, “ye’re a natural.”

His hand lingered over hers.

Beth closed her eyes. “I am?”

He stood up abruptly, and only then did she notice they had an audience. A burly worker stood nearby, waiting to speak with him.

Mr. Sandeman cleared his throat. “Find a vine, Miss Croft, and show me some progress. I’ll be right back.”

There went her brogue.

He moved away, his stride deliberate, as if eager to place distance between them.

Beth exhaled and straightened her back, her hands tightening around the shears with renewed purpose. When he returned, she would surprise him with the best-pruned vine he’d ever seen.

Her gaze swept the rows of vines until she spotted it—a particularly unruly one, its branches shooting out in every direction like defiant limbs. Its gnarled base was thick and twisted, an ancient gnome standing guard over the vineyard.

With a determined breath, she crouched beside it and began cutting. One twig fell, then another.

As the stubs dropped to the ground, something unfamiliar stirred in her chest. It wasn’t a cramp. It was... pride.

For some mystic reason, each little cut felt like a victory. The once-overgrown vine now stood bare, its knotted base exposed and its branches stripped down to thin, quivering stumps.

Let him come and see.

It wasn’t the delicate touch he had shown her—she had perhaps pruned the thing within an inch of its existence—but she had done it. She had conquered this wild, unruly thing.

Who knew I’d be so good at this?

The sound of his steps approached behind her, steady and measured. Beth shuffled backward, eager for him to admire her work.

“Well, Mr. Sandeman? Did I... pass?”

“Ye pruned an olive tree.”

The insufferable Scot raised an eyebrow, his expression as dry as the schist. “A fine job, if we were makin’ olive oil.”

The lass was giving the olive tree a glare fierce enough to wilt it, her stubborn chin quivering like it had betrayed her. She gripped the shears with knuckles that had seen more dirt in a day than they likely had in a lifetime, her ridiculous egg-yolk skirts gleaming like a bloody beacon.

Chest tight, Boyd stepped toward her. If she wanted to make a grapevine out of an olive tree, then by thunder and glen, he’d find a way to grant her wish.

The intensity of his own thoughts shook him. Was he really drooling over her entitled girl’s charms? What the devil was wrong with him? She was a delicate English doll, a symbol of everything he despised—and yet, here he was, wanting to give in to her whims like some foolish knight.

Her moist gaze lifted to him, trembling with equal parts defiance and vulnerability.

“I knew it was an olive tree,” she said.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Aye, and ye turned it tae firewood.”

He needed to leave. To put some distance between his weary boots and her teary smile before he gave in to the fool notion of brushing her frown away with his lips.

“We’d best get ye back to the house before yer new allies send an expedition.”

His shoulders tightened as he descended the terraces, his gaze fixed on the expanse below, feigning interest in the land rather than the woman trailing after him.

“Mr. Sandeman, is this part of a winemaker’s attributions? To race downhill? Perhaps instead of an English lady, you should have invited a thoroughbred.”

Boyd grunted. A vision of himself riding Miss Croft like a dainty filly speared into his mind with the force of a battle charge.

Eyes forward, Boyd hastened his steps, refusing to glance back. The schist was safer. Anything was safer than looking at Beth Croft, who somehow managed to be out of place and disturbingly right among his hard-won empire.

Pruning an olive tree. What a sight. Crouched there, that impractical gown blazing like a daffodil in a thicket, her delicate fingers fumbling with the shears. A misplaced flower, stubbornly bright against the dull winter brown.

And yet, her determination—impractical and absurd as it was—carried a stubborn charm that gnawed at him.

Had she fallen behind? What an arse of a gentleman he was. No doubt her complaints about his lack of manners would find their way back to Oporto. Since when did he give a damn what those perfumed English folk thought of him?

And yet, he strained his ears for even the faintest clatter of her impractical shoes.

Halfway down the vineyard, a panicked gasp made his heart stutter. He halted, a surge of protective instinct flaring in his chest. Muscles tense, he spun on his heel just in time to see Beth flailing her arms on the terrace above him—a wild flurry of lace, her yellow gown billowing, her eyes wide as she headed straight for disaster.

Boyd lunged forward, arms outstretched.

She crashed into him, a blur of skirts, elbows, and the sharp point of a hairpin jabbing his collarbone. They went down in a tangle of limbs. Boyd’s back hit the earth with a jolt, his hands tightening around her to cushion the fall.

Her startled gasp was muffled by his coat as she collapsed against him with a force that knocked the breath from his lungs.

Her bright yellow dress splashed across the rough ground as they sprawled on the schist, both catching their breaths. Too soon, the dust settled, and Boyd found himself with Beth nestled atop his chest, her face mere inches from his.

Boyd swallowed as his pulse hammered in his ears, a traitorous rhythm that kept him all too aware of her softness. Her jasmine scent curled through him like smoke—intoxicating, unwelcome, and a heady reminder of just how foreign she was to this rough earth—and how damn well she fit against him.

