Nathan narrowed his eyes. He could wrestle it from her.
“I insist we return to the race, then I want nothing more to do with you. How dare you take advantage of me like this!”
“You wanted what happened between us as much as I did. May I remind you of your moves that Bess taught you,” Nathan growled.
She dropped her eyes.
“I must go.” Before he could stop her, she’d headed for the door.
“We are tethered, be still.”
Picking up her bonnet, he reached her, silently lowering it onto her head.
“Lift your arm so I may tie it.”
She did so, silently.
Smoothing his hair, he regathered the spoon and egg, and they stepped outside and made their way back to the path in angry frustrated silence.
“Hurry it along, Deville!”
It seemed they weren’t last. Cambridge and Warwick Sinclair were behind them. Now tied together at the wrist. Both held tankards.
“Where are the women you were attached to?” Nathan asked.
“Shumwhere,” Warwick said in singsong voice.
“What? No, she doesn’t.” Cambridge stumbled sideways, making no sense. “Utter rot.”
Clearly in the time he and Beth had been in the shed, a great deal had happened. Including the handing out of beverages. Nathan felt in dire need of one, or at least a fortifying mouthful of something to stop him thinking about Beth’s breasts and how they tasted.
“Hello, Miss Crashlow.” Cambridge bowed, his hair flopping over his forehead, so low that he stumbled, taking his brother with him.
“We can’t leave them here, surely?” Beth whispered as Cambridge righted himself.
“Do you think a wild animal would touch these two?”
“My wife got sick of me stopping to sample libations,” Cambridge said. “Wonderful woman, that one.” His smile was angelic.
“Shamantha said I was behaving like a child.” Warwick frowned.
“She loves you,” Cambridge said, suddenly serious.
“Utter rot.” Warwick listed sideways.
“Come along, gentlemen.” Beth grabbed Sinclair with her free hand. “Let’s get to the finish line.”
Nathan took one of the still-brimming tankards as it threatened to douse him. Raising it to his lips, he sipped.
“Whisky?” He looked at the men. No wonder they were three sheets to the wind.
“Drink, Deville.” Cambridge made a grand gesture with his hands and fell to his knees, taking his brother with him. Nathan helped him rise.
Surely a sip would not hurt. It may settle the turmoil inside his breeches and head. He drank, enjoying the burn as it traveled down his throat.
“You’re beautiful,” Warwick sang to Beth, who was attempting to keep him upright.
“Thank you, that is very kind of you to say,” she said in a sweet voice that she hadn’t used on him for three years, he thought sourly. He took another mouthful.
