Chapter Nineteen
Never having been much of a kirk-going sort of fellow, Hamish didn’t share her dread, but he did understand family obligations. “I shouldn’t have kept you. But I won’t regret it. Not for a moment.” He was also a realist. “Does this mean the harridans are gone?”
“They’re not harridans,” she answered hotly. “They’re my family.”
As his own family was more often a burden than a blessing, Hamish’s view of the matter was decidedly more cynical than Elspeth’s. “But that means we have more time together. ”
“I don’t know.” She looked in the direction of the kirk and bit her lip in agitation, as if she were not sure if she did not already regret the passionate interlude on the roof. “Perhaps I ought to go on now, even though I’m going to be intolerably late.”
Having been late to chapel at Castle Cathcart a time or twelve in his youth, Hamish could readily imagine the scene that would greet her if she did so—the disapproving silence coupled with pointed, probing stares. The terrible judgment.
He would spare Elspeth that, if he could. “Why don’t we make the most of the moment? It’s a perfect morning for fishing, and we can make up for the sin of missing kirk by getting fresh fish for breakfast.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Hamish,” she havered. “This is already a disaster.”
“Only if you let it be.” He did not wait for her to agree, but seized the day, and took her by the hand. “Come. I saw some old fishing tackle in your shed that I’m sure will do the trick. Come with me to the burn and I’ll teach you how to fish.”
“There’s a trick to catching fish?”
“Oh, aye. Fear not, I’ll teach you everything you need to know,” he promised, lest she be put off. “You won’t even have to get your feet wet.”
She finally put aside whatever other objections she might have had, and allowed him the pleasure of taking her by the hand, and leading her down the ladder to the shed, and following him along the rocky burn to a still pool, from whence he might instruct her.
“We’ll start with the grip. Thumb on top, like so.” It was all a ruse, the instruction, so he might have her nearer, in his arms again. He came close behind her, making a welcoming cover of his body to shelter her, to demonstrate the motion of casting. And to inhale the soothing scent of her skin. She smelled of the garden she tended so meticulously—of lemon, verbena, and mint. Of sunshine and warmth on such a blessedly bright summer morning.
He positioned himself as close against her back as instruction, if not good sense, allowed. “You’ll want to hold it thusly, Elspeth.”
Her smile was as shy and luminous as it had been the first time he had seen her in Fowl’s Close. “Thank you, Hamish. I’ll see if I can muster…”
“A firm wrist,” he advised, “you’ll want to bend the rod, and sling the line like…”—he demonstrated proper motion—“this.”
The line cast somewhat heavily into the pool on the far side of the burn, but he accomplished his goal—she was nodding, looking suitably impressed with his casting prowess. Which allowed him to move on to the next lesson.
His first kiss he placed at the side of her neck, just above the collarbone, where her skin was soft and fine and sensitive. He nipped lightly, kissing his way up to her jaw. Her head fell gently to the side, silently acquiescing to his plans for a different sort of demonstration than mere fishing.
In fact, all thought of fishing was forgotten when she arched back to meet his lips with hers. He angled his head to gently suck her bottom lip until she opened her mouth to him, unfurling like a spring flower, soft and sweet. So sweet he was unprepared for her to turn within his arms, fitting herself flush against him, kissing him back, tasting him with hungry little nips and tentatively questing tongue. His chest expanded with heat and need and a desperation to keep her by his side, in his arms. To convince her that she ought to come with him.
His arms tightened around her, pulling her closer still, drawing her down into deeper intimacy. “Darling lass,” he encouraged. “How can you want to stay here when you could have kisses always?”
She stilled, her hands going taut on his shoulders. “Always?”
“Aye. I would come to your Aunt Augusta’s house every day so we could work on the book together.” The idea was like an intoxicant. With the completion of the second book he would be assured of success. He would be free of his father’s threats, free to choose as he pleased. “Think of it, Elspeth. We could—”
But she did not want to hear his plans and possibilities. She turned away, slowly shaking her head. “Hamish. What you want is impossible for me.”
He refused to hear it. “It is not impossible. It is the easiest thing. All we have to do is return to Edinburgh.”
“Away from all this.” She shook her head, and said nothing more, while she picked up the abandoned fishing rod. “I’d best get us breakfast.”
Hamish was about to instruct her on how to gather the line, but the damned clever lass looped her line and let loose an effortlessly flawless cast that landed like the merest breath of a breeze on the surface of the dark, glassy water, and with one subtle draw, she had a fish on the hook and was smoothly reeling it in.
Humility—an emotion he rarely felt—tipped him right off his rock pedestal and into the ankle-deep water. “Well, damn me for an ass. You’re nothing short of an expert, you faker.”
“I never had to pretend, Hamish. You were too busy instructing and being clever to think—I’m a country lass who’s lived along this burn all my life.”
He waded his way to the bank to dry out, contemplate the beauty of the morning and the graceful strength of her casts, which were so quietly efficient, it was only a matter of an hour’s work of a dozen unhurried casts before she had put another two fish in the creel.
“Is there nothing you can’t do?” he asked with all seriousness. “Write books, care for ungrateful auld ladies, thatch roofs, catch fish?”
“They’re not ungrateful, she objected. “But I can’t make satisfactory jam.” Her smile was a little sad and bittersweet. “The Aunts say I haven’t the patience.”
“Ballocks.” He was instantly ready to defend her against the pecking of the crows. “You’ve exhibited a fine amount of patience with me, and even more patience and finesse with that fly rod.”
She sighed but shook her head. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“Will it? Will it get you to Edinburgh?”
“Hamish.” Her answer was only slightly more forthcoming than silence, but just as chiding. She looked up at the morning sky and the sun rising high overhead, as if only just realizing what time it must be getting on to be. “Has it gone as late as that? I really ought to get back—the Aunts will wonder and worry even more if I am not there when they get back from kirk.”
He curbed his instinct to talk her into staying and shirking her duties, and, instead, walked her back to the orchard gate. “Even if you are late, you’ll bring them a tasty breakfast.”
“I will. But here”—she scooped one of the trout out of the wicker creel, and handed it to him—“You’ll need one for your breakfast as well.”
“I do, thank you.” He tried to prolong the contact as long as he might—made sure to brush his hand along her wrist, and his fingers lingered just long enough so she might understand the pleasure he took from her touch. “I won’t try and keep you. I know I told you I would go today, but there is still work that could be done. I could have a go at shoring up those rotting eaves. The timbers—”
“Hamish. Please.” She looked up at him with the whole of her soul shining in her clear blue eyes. “Please don’t ask for things that are not in my power to give.”