George shot a glance at the drawing room currently exploding with hoots of laughter and “don’t keep that whisky to yourself, you old termagant!” He raised his eyebrows. “I wasn’t under the impression that I had a choice, Miss Swift.”
Meg grinned. “There is that.”
“It’s good to hear Lady Marigold laughing,” George said. “It’s the first time she’s done that since we arrived.”
“She was afraid.”
“So were we.” He held out his arm and Meg took it. “Shall we, my dear? I believe the others are waiting outside.”
It was decidedthat they would walk to the village and take the carriage back, both to save time and because Dougal didn’t want to tire George, who would walk across the very sea if he thought he was being coddled in any way. He’d once taken on three street thugs to save Dougal a bash to the skull; the least Dougal could do was provide a carriage and an excuse that it would be more comfortable for everyone. When George narrowed his eyes, Meg jumped in. “Oh, that’s lovely. These are not my most comfortable walking shoes,” she said.
Her leather walking shoes were soft as butter, and worn in perfectly, like a favorite pair would be. When George snorted, Meg only shot him a sunny smile.
And that’s when Dougal knew he was truly lost.
He tried not to dwell on it, as the party made their way along the path that skirted to the ocean. Charlie and Colin were up ahead, bickering fondly. George took his time, but he always took his time. You may as well try to hurry a boulder.
The sea offered a hundred shades of blue and green and gray beneath a serene sky. Birds wheeled overhead, searching for fish below. The gentle roar of the waves was both insistent and soothing. It could not be ignored and yet did not call particular attention to itself.
Much like Meg.
She occupied an alarming amount of space in his head. The smell of mint and lemon soap, the perfect tiny stitches of the red birds and green leaves and purple flowers embroidered on everything she wore. The way she focused when she was drawing, a tiny frown between her eyes, the tip of her tongue peeking between her lips.
The glimpse of her tongue never failed to do things to him.
He’d been hungry through many a winter, but never as hungry as he was for her. For her touch, her giggle, the spot under her ear that he longed to bite, just once.
Maybe twice.
Every day.
Dougal watched her fingers twitch as she faced the sea. “You want to paint it.”
“Desperately,” she admitted. There were freckles on her nose. “See that violet there? That would be the key to it. Matching that color. Oh, and it must be glorious under a full moon.”
He wanted her to have every single thing that made her happy. The force of it staggered him more than the wind buffeting at them from the cliffside.
She smiled at him, that same wind teasing a strand of hair out from under her bonnet. It was a pretty enough bonnet, tidy, with a bright red ribbon, but it was not new. The trunk of paints the duke had sent along with Meg were the only new things about her. She was a mystery, this viscount’s daughter with the threadbare hems and sumptuous embroidery.
“I hadn’t realized how much I missed the seaside,” she continued. “My grandfather took me once when I was twelve years old. We had footraces in the sand and ate strawberry ices until our tongue went numb.”
“You must have made a sandcastle.”
“At least three,” she admitted.
“And decorated them with seashells?”
“Naturally.”
He couldn’t imagine her not bringing her unique artistic flair to everything she did, even as a child. Did she have new dresses then? She must have done.
“I made a crown of seaweed,” she added with another smile. That quiet, soft smile that made him want to scoop her right up into his arms. “It did not smell nice.”
He chuckled. “I imagine not.”
“I wanted to be a mermaid and sing a pretty song.”
“To drown men under the waves, you mean.”