As contagious as her mirth proved, Arran couldn’t even muster a grin.
A fast, familiar growing guilt clawed its way back—for altogether different reasons.
And with this exchange that held him captivated and frustrated, Arran had confirmation to chase away all his doubts. Lucy was Campbell’s sweetheart.
Nay, not sweetheart.Betrothed. A dark, insidious bead of a sinful emotion he refused to name formed in that organ in his chest.
Lucy waved the tin cutter in front of him. “I am in awe.”
Aye. As am I.
Her eyes glowed like the brightest stars in the clearest night. “Have you seen all the ones available to your staff?”
“I’m afraid…”Bloody terrified.“I haven’t.
“Oh, you must!” Against his inner turmoil, she chatted away like they were the best of friends, united by a shared love.
Not for him. Not even at the mention of Campbell. But for those biscuit molds she carried with a reverence befitting the King’s crown.
Christ. She was even more beautiful when smiling, her dimples accentuating elegantly arched cheekbones. “I use a knife to carve the shape into a little man…” she was saying.
For the love of God, they were made of tin and wood, and she spoke of them being so far beyond her reach.
It was too much.
“My cousin couldn’t be bothered to purchase you a mold for your baking?”
His question came out harsher than intended.
It shouldn’t have come out at all.
The lady paused. She glanced up from the cutter that’d brought her such excitement. “There is no such thing as a gingerbread lad mold.”
“Oh,” he said dumbly. Arran’s jaw rippled. He’d done this. He’d extinguished the radiant light she wore like an aura about a soft, luminous figure.
And he was desperate to restore Lucy’s natural glow.
Arran cleared his throat. “Forgive me, that was rude. Sleep eludes me,”Because I had thoughts of you in my head. “And I’m a cranky sort when tired. Like Campbell.” That last admission came out not of malice but of a long running jest the McQuoid-Smiths remarked upon.
“Indeed?” Lucy’s lilting voice crept up into a question. She cocked her head at a jaunty angle. “I cannot imagine Mr. Smith cranky.”
Because Campbell was the affable sort.
Arran of old shared that with his cousin. Not anymore. Hence why it’d been Campbell who’d wooed the whimsical Lucy LeBeau, a captivating young woman who marveled over biscuit cutters.
God, longing for his cousin’s betrothed? He tamped down a grimace. And here Arran believed he’d hit the lowest depths of depravity. He owed it to Campbell and Lucy to make this moment right.
“His nickname is Dragon,” he said.
Lucy’s eyebrows lifted. “Surely not!”
“Not on account he’s a fire-breathing monster, but because…” He dropped his voice for effect.
“Aye?” Lucy clung to his words like Arran were a great shanachie, those Scottish storytellers of lore long ago, and he wondered at such sweet innocence, still alive and real in this Scottish beauty.
Caught in the snare of her enthusiasm, Arran leaned closer, dipping his head towards her.
Hunger blazed fresh; his body punished him for that careless decision.
