Chapter Four
“There’s a lesson in this for ye, Deandra,” Sean said with a tender smile as he watched her pretty lips part in dismay.
She looked so adorably perplexed. “You knew you were going to win this bet.”
“I thought I stood a fairly good chance of it,” he admitted. “More than a good chance, or I would not have placed the wager.”
“Which you are now going to win unless this solicitor’s letter proves to be a forgery.” She turned to Mildred, who had been listening to their conversation with perked ears. “Please let Mrs. Angel know that we shall take our tea in the library with my father.”
“Aye, m’lady,” the sturdy maid said, and lumbered out, no doubt eager to report the gossip to the housekeeper.
Deandra sighed. “Are you the duke who is going to offer for me?”
He rose from his bed, ignoring the painful twinges around his stitches that were still raw because they were so new. “Aye, Deandra. Is there a doubt?”
She took a step toward him to assist him. “What would you do if I were to accept you?”
Alone with her for the moment, he wrapped her in his arms and put his lips to her curled little ear. “I would cheer quite loudly and count myself the most fortunate man alive.”
She stared up at him with eyes wide. “I wish I could believe you.”
“I may be a sinner, but I am no liar,” he said with a light frown. “Ye will only hear the truth from me, lass. Deandra…precious one…will ye—”
“Oh dear! Oh dear!”
She tore from his room and raced into Draco’s quarters.
Sean felt a bit of a fool standing barefoot and wearing a borrowed nightshirt that barely fell to his knees so that his hairy legs were exposed.
Well, they were muscled, too. And he did not have knobby knees.
Deandra was back within a moment, her cheeks quite pink and the skin at her neckline flushed as she handed him Draco’s robe and slippers.
“No, lass. I thought I made it clear that I’ll be dressing properly if I am to sit with yer father.
Set these aside for now.” He marched into Draco’s quarters, opened the doors to his friend’s wardrobe, and began to rummage through the neatly stacked piles of clothing.
“There,” he said in triumph, pulling out a coarse linen shirt and a pair of black trousers that appeared to be what Draco wore for a day’s rough work.
Deandra tsked and fussed, getting underfoot to neatly fold the clothes he’d moved aside in order to get at the garments he’d taken. “Honestly, McTavish! You strut about as though you own the place.”
“It’s a nice place. Makes me think I ought to be buying myself a property here, a nice house with a view of the sea. Ye could help me find the perfect home. Would ye like that, Deandra?”
“Mr. Priam is Moonstone Landing’s land agent. He knows the properties for market better than I would.”
“Ye are purposely avoiding my obvious intention. I’m hoping ye’d make it yer home, as well.”
She turned to him, a fiery blush on her cheeks. “You must not ask me to marry you. It’s too soon. I don’t really know you and I dare not trust you yet.”
“Few ladies would care whether or not I was a faithless hound if I turned out to be a duke. But ye’re a fussy little thing, aren’t ye? Ye’re hoping for true love. I can give ye that, lass. Ye have my solemn promise.”
“I wish I could believe you.” She busied herself another moment restoring order to Draco’s clothes.
Sean did not bother to stop her. After all, a man liked a wife who could run an orderly household.
He slipped the trousers on while she was busily distracted folding Draco’s shirts and not looking at him.
He was pleased to find the trousers fit him, so he buttoned the falls and then struggled out of his nightshirt in order to put on the linen shirt.
Deandra was still tsking and shaking her head, having now restored order to Draco’s wardrobe.
“There,” she said, and gasped upon turning toward him. “What are you doing?”
“Trying to put on the shirt,” he explained, knowing full well by the fiery blush to her cheeks that she was remarking on his naked chest. “Ye’re still gawking at me, Deandra. Like what ye see?”
“You are shameless, McTavish!” she huffed.
“Ye were the one who was gawking, and need I mention that ye have yet to avert yer eyes? I was merely attempting to dress. Will ye help me, lass? I cannot raise my left arm without it tugging on the stitches.”
She sighed, gave another little huff, then nodded. “Give me your arm.”
He held it out, allowing her to slip it in the sleeve and then gently raise it. “This is nice, Deandra.”
“What is?” she asked, trying not to brush against him. But he was too big to avoid and their bodies constantly touched as she assisted him.
“Us. Together.”
Lord, she’s so soft.
“Viscount Wimple will not be pleased to hear you say this.”
Sean frowned. “Who is Wimple?”