He knew he should release her, sit up, make some quip to break the silence, but the words eluded him. She was close—too close.

He let out a huff.

She lifted a stray lock from her forehead, clearly struggling to keep her poise—a difficult task with her velvet bonnet askew and a twig in place of a hairpin.

Boyd bit back a grin. “So, Miss Croft, is this what they call ‘poise’ these days? Or did ye leave that behind with the rest of your wardrobe?”

She responded with a strangled sound that might have been a groan, her lips pressing together as if she could will her composure back. But the effect was ruined by the smear of dirt on her cheek and her obvious reluctance to touch the ground.

“I... I had it under control.”

“Did ye now? Then I’d hate to see what happens when ye’re not in control. My poor ribs might not survive it,” he murmured, wishing she wasn’t wearing such a thick corset so he could better feel her curves.

“I imagine winemakers do take their falls with a bit more grace than that...”

Do they? He was quite insensible to falling and grace—unless it was a fall from grace. The lass felt too good in his arms. As if she belonged there.

Get up, get away. But he couldn’t bring himself to move. What’s gotten into you?

He brushed the smudge from her cheek, his fingers lingering, marveling at the smoothness of her skin.

“I know my chest makes a fine cushion, Miss Croft, but if you’d rather settle in proper comfort, we might think about getting off the ground, aye?”

“Oh, of course.” She slid from atop him.

He was already missing her warmth when he felt a surprising resistance. Lifting his chin, he glanced down to see the bow of her skirt tied up with the placket of his trousers. The sight sent heat to his face, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

Saints preserve me.

“Seems we’re in a bit of a... knot, Mr. Sandeman,” Beth said, oblivious to how much in a knot he really was.

She tugged at the fabric, her brow furrowing as she worked the button with exasperatingly clumsy fingers.

Boyd’s jaw clenched as her knuckles brushed against his groin. The maddening sensation ignited a warmth that traveled low, settling with vengeance in his cock.

“Now, if you would just... let me...” Beth huffed, her voice full of focus and effort, utterly unaware of the telltale tension in his nether regions or the flush creeping up his neck.

He should move, pull away. But damn if he could—not when every instinct screamed to keep her close, to... what? Blast it all, the lass didn’t even ken what kind of blaze she was igniting.

A groan escaped his chest.

She paused, glancing up at him. “Are you quite all right, Mr. Sandeman? Have you a sprained ankle, perchance?”

He would have a sprained erection if she didn’t stop rubbing. “Just. Release. The. Bow. Miss Croft.”

“No need to worry. A lady is ever adept with buttons, for grace is found even in the smallest of tasks...” Her voice strained as she redoubled her efforts.

His head fell back against the earth with another groan, his breath fast and shallow.

“Honestly, Mr. Sandeman, you ought to consider the merits of less elaborate closures. These buttons are remarkably resistant.”

Resistant like tempered steel—and just as hard. Groaning like a pig to the slaughter, Boyd forced his gaze anywhere but her tempting lips, clearing his throat in a desperate attempt to regain control.

She shifted closer, leaning over his stomach. Her warm breath ruffled his shirt, teasing the skin beneath. A vision of her lips closing around him burst into his mind, forcing all the air from his lungs.

He needed to take her dainty hands out of his crotch before he took her right here, above the treacherous schist.

With both hands, Boyd snapped the cloth free. He didn’t care if he became a eunuch in the process—this torture had to end.

Beth looked up, startled.

“Maybe we’ll rethink the entire wardrobe, aye? Last thing I need is another close call with yer skirts.”

His balls wouldn’t survive another encounter.

Boyd rose with her still draped over him like an expensive doll. Placing his arms beneath her armpits, he sat her atop the terrace, her knees level with his chest. If he but lifted her skirts, he could be inside her, damn the consequences.

She needed to go back to the house. Preferably behind a locked door. And he needed a damned drink.

Straightening, Boyd rubbed his nape, fighting the impulse to reach for her again. A treacherous part of him even calculated the merits of tossing her back onto the schist just to catch her again.

Keeping her gaze trapped, he grasped her calves. Her delicate stockings bristled against his calloused palms. She gasped, a question flickering in her green eyes. She wasn’t sure what had shifted between them, but he knew damn well. His balls would be blue to tell the story later.

Boyd reached for her ankle, his fingers brushing along her calf. Her skin was impossibly soft, her foot delicate and light in his grip.

He took hold of her shoe, his movements deliberate. Her breath hitched again—he heard it and saw the way her eyes widened, uncertainty pooling in their depths.

Without a word, he grasped the heel and snapped it clean off.

“Right. Those heels of yours. A winemaker’s wife doesn’t skitter over gravel like a fawn on ice.”

