Taming the Scot: The Scot of Honor Series

by Eliza Knight

  So many rules that the upper crust had to follow, and so many Bronwen could do without. How did they go about each day, worrying so much about this or that?

  Since the elder sisters and Euan had returned late into the night from the assembly—though Esme and Raine had predicted they wouldn’t be back until morning, so she supposed it was earlier than usual—and the youngest sisters had stayed up until nearly midnight from the impromptu party Bronwen orchestrated for them, the house was quiet.

  After finishing her breakfast, she wandered into the ballroom. The drapes were still closed, so she spun in a circle on her tiptoes, the swish of her skirts circulating air over her claves. With her eyes closed, she envisioned music, the notes tinkling on the edge of her memory. She practiced a few of the dance steps she’d seen in the book, drawn in black outlines of figures. The moves were not much different than the dances she’d done in the taverns in Edinburgh during the few times she’d been invited out before losing her parents. Though they seemed slower perhaps—wider, maybe? She couldn’t tell; she was no dancing expert by any means.

  Though she guessed the aristocrats would think their steps were much more refined, and perhaps they were. But they were also stiff. There didn’t seem to anything fun about what they did.

  Hearing the public house music in her head, she smiled and tapped her way about the floor, bringing to life in her imagination perceived happier times. She swung her body around and around, laughing softly at her antics until she collided with strong, male muscle.

  Her fingers curled into that muscle. “Oh,” she burst out, eyes popping open to find Euan smiling down at her, her hands clutching his chest.

  “Ye’re a good dancer, though I’ve no’ seen this one before. Looks fun.” The genuine pleasure in his voice, written on his face, sent her face to flames.

  “Ye’re no’ asleep,” she blurted out, feeling awkward and more than a little embarrassed at having been caught.

  “Nay. We’ve lessons, and I’ve still got an estate to run.”

  “Even after a late night?”

  “I’ll rest when I’m dead. At least that was what my da used to say.”

  Bronwen smiled and realized she was still gripping him—even more dire, his hands were resting on the small of her back. She practically leapt back, away from the heat of his body and the temptation to explore the wall of taut sinew that had collided with her.

  She folded her hands behind her back as if that were going to help her. “If ye have work to do, I’ll no’ stand in your way.”

  Euan grinned at her as if he knew her thoughts and took a step closer. Oh, but he smelled delicious. How was it fair that he should smell so good? Spicy, woodsy—temptation itself.

  “I could use some fresh air first. How about the garden lesson?”

  Goodness, but she needed fresh air too if she was going to survive. Air, the crisp breeze of morning. Something to cool down the flames in her cheeks and the rampant burbling of the blood heating in her veins. “All right.” Och, but her tongue felt thick.

  This time when he offered her his arm, she didn’t hesitate in taking it as she had the previous times. It was only after she laid her palm on his forearm that she realized what she’d done and cursed herself. It would seem she had lost all semblance of control.

  “Did ye sleep well, Miss Holmes?” He turned them toward a wall of glass doors that led out onto a patio overlooking the garden.

  “Aye.” This wasn’t exactly a lie. When she finally had fallen asleep, she’d been dead to the world. It was getting there that had taken a while.

  “Good.” He opened the door leading them out into the sunshine toward the garden.

  A gentle breeze blew at her, and for a moment, she thought to turn back to get a shawl but decided against it. The side he was on was mighty warm already.

  “And ye?” she managed to ask.

  “Quite well. I only need a few decent hours of sleep a night to function.”

  “’Tis the same for me.” Although, the indulgence of sleeping late was never an option for her. It would seem with all the burdens on Euan’s shoulders, neither had he.

  Their shoes crunched on the gravel pathway as they traversed the garden. She almost forgot they were supposed to be having a lesson, so aware was she of his strong body beside hers.

  “A garden walk is a good time to get to know your potential bride better,” she said, deciding to drag herself away from the yearning thoughts that kept trying to batter their way into her head like an enemy force, and return to the reason she was here to begin with.

  “How right ye are.” His grin was devastatingly handsome. “So, tell me, Miss Holmes, what was your biggest dream as a wee lass?”

  That was an extremely deep question, which she’d not been expecting. “My biggest dream? I do no’ think anyone has ever asked me that. And to be quite honest, I do no’ think I had one. We are all born into our worlds and things expected of us. I suppose I never had time to think of anything different.” Nor the luxury, but she kept that part to herself.