“The respectable gentleman who is courting me.”
He inhaled her lovely scent as she drew close once again to maneuver the shirt over his head.
Her hands felt so gentle on his chest. Not to mention her sweet little body was driving him wild. How many times had her generous bosom brushed against his arm?
Never on purpose, of course. But she had to lean into him to get that shirt on him.
He really needed to marry this girl. How was he to prove that she could trust him?
“Deandra, why are ye bothering with that Wimple fellow? He’ll never win yer heart.”
“What makes you so certain?”
“Yer eyes do not light up when ye speak of him, but look how they light up for me. Blazing fires whenever ye look at me. See, ye’re burning for me right now.”
She made a strangled sound of exasperation. “Come and meet my father, you irritating clot.”
“All right, lass. Ye know, I’m going to miss ye when I leave for London.” He had never been so reluctant to part company with anyone before.
Deandra was such a pretty thing. But his first order of business was to compare signatures and determine whether or not Crowley’s letter was real. If he were truly a duke, and the letter not forged, he would need to engage an honorable solicitor like Crawley to assist with his affairs.
He hadn’t cared about inheriting a dukedom, or ever dreamed it was a possibility until that letter arrived. And now that he’d met Deandra, it was important that she be proud of him, that he gain not only her love but her respect.
If becoming a duke could do this, then he would gladly accept the responsibility. Perhaps this was a fulfillment of his destiny. Gaining a dukedom and a wife he loved was a much better fate than being shot and almost drowning.
And yet, even as he’d struggled in those stormy waters, fate had intervened.
Would any other man have survived getting shot, tossed into the water, and then being caught up in a turbulent current that was violent enough to sink a ship?
The current had lifted him up and carried him straight to the beach at Woodley Lodge when it ought to have pulled him under and left his body to rot at the bottom of the sea.
He was an experienced sailor and knew that whatever force had saved him was no natural occurrence. The water had been odd that night, not its usual murky darkness but alive in a shimmering rainbow of colors.
Truly, one of the oddest things he had ever experienced at sea, and he’d been a sailor for a long time. He’d seen jellyfish, eels, kelp tides, and corals that shone beneath dark waters, but last night had been beyond any of those experiences.
And it had brought him to Deandra.
The lass he ached to marry.
She was staring at him again with her big eyes that could drown a man in their silvery depths. He brushed a finger lightly along her forehead to nudge back an unruly auburn curl.
“Let’s check the signatures,” he said with a rasp to his voice, “and then I’ll be honored to sit beside yer father and chat with him.”
She nodded, obviously struggling to maintain her composure because she was so worried about the old man. “Please be patient with him. You see, he isn’t what he once was. He might ramble a bit and perhaps repeat himself a time or two. More than a time or two. His mind—”
“Deandra, ye love him.” He tucked a finger under her chin and gave it a gentle tweak. “That’s all I need to know.”
She cast him a hesitant smile while nodding again.
Was she afraid he was going to be cruel to the frail man? Becoming a duke would not change his character or his code of honor. He wanted to marry Deandra, and this meant protecting her and everyone who was dear to her.
He leaned on Deandra for help walking down the hall, not because he needed the assistance, but because she offered and he was determined to take every opportunity to put his arms around her sweet body.
However, he refused to allow her to hold on to him while making his way downstairs, since that was too dangerous.
“But you might fall,” she protested.
“Aye, lass. And I will not have ye tumble along with me. But thank ye for worrying about me. Now, stand behind me because I have no intention of barreling over ye.”
“All right.”
They first went into Draco’s study and Deandra marched directly to one of the polished wood cabinets that lined the wall.
“Here’s where Draco keeps my father’s papers.
” She moved with efficiency and began to thumb through recent correspondence from Crawley and other communications that were several years older.
“Care to study them and see if the signatures look the same?” she asked, her gaze soft as she regarded him. “What do you think, Captain McTavish?”
“Call me Sean, will ye? There’s no need for formality between us, not after ye’ve tended me so kindly and are now helping me in my quest. Besides, we’ll be betrothed soon, for I fully intend to propose to ye,” he added, ignoring the strangled protest escaping Deandra’s lips.
“Lass, ye needn’t fret. I know we are a good fit. ”
“How can you possibly be certain? We hardly know each other.”
“Ye’re wrong,” he insisted. “I cannot explain it, but do ye not see the way we are around each other?”
“Like a pair of mismatched boots?”