“Is there anything else you require?” she repeated through clenched teeth.
“Hmm… no’ particularly pleasant, but it will do for the time being,” he said. “Aye, lass, I should very much like ye to rub me feet.”
Her shock was brief; her lovely coppery eyes suddenly flashed with anger, and she bounced to her feet, staggering back away from him. “You are a…a blackguard!” she cried. “You are toying with me!”
Her indignant fury made Grif laugh. Her little gasp of rage at his laughter only made him laugh that much harder, and while he tried to contain himself, she whirled about, stalked to the settee where she’d put her things, and, grabbing them up, started for the door.
Somehow Grif managed to come out of his chair and reach her before she could escape. He grabbed her upper arm and forced her about. “Ye’ll no’ leave, lass,” he said, still trying to swallow his laughter. “Ye’ll no’ fly off in such a huff.”
“I did not come here to be humiliated!”
“No, no, of course no’,” he said, the laughter in him dying. “Ye came to merely extort.”
The woman had the good sense not to deny it, but she yanked her arm from his grasp. “As I said,” she said to the floor, “I have reasons you could not possibly understand.”
“I donna want to understand yer bloody reasons,” he said coldly. “I just want to be done with this as soon as possible, claim what is rightfully mine, and return to Scotland.” But that, he realized, was easier said than done, and he turned away from her, stalked to the table and the tot of whiskey, picked it up, and tossed it down his throat.
“I’m not trying to be indistinct,” she said. “It’s really rather a long and convoluted explanation, that’s all.”
He barely glanced at her as he went to the sideboard to help himself to more whiskey.
“I…I don’t mean to be difficult, truly.”
“Then donna be difficult,” he suggested. “’Tis no’ as if I wanted this,” he reminded her, and poured another whiskey, tossed that down, and set the glass aside.
“I understand how you must… perceive this,” she said, waving vaguely to the room. “But I am rather determined.”
Grif shrugged at her absurd attempt to justify this.
“So if you would,” she said, gesturing nervously at him, “kindly stop looking at me as if I am some sort of… doxy.”
He said nothing, just watched her fidget with the watch pinned primly to her collar. When it seemed as if she might faint from nerves, Grif said casually, “Are we quite finished for the day, then?”
“I, ah…I don’t…I suppose—”
“Good. If ye’d excuse me?”
Anna blinked big doe eyes at him, and looked, unbelievably, as if she’d been hurt. Hurt! The woman swam in an ocean of contradiction! She turned away, started for the door. He watched the way her gown moved around her shapely hips and a thought suddenly came to him.
“One thing, Anna,” he said.
She stopped mid-stride, glanced at him over her shoulder.
“Yer appearance…. When ye return on the morrow, wear something a wee bit less”—he paused there, searching for the right word—“priggish.”
“Priggish?” she exclaimed, looking down at her brown gown.
“Aye, priggish. Ye look like a vicar’s wife, ye do.”
“But this gown is the latest from Paris—”
“I donna care how fashionable or expensive it is. It doesna attract a man’s eye.”
She glanced up, her eyes wide with wonder for the first time since Grif had met her, as if she had no notion of what a man found attractive.
“On the morrow, wear something that allows a man to catch a glimpse of the promise beneath,” he said gruffly, and looked down at his feet, waiting for her to be gone.
There was no sound, nothing but silence.
When he could no longer abide the silence, he glanced up, saw that she was rooted to the floor, staring at him with those lovely eyes, eyes which, for some reason, unnerved him. “Are ye still here, then?” he asked.
That seemed to wake her from her trance, and she unthinkingly put a hand to her bodice, dipped her head demurely. “No,” she said softly. “No, I was just leaving.” And with one last, curious glance at him, she walked out the door.
Fifteen
H ow Anna managed to survive the remainder of that day and evening in the company of her family, as if nothing had happened, was just short of miraculous—the encounter with the Lying Scotsman had left her breathless, almost feverish, and she could think of nothing but those cold green eyes, the way his breath felt on her neck and his hand felt on her skin.