The Lass Who Kissed a Frog by Lee, Caroline (bookreader txt) 📕

by his words. “I’m no’…” She shook her head. “I cannae be yer lady, because I am my own lady.”

“A lady who kisses frogs.”

In exasperation, she threw up her hands. “Why are ye here? Because I warn ye, I have only to scream and four—nay, eight—large footmen will come hurtling through that door to rescue me. They’ll give ye a good thrashing and ensure ye never trespass on a lady’s thoughts again.”

He knew good and well there were only two footmen in the inn’s employ, and both were likely busy at that moment attending to guests. But a pitiful beggar, such as he was trying to be, wouldn’t know that, would he?

So he bowed again, trying for a more flattering manner, when he held out his hands to her. “Forgiveness, milady, please. Ye’d have a poor man beaten just for requesting alms?”

“Alms? What is this, the Middle Ages?” She scoffed. “I have nae money for ye. Begone.”

No money? She was wearing silk, was she not?

The thought made him bolder, and he limped closer. “Food then, milady? For a starving man?”

To his surprise, she hesitated, then glanced over her shoulder. When she sucked her lower lip in between her teeth to worry it, Roland’s eyes went wide at the way his body reacted to such a sight. Of course, since one of his eyes was trapped behind a bloody annoying layer of black wool, that only caused him to wince, then blink to dispel the discomfort.

But his cock was ignoring all the goings-on in the upper part of his head apparently. And that included his brain. Because as soon as she’d started to worry that lip between those two perfect rows of pearly teeth, his lower regions decided they verra much wanted to taste it as well.

And he realized just what a bloody nuisance this thrice-damned kilt could be.

Because there wasn’t a single thing keeping his arousal from tenting the front of the plaid material.

Shite.

Her face was still in profile, and his hands were still in front of him. Before she turned back to look at him, he dropped them to cover the damning evidence of his arousal and tried to arrange his expression into mild curiosity instead of irritation at his body’s betrayal.

Luckily, she didn’t notice. However, she surprised him by finally nodding. “Aye,” she said quietly. “I’ll have one of Mrs. Oliphant—the cook’s—assistants see if there’s any leavings to be spared from luncheon.”

His immediate response was to rebel. Leavings? Scraps? But then his brain caught up with his pride and slapped it around a bit.

Ye’re a beggar, remember? Table scraps would be a boon.

So he swallowed down his defense and bowed again. “Thank ye, milady.”

Truthfully, he hadn’t expected her to offer even that much.

He hadn’t expected her to still be talking to him to be honest, as foul as he was.

Deciding to press his luck, he asked, “And after? A place to rest my weary head, milady?”

He shouldn’t have been surprised when she rolled her eyes. “Ye cannae be asking for more charity? Food is one thing, but ye cannae stay here at the inn.”

“Och, of course.” He made a show of shuffling backward, tugging at his cap. “Ye couldnae be seen with the likes of me. Scarred and dirty.”

There was just a hint of a smile in her voice when she said, “Ye could do with a wash or three.” When he glanced up, she raised a brow teasingly and gestured to the well. “There’s plenty of water, though ye will have to share yer bath with the frog.”

She was…teasing him? Someone who looked like—like a barbarian? Dirty and disfigured, and dressed in what appeared to be a shepherd’s castoffs? That was…unexpected. Why wasn’t she reacting the way she was supposed to?

“And after I wash?” he bit out gruffly.

She sighed, then shook her head. “Mother would never allow ye to stay at the inn without pay. After ye eat, ye might as well move along, stranger.”

Truthfully, he hadn’t even expected an offer of food, but he decided to press her. “It will likely be a beautiful night, and that bench looks comfortable.”

Her perfect-blue eyes widened. “Ye cannae stay here. This is my family’s private garden. We cannae allow strange men to sleep here. If word got out…” She shook her head, then turned to climb the three stone steps to the door.

And he knew she was right, curse her. Whether he was a viscount or a beggar, a man found sleeping there would cause a scandal which very well might ruin her future.

And he couldn’t have that on his conscience, damn her.

He was about to acquiesce and shuffle his way out of the garden when she surprised him yet again. With her hand already on the door handle, she stopped and turned halfway so he could see the graceful curve of her jaw, and her achingly beautiful nose. When had he ever considered noses beautiful?

There were noses, and then there was Vanessa’s nose. Everything about her was beautiful, even the places which shouldn’t be. Hell, her little toe was likely beautiful. Her navel would be perfect of course. Her ears were graceful. The webbing between her fingers would be magnificent. Her arse was—

Nay, dinnae think of her arse.

His cock still had not recovered from the lip-sucking incident.

His thoughts had gone so far down that lewd path, he almost forgot to listen for why she’d stopped. And her words, when she spoke, shocked him yet again.

“Ye cannae stay here, but there is usually space behind the stables. On a warm night like tonight, especially after ye’ve bathed, I see nae reason ye couldnae pass the evening in relative comfort.” She opened the door. “I’ll mention it to the stablemaster.”

And then she was gone.

Roland was left staring at the closed door.

She’d offered him a place to sleep. She’d offered him food. She’d teased him and accepted his teasing with only the barest of irritation. She’d smiled at him briefly.

And he looked worse than Lyon.

He knew he looked worse because he’d