  “I can relate to that.” His expression grew serious. “I always knew that one day I’d be Laird of Drum as my da was, and perhaps even Chief of the Irvine clan, inheriting the barony, which until recently was held by my grandfather.”

  “I’m sorry for the loss of your grandfather. Who holds it now?”

  “There is some question as to whether it will be my cousin or me.” He shrugged as if it weren’t a big deal, so she didn’t pry.

  Bronwen could understand holding some things inside. “Did ye ever dream of being a soldier?”

  “Aye. Every Highlander dreams of the honor of fighting for their country.” Owen took that moment to bounce toward him with his stiff gait that longed to be spryer. Euan picked up a stick and tossed it to him.

  “I think what I longed for most was the feeling of joy without the worry of that bubble inexplicably being popped.” The words slipped out unbidden in the morning breeze. Despite having revealed something considerably intimate about herself, Bronwen managed to keep her features deceptively composed.

  Euan glanced down at her, and when she met his gaze, she didn’t feel judgment or pity there, rather an understanding. She was keenly aware of how he studied her.

  “I see we both had that same thought,” he finally said, pausing his steps to face her fully.

  She offered him a small, shy smile. “I’m still searching.”

  There was a glimmer of some indefinable emotion in his gaze, and Bronwen wished desperately to know just what it meant.

  “I think I am too on most days,” he pondered. “Though I must say since your arrival, the searching has been more and more fleeting.”

  She masked her inner turmoil at his confession but pounced on the one thing that would ease the palpable emotional tension between them. “Ah-ha! Ye snuck in the flattery lesson. Well done.”

  “I was being truthful.”

  Owen returned with the slobbery stick, offering it to his master for another throw.

  Bronwen laughed, pretending he was not being serious. “Ye’re quite the tease, Captain.”

  He reached out then, touching her elbow gently, and then his fingers slid down her arm to her wrist before reaching her hand, where he grasped her tenderly. Bronwen’s heart skittered to a stop, as did her breath.

  “I’m verra serious.” His gaze on her was intense, and as staid as they came, his tone thick and unwavering. A shiver of awareness skipped down her spine. “I want to thank ye for that gift, Miss Holmes. For having a few moments where the weight of my world did no’ feel as if it was pushing me into the ground.”

  My goodness. But her tongue felt twisted, and she was at a loss for any words that might be remotely coherent. At last, she managed to remember the essence of language. “Well, then I suppose I ought to thank ye too for the verra same thing. Being here,” she glanced back at the castle, “with ye and your family has been a reprieve, believe it or no’.” She laughed, a little nervous
at how much she’d revealed and how much she’d learned. What did it all mean? “Ye might find your sisters troublesome, but I find them to be a delight.”

  “Give it another week,” he teased, breaking the tension for a moment.

  If only she could give it a lifetime.

  Her skin flushed at that thought. She stared toward the ground to hide her face, her emotion. There was no way she could allow herself to continue these sorts of ridiculous, fanciful contemplations. This was not a life she’d ever have, and the people here were only a fleeting, passing moment in the span of her existence.

  Euan pressed a finger to her chin, gradually guiding her face back up, revealing the blush she was certain still stained her cheeks. Blue eyes probed hers. And suddenly, she was back in the drawing room when his sister had caught them about to kiss. The softest brush of his lips had been about to be hers…and then nothing. But right now, gazing deeply within his soul, she wanted to melt into him.

  “This is the part where I beg ye to let me kiss ye,” he murmured, eyes growing hooded, his voice sensual and alluring.

  “What?” The question barely escaped her mouth. She knew what he wanted, and she wanted it too, but there still seemed to be some thread within her that was not a lunatic and wanted to question what he was thinking and what she was contemplating in return.

  “I know it’s against the rules,” he said, his fingers trailing over her jawline, “and that I’ll get failing marks for asking, but dammit, Bronwen Holmes, I’ve been wanting to kiss ye for days.”

  This was the man she’d been warned about, even by his own tongue. The charmer. The seducer. The man who had many lovers and took pride in the sport of his conquests. But that was not all she knew him to be. Oh, nay, she knew so much more. Perhaps more than most. Especially what he’d confessed to her here and now.

  And she wanted to kiss him too. Wanted to feel the slide of his mouth on hers, the heat of his muscled body pressed to chest, her hips. If only she could say aye, if only she could—

  But apparently, she’d not said “nay” soon enough, for his face was descending toward hers. His lids were shuttering over his startling blue eyes, the fan of his lashes touching his cheeks. No words escaped her. And her feet remained rooted in place. Her treacherous fingers curled into the lapel of his jacket as she leaned forward, her own eyes dipping closed. Wanting this kiss as much as she needed her next breath of air.

