“You have a boat?” Emmy raised a brow in surprise as he nodded. “Where?”
“I keep it docked in Craignure,” he told her. “The waters here are a bit shallow for a dock and the company there keeps it in good repair.”
“How big is it?”
“She’s a forty foot schooner. Excellent for short trips to the mainland and comfortable enough for a lady to enjoy. I have a small crew to navigate her so ye wouldn’t have to get your hands dirty,” he assured lest that be an issue for her. Given her usual approach to matters, he rather doubted it but didn’t want to take any chances. “What do ye say?”
Emmy narrowed her eyes. “How would we get to the boat?”
“We ride, of course,” his eyes twinkled with his response.
“Hilarious,” she muttered. The footman finally arrived with their wine and Emmy gratefully took hers thinking she might become an alcoholic if she stayed here too long. A glass of red wine a night was supposed to be good for the heart, but she’d kill for a simple bottle of Dasani or better, God help her, a Diet Coke. Looking over the rim at Connor, she waited for a response, hoping that he was only joking. “Well?”
He sighed mockingly and took his own drink as well. “I have a comfortable carriage we can use to transport us to Craignure.”
“Then I accept,” she brightened and raised her glass with a smile.
“I’m sure ye will find it most enjoyable.”
“Well, I did want to get some sight-seeing in while I was here,” she reminded.
“Aye, sight-seeing,” he parroted. The term was unfamiliar but self-explanatory, but again he was disturbed by the turns of speech and expressions she used when speaking. He didn’t think it was merely the American vernacular either. Clearly she was comfortable with the cadence of her words for she showed no hesitation in speaking or chagrin that her speech was low. There was no inkling of Scots left in her accent at all. It was most odd.
Chapter 20
“I have a question, if I might be so bold to ask it,” he started hesitantly wondering if he might be willfully destroying their truce by doing so.
“Shoot.” She took a sip of her wine but glanced up at him when he remained silent, a slight frown puckering his forehead. “That means go ahead. Ask away.”
“Yer speech patterns are most odd,” Connor offered and watched her brows rise in surprise. “I mean no offense,” he assured her quickly not wanting to prompt a fight between them.
“None taken,” she said drily. “And? There has to be an ‘and’ there.”
“And, I was wondering if all Americans speak as ye do.”
“What is wrong with the way I talk?” Emmy inquired curiously. “I realize that it isn’t as melodic as your accent, but it is easily understandable where there are some people here who are barely intelligible.”
“It is not yer accent, in itself, that I am asking about,” Connor corrected hedging a bit.
“What is it then?”
“It is more the way ye phrase things, the euphemisms you use.” He tried to explain. “The way ye say things is most unusual and often confusing.”
Emmy understood easily. “That’s American slang for you, honey,” she drawled saucily in her best southern accent.
“Slang?”
“Yes and I know you know what slang is even if you don’t understand the word. Slang is a word or saying that is taken from pop…well, popular culture of the times to describe something else.” The definition was easy but she searched her mind for an example from his time. She snapped her fingers a couple times as she racked her brain. Aha! “Like rack your brains!” She smiled in triumph. “You know that one, I bet.”
“I am familiar with the phrase, aye,” he nodded wondering where she was going.
“Well, you are not actually putting your brains on the rack, literally, right?” He agreed. “That saying is like the slang of the medieval ages.”
“Like ‘drawing the line’, for example,” Connor nodded again. “I see.”
“So the way I talk is merely the result of the age and culture in which I live,” Emmy explained. “You see?”
“I do,” he hummed into his wine. “It is unusually colorful, yer slang. I have wondered also about yer use of profanities. ‘Tis most unusual for a lady to curse so often.”
“I do not!” Emmy protested looking honestly surprised.
“Ye do,” Connor argued enjoying the look of dismay on her face. “Ye have said ‘damn’ and ‘hell’ on many occasions since arriving.”
Emmy rolled her eyes dismissively. “Well, that doesn’t count. I mean, everyone uses those words all the time without even thinking about it. Shit, too. People say that so much I don’t think it even counts anymore. ‘Oh, shit!’ ‘Holy shit!’” she exclaimed not batting an eye as he stared at her in astonishment. “People say that all the time without thinking twice. But I don’t really swear, you know?”
Connor was again torn between amusement and shock as he listened to her explanation. “What do ye consider really swearing?”
“Well, I don’t take the Lord’s name in vain if I can help it and I try very hard not to use the f-word,” she responded defensively.
“The f-word?” he questioned.
“Oh, I know you know the f-word!” she flourished her finger at him. “Everyone for hundreds of years has known that word. Women generally dislike it as a descriptor for…well,” she lowered her voice to a whisper, “sex.”
“Ahh, that word!” Connor threw his head back and laughed. “Ye don’t like that word and what it infers?”
“Tends to suck the romance right out of any situation,” she sniffed and turned her head away from him in annoyance feeling that humor was making fun of her in some way.
Connor seized the moment to lean in and whisper in her ear. “Would ye rather make love? When ye get all hot and sweaty and come apart in my