“Mr. Sandeman! This is Italian craftsmanship—”

He broke the second heel, ignoring her indignant glare as he tucked the broken pieces into his coat pocket.

Before she could protest further, he caught her under her arms and placed her gently on her feet.

Beth sputtered, trying to salvage her composure as she steadied herself on her new, shortened shoes.

“There. Much better. Now, let’s return, Miss Croft. Before the others think I’ve devoured ye.”

The thought was painfully true—in want if not in action.

So bloody much for keeping his distance.

Beth dragged her feet into the bedroom and closed the door behind her. Panting, she leaned against the surface, eyes shut. Yet still, Mr. Sandeman’s jewel-blue eyes seemed to follow her, searing into her thoughts wherever she turned. Her pulse fluttered, the warmth of his touch lingering far too long for comfort.

“I see the vineyards were a resounding success, Miss Beth. Should I send for the cobbler now, or do we wait until you lose the rest of the shoes?”

Groaning, Beth turned to find Dora perched on the edge of the bed, her curious gaze traveling over Beth’s disheveled state. What a sight she must be. Beth resisted the urge to wince, though her cheeks burned as she recalled the way Boyd’s hands had gripped her ankles.

Why was the man so insufferably close and so completely... solid? If she flapped her skirts, she was sure the whole Douro schist would tumble out of her pockets.

“Mud, no heels, and hair like a windstorm hit it,” Dora continued, plucking a twig from Beth’s disheveled locks. “I’m assuming Mr. Boyd wasn’t quite as taken with your fashion choice as you hoped?”

“Oh, no, it’s not that. It’s just... he was... very close. Very, very close.” Beth’s voice dropped to a whisper as she moved toward the bed, her calves tingling with the ghost of his touch. “I’m going to lie down now. Just for a minute.” Or maybe an hour. Or until the memory of his hands faded. “Please wake me in time for dinner.”

Dora’s teasing smile vanished, replaced by a rare flicker of alarm. “Did that Scotsman hurt you? If he did, I will—”

“It wasn’t like that!” Beth cut her off, sitting heavily on the edge of the mattress. “He was helping me, but then—oh, Dora, I’ve never—”

“Fallen in the mud for a man before?” Dora grinned again. “There’s a first for everything, Miss Beth. I’m sure it’s very romantic.”

Romantic like an overturned cart in a rainstorm. Or an encounter with a lion. A big, grouchy, rugged lion... one with smoldering eyes.

“Dora, stop. This isn’t romance at all.”

“Of course not. He only swept you off your feet. Seems he’s done a fine job of that, even if he’s left your shoes behind.”

Beth sank back onto the bed, wrapping her arms around herself. “Shoes have nothing to do with this.”

It was his hands... those strong, unyielding hands that had made her feel... She shook herself, trying to banish the thought. “A marriage of convenience is just that, Dora—a union of compatible minds, not hearts.”

“Ah yes, because nothing says compatibility like tearing your heels apart in a vineyard.”

“Mr. Sandeman is no storybook knight,” Beth muttered, staring up at the ceiling. “He’s certainly no noble-hearted hero. This isn’t a fairy tale.”

She wanted to lock the thought away, to fold it neatly into some closed drawer in her mind. But it lingered, half-formed and obstinate, like the dirt still clinging to her nails.

Dora tapped her chin thoughtfully. “He had a mind to ruin your gown. Should I prepare the green one for round two? Or perhaps something sturdier next time?”

Beth huffed. “Really, Dora, I won’t allow some foolish notions to affect my goals here. One afternoon doesn’t mean anything.” She stretched on the plush bed, though she couldn’t stop herself from recalling the feel of Boyd’s rugged chest against her back.

“Doesn’t it?” Dora perched beside her, the mattress shifting under her weight. “Mud, missing heels, and one very smitten Miss Beth.”

“Smitten? Certainly not.” Beth’s scoff sounded weak even to her own ears. “I’d sooner be swept away by a thunderstorm.”

Dora laughed softly. “I thought you came here to marry the Highlander?”

“Yes,” Beth admitted, frowning. “But not to fall in love with him.”

“And is it not better to love one’s husband?”

Beth scoffed again, though this time the sound felt heavier, as though it carried a faint pang she couldn’t quite ignore. If only Dora understood the reality of society’s marriages. A woman of Beth’s class knew the heart was a piece of anatomy better kept hidden inside the corset—protected from wreckage.

A wife’s realm was the house. A husband’s, the world. And other women’s parlors.

“A wife should cherish a deep, quiet affection for her husband, grounded in respect, loyalty, and gentle devotion,” she recited, the practiced ease of the words falling hollow to her own ears.

Dora raised an eyebrow. “Respect, loyalty, devotion... sounds like you’re choosing a hunting hound, not a husband. Love, Miss Beth, is what makes you run after him through the mud and break your nails to impress him. And I’d wager you are closer to it than you care to admit.”