Ravished by Redcoats (Highland Heat Book 1) by Chera Zade Page A

“My dear lady, I fear you have a most unhealthy fascination with my undergarments…”
    ~~~
    Wearing his officer’s uniform, complete with crimson coat, Major Anderson was tall and lean, in the way of the English, with a well-bred look about him and immaculately well-kept hands that looked to be dextrous instruments of pleasure or torture, depending upon his whim. But the most astounding thing about James Anderson was the expressiveness of his face.  
    With twinkling blue eyes, and an enticing mouth that quirked up at the corner in dry amusement, he scared me quite out of my wits. “I—I’m so sorry, Major. It’s only that I thought I might’ve returned the wrong batch of laundry to you the other day.” This was the lie I’d rehearsed in case something went wrong. And of course, something had gone most disastrously wrong. I’d been caught! “I thought to remedy the situation without troubling you.”
    “Oh?” asked the Major, leaning in the doorway so as to block off my avenue of escape, should I choose to run. “You meant to make a switch, did you?”
    “Yes,” I breathed, trying to fight down the welling panic inside me. “I think I may have given you a linen shirt belonging to Captain Howard, and vice versa.”
    “Where is it, then?” he asked.
    “Where is what?”
    “The shirt you meant to switch.”
    “Oh, I meant to take yours first, of course,” I said, my mind in a mad scramble for answers. “You do outrank him, after all…”
    He laughed.  
    Most Englishmen were too bloody stuffy and serious to laugh, but the Major had a confidence about him and a lightness to his bearing. It gave me hope that I’d escape without consequence. At least until he said, “Very good. Quick on your feet, aren’t you, Miss? An adroit spy, too. If I hadn’t come up to fetch my snuffbox, I wouldn’t have noticed you.”
    “I’m not a spy . And it’s Mistress to you,” I said, because every Scots lass knew enough to pretend she was married when alone in the presence of Englishmen. It was the only thing that kept them respectful. “And I’ll thank you to remember whose roof you’re under when you make accusations, Major.”
    The Englishman startled. Not because he was ashamed of himself, no. But because, “I thought you were the proprietor’s daughter!”
    “I am!” I protested, slightly nauseated at the idea he’d think I was married to my Da. “I’m married to someone else.”
    His brow raised. “Are you now? Then where is your wedding ring?”
    “Somewhere safe. I wouldn’t want it to get lost when I’m doing chores.”
    Then he surprised me by asking, “What about your kertch?”
    The English scarcely bothered to notice the customs of the Scots and it surprised me a bit that he knew about the cloth married women wore on their heads to signify marriage. But I suppose if he’d been stationed in Scotland long enough…
    “I don’t wear one, on account that I’m a widow,” I said, raising my chin a bit. “Now, if you’re done dredging up the pain of my circumstances—”
    “Love match that ended in tragedy, was it?” he asked, with a bit of a snort. “Not at your age, it wouldn’t be. So what’s the story there? Hasty marriage to disguise your lost virtue? Or were you bartered away by an unfeeling father?”
    I gasped with offense, nearly overcome by the sudden urge to slap him across his smug face. “I’ll thank you to remember I’m a virgin, and don’t you dare give insult to my Da!”
    A slow smile spread across his face. “Ah, the temper of a Scotswoman. Very good. But you mean were .”
    “What?”
    “You were a virgin, before you married, of course.”
    I felt my face flame at what I’d let slip. “Of course, I was a virgin when I married,” I murmured, trying to fight the blush from my cheeks to be speaking so frankly of such matters with a relative stranger.
    There was a small moment of silence as the Englishman studied me. Then his blue eyes twinkled a bit.