She paused, uncertain, and asked, "That is a word you've heard of, right?"
"Please, hen," he grinned, "the Scots taught the world to putt, aye? 'Tis a Scottish word forbye."
Tom approached, his mood uncharacteristically somber. "I lost the bloody ball in the rough." By the end of the front nine, he'd taken over Margaret's half of the game, yet still was well over par.
James's sister had given up feigning interest in the game, and struggled toward them, navigating her way through the bank of gorse that had swallowed Tom's ball.
"Tom"—James pinned his friend with a serious look that said he'd brook no disagreements—"you and Margaret find that ball of yours. Magdalen and I will move on." He found he wanted to spend a bit of time with her not under his sister's disapproving eye.
They crested the rise, and James bent to stick his tee in the grass. "Now, hen, if you'd be so kind as to take this shot for me…" He held his breath for a moment, then, throwing caution to the wind, shot her an exaggeratedly sultry gaze. "I'd see how smooth your stroke is."
Magda's cheeks flamed. "My stroke is just fine, thank you," she managed.
"Oh, but I'd be happy to coach you." He stood behind her. slowly drawing his fingers down her arms to take her hands firmly in his. What had begun for him as a playful challenge intensified, and he was struck with the shock of it. His voice was low in her ear when he added, " But I'll first work on your grip."
"There's really no need." Her knuckles were white beneath the light touch of his hands. "My… my grip is fine."
Magda held her ground, and yet James heard just the slightest waver in her voice. Something vulnerable. A need there, belying the self-proclaimed strength and independence of another era. He was fluent in the language of seduction, knew how to beguile a woman and what it was to feel temptation in return. But suddenly, surprisingly, this was about more than just a game.
He wanted Magda. Wanted her soft and open beneath him. Wanted to see an invitation in her eyes, and an easy smile on her face. And he'd not be satisfied until he knew what it was that had made her so severe, had hardened her so. James knew his breath was hot in her ear. It took everything for him not to nibble that delicate skin, not to trace kisses down her neck, nor draw his tongue along that creamy slope of collarbone. Not to feel her smooth flesh give between his teeth.
He was losing control. His want for her was maddening, pushing all thoughts from his mind. He found his hand smoothing the seat of her dress, cupping her in his palm. Felt himself slowly turn her in his arms.
"But…" she murmured weakly. Magda made a small noise in her throat, and it nearly unmanned him. He pulled her more tightly to him, felt the hard ridge of his cock push angrily along her hip.
He wanted to stop, knew he should stop. Yet he heard his voice, husky with desire, whisper, "Don't fret, hen, I thought we might work on your stance."
He vowed to stop at any moment, yet found that he kneaded her gently, her derrière rounded but firm in his palm, and was easing his hand slowly down between her legs. He sensed her respond to him, felt her breath, quick and shallow, on his cheek. And he found his mouth at her ear, saying, "I fear we must spread these splendid legs of yours apart if you're to "—
"I…" She stumbled out of his embrace. "You shouldn't…"
James stared at her intently, as he came back into himself. "I just came to find out about… about that monk."
"Aye," he cleared his throat. "Yes, of course." He shut his eyes tight a moment, then swept her a deep bow. "You have my sincerest apologies. That was quite boorish of me. I…" His voice was remote. "I've no idea what possessed me to such coarse behavior." And truly dumbfounded he was that a wave of such unbidden lust could overcome him, making him lose his senses in such a way.
"Do you accept?"
"What?" she responded, still reeling from his touch.
"My apology, do you accept it? It is sincere and I hope it finds your pardon." A gentle curve touched James's lips, as he willed himself back in control. He vowed to acquit himself in a manner more seemly for the Marquis of Montrose. "I do still hope to finish the game. Our Tom thinks himself a better player than he is. I'll wager this routing will take him down a peg."
Magda considered him. "You're maddening."
Taken aback, James let out a laugh, genuinely amused by her response. He'd expected her to slap him, or kiss him, but not this. Not this inscrutable dare in her voice.
"Aye, I am that."
"And you won't touch me like that again?" . "You've my word."
"And you promise to find this friar of yours who can maybe get me home?"
"Posthaste."
"All right then," she smiled weakly. "Play on."
* * *
James tossed onto his side. It was rare for sleep to elude him so. A brandy by the fire, and he was always out by the time his head hit the pillows.