Page 34 of Ghost of the Ton

Slowly, he rose to his feet, scraping the chair back. Then he extended his hand.

For a moment Mia stared at it, then she lowered her gaze to the scars across the back of her own hand.

“Are you quite sure, Lord MacLennan, that you wish to place yourself at risk of infection…or a curse?”

He hesitated, his eyes shining with guilt, then reached forward and took her hand.

A fizz of sensation rippled across her skin and she moved to withdraw, but he tightened his grip, curling his fingers around hers. With the pad of his thumb, he caressed her skin, and she caught her breath at a hot little pulse in her center. A low growl seemed to reverberate in his chest as a spark of gold glittered in the depths of his eyes, like a faint, pulsating star growing brighter with each heartbeat. His nostrils flared and he leaned forward, bringing his face close, and Mia caught the scent of wood, smoke, and peat—the primal scent of man and beast. Her gaze fell to his lips, and she let out a low cry as they parted and his soft, warm breath caressed her face.

“Aye, Lady MacLennan,” he said, his voice thick and low. “I am quite sure.”

His tongue flicked out and he ran it across his lower lip. Mia’s stomach curled with an unfathomable need and something swelled inside her—a knot of primal desire.

No!

Desire was not something she could surrender to—not when no man would ever find her desirable again.

Her cheeks flaming, she broke free and stepped back. But rather than relief in his eyes, she saw disappointment.

Chapter Eleven

Hamish caught his breath at the stiffening in his cock.

Devil’s ballocks—had the lass not stepped back, he’d have been in danger of kissing her, of claiming those lips.

Why had he not noticed them before, in all their moist, pink sweetness?

Because ye were staring at her scars and griping about yer loss of fortune.

Brave lass, she hid her distress well, but her eyes—those wide, expressive hazel eyes—were now bright with moisture. During their exchange, they had flashed with spirit, myriad green and brown hues with a shimmer of dark gold. Framed with dark lashes, they were extraordinarily beautiful. Not in the conventional way of lasses, but in the determination in their gaze and the undercurrent of steel.

Not once had she dissolved into tears or thrown the tantrum expected of ladies who did not get their own way—the Honorable Aurora being no exception, as Hamish had discovered not long after their first introduction when she complained about a smudge of mud on her gown.

In contrast, Euphramia had acted with a quiet dignity that set her far above the Honorable Aurora. And, come to that, above any other woman of his acquaintance, save, perhaps, his mother.

What a pity, then, that their marriage must come to an end. But she wanted it dissolved as much as he—didn’t she?

She lifted her hand, stared at the pockmarked skin as if in disbelief. Hot needles of guilt stabbed at him as he recalled her words. Her quiet request as to whether he feared the touch of her skin might curse him was not voiced as an admonishment, or a plea. It was a simple statement, based, no doubt, on the opinion of the world around her. And she didn’t voice anything that he’d not heard. Or said himself. Murdoch had referred to her last night as a filthy, pox-ridden Sassenach. And though Hamish had admonished his friend for his words, doubtless the lass had heard worse, and would do so again.

Would he have borne it with the same fortitude?

“Lass,” he said quietly, “I must beg forgiveness for—”

“It matters not,” she said, her tone businesslike. “And now, if you require nothing more from me, I’ll speak to Mrs. Bron about the arrangements.”

“Arrangements?”

“To find somewhere else to live. With your permission, of course.”

“Ye have it.”

She nodded, then moved toward the door. But he had no wish for her to leave still believing him to be the very worst of men.

“Lass.”

She turned and regarded him with her clear gaze. “Yes?”

He gestured toward her. “Did ye suffer much?”