Forever and a Day

“Silk just isn’t somethin’ men in my parts wear. Men there are poor. Some of them are very poor. There’s no need to give them a reason to hate or rob you. You bein’ an uppity Brit is goin’ to be bad enough. Men will probably fist you based on your accent alone.”

“Oh, and you plan on taking me there?” He lifted a brow. “Shall I thank you for your overall lack of concern for me now? Or later? After I get fisted?”

She rolled her eyes. “You needn’t worry. I’ll see to it you fall under the protection of the boys.”

“The boys?” He lowered his chin. “You intend on placing me under the care of your children? I assure you, madam, my mind isn’t that far gone.”

She gurgled out a laugh. He was so bizarrely adorable. “Nah, it isn’t like that at all. Though sometimes I do wonder.” She glanced toward the open doorway and lowered her voice. “They’re men who act like boys, so I call them boys, see? They’re known for havin’ a black reputation, and believe me, they live up to it, but I know how to yank their collars. I’m just makin’ sure nothin’ happens to you prior to my yankin’ those collars.”

“And who are these men to you?” He eyed her. “Are you involved with any of them?”

“Not in that way, no. They’re more like flea-ridden dogs I can’t get rid of.” She scanned his clothes again and sighed. “I’ll have Matthew loan you some of his clothes. You’re about his size. Give or take a few stones.”

He squinted. “Matthew? Who is that? Your husband?”

“No. My son.”

His lips parted. “You have a son my size? You don’t appear to be a breath over twenty.”

She grinned, tilting her face up toward him. “Thank you for that, but I’m well over twenty. I’m two and twenty.”

He scanned her face. “That still doesn’t make you old enough to have a son my size. He isn’t really your son, is he?”

“Not by birth, no.”

“So whose boy is he?” He leaned in, trailing his gaze to her lips. “And why are you taking care of him?”

She stepped back. “Don’t look at my lips.”

He stepped toward her. “I will keep looking at them until you tell me everything I want to know.”

She scrambled back, sensing that he wanted to do far more than look at them. “He’s Raymond’s boy. All right? Not mine. Raymond’s.”

“And who is Raymond?”

She glared at him. “I’m not about to tell my life story to a man who doesn’t even know his own. Now give me your hand.” She pointed. “We can’t have you wearin’ those gloves.”

He set both gloved hands behind his back and eyed her expectantly. “I don’t intend to cooperate until you tell me who Raymond is.”

“The man is dead,” she bit out. “All right? Now cease actin’ like a bogey and give me your hand.” She forcefully grabbed his arm and jerked it out from behind his back, tugging it up toward her. Digging her fingers beneath the cuff of his linen shirt, she peeled the fitted leather glove from his large hand and tossed it toward the desk.

Without any resistance, he quietly watched her strip the glove from his other hand. His large and remarkably smooth hand tightened possessively around her own.

She paused, entranced by the heat of his hand penetrating her skin. Her body seemed to drift, while her mind remained anchored and fully aware of him and that hand. There was something very different about his touch. Whilst incredibly firm and strong, it was also…soft. Slowly turning his large palm upward, she ran the tips of her calloused fingers against the smoothest masculine palm she’d ever encountered. It was as if he had never touched anything with those hands.

Georgia glanced up. “You most certainly aren’t a pirate.”

“And how do you know? I could be.”

She lifted his hand and tilted it palm upward for him to better see. “Look at your hands.”

He hesitated and lowered his gaze to the hand she held up.

She traced her fingers toward the length of his long fingertips and back toward his large smooth palm. “They’re untouched. See? If you were a pirate, you would have handled ropes and crates, which would have covered your hands in calluses. Given their softness, ’tis obvious your only trade is money.” She snorted. “That would explain why you couldn’t remember how to shave or knot a cravat. You had servants doin’ it for you.”

His mouth tightened as he tilted his hand against hers, intently observing it. “They are smooth, aren’t they?” He sounded disappointed.

She gently shook his hand, not wanting him to feel shame in what he was. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel bad. ’Tis a blessin’, not a curse, I assure you. ’Tis also the truest mark of wealth there is.”

He glanced up. “So I am a man of wealth?”

“With hands like these and silver buttons to match, you most certainly are.” She lowered her voice in warning, squeezing his hand. “Whatever you do, though, Brit, don’t tell anyone, and don’t parade that money in your satchel. You can’t be trustin’ anyone but me from here on out. You hear?”

His fingers curled and tightened around her hand, squeezing his warmth against her own. “And who are you to me?” A huskiness lingered in his uncertain tone as he searched her face. “Why do you care?”

He reminded her so much of herself when she was younger, unwilling to trust but having no other choice but to trust. Although her only family, her dear da, had disappeared many years ago for reasons she would never know, she’d see to it that this man’s family didn’t suffer in the way she had. Someone out there loved him and missed him, and she would ensure he was returned back into their arms where he belonged.

“Consider me a friend who understands what it’s like to be dependent on the love and generosity of others.” She slid her hand from his and pointed to that double row of silver buttons. “Those will have to come off, too.”

He glanced down at his waistcoat, his brows coming together. “What? The buttons?”

“Yes, the buttons. They’re silver, aren’t they?”

“I suppose they are. What of it?”

“It means you’re likely to be robbed of them.”

He fingered one of the buttons. “But they’re attached to my waistcoat.”

“Not for long they aren’t. Let me show you how it’s done over on my street.” She yanked her full skirt up to the knee, exposing the leather holster attached to her thigh, and slid a small blade out before letting her skirts drop again.

He stepped back, his eyes jumping toward the blade. “What are you doing?”

“Trust me.” She grabbed his waist and dragged him back over toward herself. “I only want the buttons.”

He grabbed hold of her wrist, twisting the blade hard and off to the side, away from himself. “All I ask is that you keep it pointed away from me.”

“Oh, cease your brayin’.” She jerked her wrist from his grasp, ignoring the sting. Firmly holding the top silver button away from the embroidered fabric of his waistcoat, she slashed the threads beneath it, catching the button with her other hand.

He searched her face, the resistance in his body waning as the edge of his full mouth quirked. “I like you.”

“Oh, do you, now?” she tossed up at him. “Let’s just see how long that lasts. Very few men like a woman with a quick tongue.”

Holding her gaze, his large hands curved around her waist, causing her to stiffen. He leaned in close, despite the blade in her hand pointing toward him, and asked softly and adoringly, “Mrs. Milton, are you really married? Or are you pretending to be? Because I find you endearing. Tongue, mind and all.” He paused and added, “I also find you to be incredibly attractive. Incredibly.”

The man had apparently lost the last of his mind and his ability to censor his own thoughts. She lowered her gaze, the heat of those lingering hands making her stomach tingle. “I’m not married anymore,” she admitted, her throat tightening at the thought of Raymond. “I was, when I was younger, but he died.”

“Ah.” His hands drifted away from her hips. “Did you love him?”