“That seems a stretch, but all right. What is the alternative?” Intriguing fingers worked on the knot of my cravat.
“Huh?”
“The alternative. Say we’re not arrested and hung, and our families live on forever, unashamed. What does that world look like?”
I forced myself to consider, even as he pulled away the starched collar of my shirt to trace lines of my neck with his tongue. “Freedom.” A home where Tom and I could be open like this—maybe not precisely like this, this was perhaps a bit too open if the hand tracing down my abdomen was any indication—but we could be together and in love and no one would care?—
And that was the precise moment where Tom and love—my love, not his—entered my head in the same context and it didn’t feel strange at all. In fact, it was natural, like breathing. And wasn’t that an absurd realization to have in the middle of a molly house discussing employment opportunities?
“Exactly,” he breathed into my ear, interrupting that nerve-racking trail of thought. “Imagine it. We could share a bed—never having to sneak away before morning. I could kiss you anywhere, anytime I wanted to. I wouldn’t have to hide the way I look at you. We could hang your paintings above our bed—hell, I could pose for one. I would never have to bite my tongue to keep from calling you sweet, precious, heart, dear, love… lover. We could have an afternoon tiff in the drawing room and no one would bat an eye, sweetheart.”
His honeyed words had my spine melting into the chair.
The vultures in the corner sensed my surrender because they nearly tripped over themselves as they reached the table again, eager for employment.
Christ, it was risky. But then, so was everything else I did with Tom. And at this point, I couldn’t, wouldn’t, have stopped that for the world.
Thirty-Three
KILMARNOCK ABBEY, EDINBURGH - AUGUST 1, 1816
TOM
Anticipation crawled along my spine.Weeks. It had been weeks since Xander and I had a moment alone that wasn’t stolen in a garden shed. Even with our new help, the wait had been agonizing.
Sorcha’s room was first. As a gentleman, I completely agreed with that choice. As a man in desperate need of privacy—well, I’d been so devastated by the pronouncement that I accidentally sawed through the dining table. Much to the amusement of Sorcha, Lock, and Murray, who’d been nearby when I lifted the board I’d been sawing to find a lengthy jagged slash in the mahogany.
Then Miss Gillan and Kenna from the molly house needed a room. It wasn’t proper for the ladies to sleep in the kitchens, not with all the other folks milling about.
Finally, Xander’s room was finished—which was thrilling right up until the moment I realized that I absolutely could not sneak past a host of folks sleeping in the kitchens and drawing room.
And so I was forced to wait another week until a third upstairs room was believably serviceable so Godfrey and Miss Gillan would not question my change of rooms.
It was a cruel sort of torture after the freedom of the molly house. But tonight… I shuddered at the thought.
For some of the staff, Xander’s retreat—pleading exhaustion—was an exercise in futility. They all knew what we were about. But there were still a few requiring the illusion of propriety.
Still, Lock had given me a knowing look when I tried—unsuccessfully—to sneak the open bottle of whiskey when I retired precisely twenty minutes after Xander. Once it became clear that I hadn’t escaped notice, I grabbed the neck more pointedly and set off.
My blood thrummed through my veins, leaving me delightfully aware of every whisper of air and caress of my clothing.
The echo when I knocked on his door was only in my head.
Xander, clad in shirtsleeves and breeches with braces hanging fetchingly about the waist, opened the door without a word but with a glance down the hall. Once I was inside, he turned the lock with a definitive snap.
“Oh, good. You brought fortifications,” he said, taking the whiskey from me. He popped the cork before taking a swift gulp directly from the bottle, followed by a gasping breath through his teeth.
“Are you nervous?” Much as I tried to mask it, my incredulity shone through.
“Of course. It’s been years. And it’s you,” he explained as he handed me back the bottle. The whiskey was cheap, its caramel flavor brief and false before the astringent bite of alcohol overwhelmed my taste buds and clawed my throat on the way down.
“You’re supposed to be the confident one in this.”
He plucked the bottle from my hand again and took another swig, wincing as he did so. “This is truly terrible. Who brought this? Lock?”
“Murray, I think.”
Apparently, it was not so terrible as to prevent him from taking another sip. “Hopefully his oil is better than his drink,” he mumbled before passing the whiskey back. “So we’re both nervous.”
