And she was known for being direct, however polite and quiet she might dress up that directness. Right now, she was none of those things. She was only awkward and wishy-washy and hovering in the hall outside Dougal’s bedchamber like one of those ladies on a house tour. Nothing untoward about that. Or dissolute. Merely desperate.
Honestly, she should just go back to bed. Preserve the last shreds of her dignity, such as they were. It was embarrassing enough that she hadn’t managed to find the treasure. There was talk about pulling up floorboards but that could take weeks. Even tapping on the walls randomly hadn’t provided any more clues. What seven stars? What wrath? What bloody boat?
Even so, the want and the need that glittered through her would not be silenced. Nor would the certainty that if she did not take this chance, she would never have it again. Dougal would be married, and she would ease further into spinsterhood and a genteel sort of poverty that was no less insidious than any other kind of poverty. She would have pride and purpose, but not Dougal. She’d also have the Cinderella Society and her godfather which was more than many had. She wouldn’t feel sorry for herself.
But if she was going to have to eat turnips for most of her winters, she should at least have something delicious to remember, to hold out like a candle when her uncle’s neglect turned to cruelty. She could foresee it already. Years of drink and expectations were not precisely improving upon his character.
Never mind that.
Tonight was for her.
For her and Dougal, if he’d have her. She’d have to ask him first. There was no way around it. He wasn’t proving to be particularly adept at reading her mind through the thick oak door. Pity. Perhaps she should just knock and when he opened the door, she could step out of her nightclothes. Let her nakedness do the asking.
And if he refused, she would be stuck naked in the corridor.
Thank you, no.
Another tactic, then.
“If you think any harder, you might break something.”
Dougal.
Speaking from behind her. He hadn’t even been inside his bedchamber at all. All that fussing wasted, and she wasn’t one for fussing in the first place.
“Meg?”
His voice was so soft and husky that she nearly shivered. She swallowed, forcing herself to turn around before she made even more of a goose of herself. Dougal leaned against the wall, his smile crooked and curious. She wanted to kiss that mouth. Wanted it on her. Nearly said so out loud, then lost her nerve.
Damn it, she’d chased down a murderer and a traitor with nothing but her hair ribbons. She hadn’t lost her head when a treasure hunter poked her with a dagger. This ought to be simple.
“Is something the matter?”
Yes. No.
She really had to say something out loud before he called the doctor.
Diagnosed with an acute case of lust. Mortifying.
“Meg?”
“I—” she stumbled over her words, choked on them. The resulting cough was as alluring as her plain nightgown smudged with paint.
Was it too late to crawl into a hole?
Dougal took a step closer, looking alarmed as her eyes began to water. A small giggle forced its way through the coughing. She couldn’t help it. The naughty books she had read made this whole process seems much more sophisticated. Inevitable. With smoldering glances which left words unnecessary. Not whatever this was. Wordless, all because she was choking on her own awkwardness. Honestly.
“Do you need water?” Dougal asked.
“Whisky,” she croaked.
“I’ll fetch some.” He pushed into his bedroom as if she might expire on the spot. She was considering it, truth be told.
But not until she got her one night.
Her one memory no one could take from her.
She stepped into his chambers as he rushed towards her with a crystal glass filled with amber liquid. She took a single burning sip and it melted the nerves freezing her throat.