“I don't know,” she whispered. His conspiratorial posture excited her. It was impossible to think that a man like him could ever be interested in a mere maid like her, but huddled close, his eyes alight with shared secrets, suddenly a maid and the physician surgeon seemed the tightest thing in the world. “But there's one thing I do know,” she said breathlessly.
He squeezed her hand. “What is it?”
“He's no gentleman like you, Arch. ”
Chapter 14
Marjorie leaned against the counter of the Cross Keys Inn, trying to appear more self-possessed than she actually felt. She hadn't been able to stop thinking about that kiss.
She cut her eyes to Cormac, negotiating with the innkeeper in his typically curt manner. Her eyes went to his hands, braced on the table before him. She remembered the feel of them, so rough from fishing and weathered from the sun, and yet they'd been so tender on her cheek, possessive at her back. She wanted those hands, wanted to feel them in other places. On her bottom, her breasts…
Blushing, she looked away.
Cormac had kissed her, and it had set her body on fire in ways she'd never before imagined. She knew what happened between a man and a woman, had even tried to picture it. But the reality was so much more. She felt agitated, unsatisfied, like there was an itch inside her body that only he could reach.
And here they were, in a rough, dockside area far from any Aberdeen she'd ever known. He'd given the innkeeper false names. He'd asked for a room for himself and his wife.
Her heart kicked in her chest.
They were about to share a room. Would that mean they were to share a bed? Would he hold her close, kiss her as he had on the beach? They hadn't spoken about it since — in fact, Cormac hadn't spoken about much of anything — but the tension between them was palpable.
Had it been a one-time weakness? Could it mean something more? Was his silence regret? Anticipation? Or was it just his way? She couldn't imagine.
She hoped it meant he was as eager as she to try one more kiss. Only this time, she'd be braver with her hands.
On the beach, she'd touched his arms, his back, but now she wished she'd had nerve enough to explore his chest. It had felt so firm and strong against her breasts. How would it feel without his shirt? She inadvertently gasped at the thought.
Cormac gave her a peculiar look and took her arm. “We'll take dinner in our room,” he told the innkeeper as they headed up the stairs.
Our room. She clung to the banister to catch herself from stumbling. Dinner in our room.
Davie, she reminded herself. This was about Davie, not the devastating man looming on the stairs above her.
He unlocked their door, revealing a small but tidy room. With one lone, small, but tidy bed. An entire flock of birds fluttered to life in her belly.
About Davie, not Cormac.
“Will we be going to investigate straightaway?” she asked, affecting a studied bravado.
“So ready to storm the docks, are you?” Tossing his small satchel on the floor, he sat on the bed to pull off his boots.
The bed frame creaked with his weight. Would it creak when they lay on it together? When he turned over in the night?
Marjorie strode purposefully to the window, suddenly feeling very warm. She struggled to unlatch the narrow shutters, trying to picture Davie. She focused on a memory of the boy — his freckled nose. Unfortunately, she could only picture Cormac, and the masculine look of his once-broken one.
“It seems to me that we could get many questions answered whilst the sailors” — she pinched her thumb in the latch and, hissing, sucked it quickly into her mouth — “whilst they go to drink at the taverns. ” Cormac rose and, reaching around her, easily unhitched the rusted hook. She felt the heat of his body along her back.
He was as cavalier and as impervious as ever, and it was maddening. Didn't he feel this, too, this itch that consumed her?
“We'd be welcoming trouble if we did,” he said matter-of-factly. “I'd rather let the blackguards drink and carouse their fill, then investigate in the early hours while they're sleeping it off. So no, Lady Brodie, we shall stay inside until the morrow. ”
“That's another thing,” she said, grateful for a new topic to gnaw upon. Specifically, the ridiculous name he'd come up with for her. She spun to face him. “Gormelia? Really, Cormac. Did you have to christen me Gormelia?
Gormelia Brodie,” she mused, shaking her head.
He shrugged. “From the Gaelic, lass. For those blue eyes of yours. ” That silenced her. She couldn't figure out if there was a compliment in there or merely a statement of fact, and it made her peevish. “How is it you get to be a nice, steadfast Hugh, and I get saddled with Gormelia?”
“We needed fake identities, Lady Gormelia. ” A smirk flickered across his face. “If we're to pose as a wealthy lord and lady in search of servants, we should have appropriately grand names. ”