She pressed a hand to his chest. “Go to your room, Ethan. You’re drunk.”
“I am,” he hiccupped.
He continued to rest his head against the wall. Also, he may have closed his eyes.
Something tugged on his arm, waking him with a start.
“Come along, Poet. I can’t have you sleeping out here,” Allie murmured, pulling him up the stairs. “Let’s get you to bed.”
Och,he very much liked the sound of that.
He let her tug him up another flight of stairs, the scent of her perfume—exotic spices and jasmine—wafting around them. They stopped in front of a door that he vaguely remembered might be his own.
“Where is your key?” she asked.
“In my pocket, o’course.”
“Yes, but which pocket?” She raked her eyes up and down his body. “You must have at least seven between your coat, waistcoat, and trousers. And on that note, why are men gifted with such a preponderance of pockets? We women must generally make do with only one.”
He fumbled with clumsy fingers for his right waistcoat pocket, producing the key with a startled smile. “It’s a conspiracy. We have tae keep woman tied tae us somehow.”
“Pardon?” She took the key from him.
Ethan leaned his heavy head against another accommodating wall. “If we have enough pockets, then the lasses have tae stay near us, as we’re the only ones who can carry their belongings. I like tae think of it as a ‘packhorse gambit.’”
Fitting the key to the lock, she chuckled, breathy and low. “Packhorse gambit?”
“Aye, ye lasses cannae wander too far away from the packhorse carrying all your possessions.”
“Ethan Penn-Leith, you are an adorable drunk,” she said on a soft laugh.
She swung the door open.
“Thank ye,” he replied but made no move to step into his room.
The power of Allie’s person held him captive. The rosy pink of her cheeks as she smiled, the dark heft of her braid trailing over a shoulder, the red satin slippers he could see peeping out from beneath her dressing gown.
He liked her like this, he realized—mussed, soft, vulnerable.
But then, he liked every iteration of Allie.
Fiery and determined as she faced down her brother.
Sardonic and teasing as she laughed with Ethan over luncheon.
Thoughtful and reflective as they walked and discussed philosophy.
He even adored the broken bits of her. The parts that lashed out when hurt. The bravado that masked the pain of her past.
And the hidden parts she had yet to reveal? He preemptively loved those, too.
Bloody hell.
He was a shambles.
“I dinnae like being parted from yourself.” He shook his head where it rested against the wall, his gaze trailing to her lips. “I miss ye.”
“I miss you, too, Ethan.” Her expression turned strained. “But you know that Kendall will not allow . . .”
