He lifted his hand and rested hers in it, so his palm cupped the back of her hand. He arranged her fingers, showing her how to hold the coin easily. He murmured instructions, showing her how to twist her hand easily, how to slide the coin into her sleeve and back again.
It felt…intimate. Cozy. She laughed as the coin slid down her forearm, and he showed her how to tip her body and catch it in her palm again. She was a quick learner, and Bull couldn’t help being impressed.
Proud.
As she practiced, green eyes practically glowing with delight, he watchedher. Watched the way Rosie chewed on her lower lip as she concentrated, the way her cheeks expressed each emotion. She was beautiful, aye, but also determined. Andgoodat this.
He needed to stop being surprised.
OfcourseRosie would be brilliant at something she put her mind to. He remembered her passionate speech about knowing the sorts of things any lady learns, but her talent lying in art theory.Well, Rosie Hayle, I beg to differ.
Because he was learning that she was fooking brilliant at anything she put her mind to.
To his surprise, Bull found he wanted to be the one to teach her more. Wanted to be there as she learned more of these seemingly useless skills, and mastered them. Wanted to see her eyes light and her fist pump triumphantly when she mastered it.
Because this? This wasfun.
Shewas fun.
Fook.
At Alnwick station Rosie wrapped herself in haughtiness, the kind her motherhad explained would be expected when she entered Society. It had seemed a silly sort of lesson at the time because she knew her mother wasn’t like that any longer, and Rosie herself had never had any aspiration of being a darling of Society…
But it was useful now, to play the expected role.
She watched imperiously down her nose as Bull arranged for their luggage to be held at the station, fees and bribes passing easily from him to the porters as he laughed and joked with them. He reallywasquite impressive when it came to setting people at ease, wasn’t he? Today he wore an understated suit of nice quality, and it allowed him to fit in here on the platform.
When he joined her, he was holding a leather briefcase.
“What is in there?” she murmured as she accepted his arm to be led to a waiting cab.
He took a moment to give the address to the cabbie, then joined her. “Allie’s painting. I dinnae ken if Lord Tittle-Tattle will want to see it, but I didnae want to leave it with the other luggage.”
“Smart,” she murmured. “Our clothing and jewels can be stolen, but not the painting.”
He snorted, and she was pleased he understood her humor.
“But what if the briefcase is stolen?” Rosie nudged him with her shoulder. “Ye should find a pair of handcuffs.”
His gaze swung to her, his gray eyes holding a wicked hint of intrigue. “For what?”
“Why, in case you need to handcuff anything to anything else.”
The cab turned a corner, but Bull held himself steady, still staring. “What exactly are ye talking about here, Rosie? Because ye’re too innocent to ken about?—”
“The briefcase!” she burst out, giggling. “I meant, handcuffing the briefcase to your wrist, so it could not be stolen! What on earth did you think I was?—”
Bull sniffed and turned forward once more. “I cannae imagine what gave ye the idea I regularly keep handcuffs on my person.”
The road was following an iced-over river, but there were no tracks in the snow. Distracted by the beauty of the scenery, Rosie nudged him again. “Come now, Bull, ifanyonehad handcuffs on their person…”
Another affronted sniff. “Ye must think me depraved.”
She grinned, turned her attention back to him, and winked. “I hope so.”
Bull’s mouth dropped open and she looked forward to hearing his response to her flirtation…but the cab pulled to a stop in front of a modest estate down a narrow lane, and Bull hummed instead. “We’re some way from the main road. Come on.”
He lifted her down, paid the cabbie and sent him on his way, and led her toward Lord Tittle-Tattle’s home. Rosie assumed he’d written ahead, but when the door was opened by an elderly man, it soon became clear they weren’t expected.