  The blissful heat of his lips pressed to her mouth, and the world seemed to tilt on its axis. The thing she’d been longing for but denied herself even the sliver of a thought... Bronwen sighed against him as he slid his lips back and forth. Then the light, heated touch of his tongue slipped into her mouth to tangle with hers, and Bronwen thought she might float away or drop from no longer being able to hold herself upright. Either way, she was done for.

  This was heaven, glorious euphoria. A delicious and intoxicating escape from everything and everyone. Just the two of them, wrapped in each other’s arms, their passion igniting.

  Owen let out a loud woof in warning beside them and then again until Bronwen was pushing against Euan’s chest, managing to find the willpower to end the liplock. Every part of her yearned to lean back in. To not heed the warning of the dog that someone might be coming.

  Breathing hard, she met his gaze, read the intense desire there that matched her own. And she knew she needed to put a stop to it. All the reasons she’d told herself before were still valid. They were too different. She bore too many burdens to lay on his shoulders. And he needed a wife that would fit well into his life.

  “I am your governess,” she reminded him breathlessly.

  “And I am a man kissing a lass.”

  “Aye, but ye’re also a man that needs a bride. And I am no’ she.” Bronwen shook her head, let her hands fall from his chest. “The lessons are over for today.”

  “Wait, do no’ go, please,” he said as she turned away.

  But Bronwen couldn’t make herself stay. Couldn’t let herself fall into the trap of becoming his mistress when she knew he would still need a wife. That was not the life she wanted for herself. Always being second, never being fully safe.

  And so, she hurried back to the castle, up the stairs to her bedroom, and when she was there, she flung open the wardrobe and threw her gowns onto the bed. She tugged her valise from beneath the bed. She would pack, and she would slip away. The lasses of the house were going into the village today to do some volunteer work with the church. They wouldn’t notice her gone for some time, and likely Euan would give her space. At least, she hoped he would.

  “What are ye doing?”

  Bronwen turned to see Amabel standing in the doorway, her face serious as usual. Blast it, but she’d forgotten to close the door.

  Bronwen drew in a heavy breath and had to look away from Euan’s sister. “I’m packing.”

  Amabel approached the bed and put her hand on Bronwen’s, drawing her attention back.

  “Why?” Amabel cocked her head to the side, studying her with those large blue eyes that seemed to see inside Bronwen’s soul.

  “Because I do no’ think I can do more here than I already have.” That was an understatement.

  “Really? Seems like ye’ve just begun.” There was no censure in her voice, only genuine surprise.

  Bronwen ran her sweaty palms over the front of her gown. “The captain does no’ need a governess to help him find a wife. He just needs to meet the right lady.”

  “Please stay.”

  Drawn to the sadness in the lass’s voice, Bronwen stopped what she was doing to pay her more attention. “Why?”

  “I’ve never seen my brother so…lively. We’ve all been enjoying this side of him so much. He’s had so much on his shoulders—if ye only knew.” She stopped abruptly. “I think that these lessons have given him a new outlook. And perhaps if ye continue, he will indeed find the right bride. But I’m afraid if ye leave, that will never happen. And then, we’ll all be lost as he was when, well, since forever. It almost feels as if we have our brother back.”

  Lost. That was a feeling Bronwen could identify with. More often than not, she was lost, searching for herself, for where she belonged. Was it the same for Euan? But even as she contemplated that, she knew it for what it was. He’d essentially told her that in the garden.

  Amabel glided toward the bed, picking up a frock and hanging it back in the wardrobe. “A few more days. Please.”

  Bronwen sank onto the edge of the bed, unable to deny Amabel and the rest of Euan’s sisters the brother they’d longed to have back. And perhaps to give herself a few more days of that sense of belonging, of family, before she thrust herself back into the cold, hard world she knew all too well—as alone as she was the day she’d arrived.

  “All right.” Bronwen nodded, scooping up her gowns to put them back. “I’ll stay a few more days.”

  9

  He was a rogue. A bloody scamp, and he knew it.

  All day long, he’d been reliving his moments with Bronwen in the garden. The things he’d shared. The confessions she’d made, and then the kiss. The way she’d felt in his arms. God, he’d wanted to lay her down right then and there on the bloody grass and show her what pleasure was. To declare himself to her and tell her that he could protect her forever.

  And none of it would be true. Because as much as he wanted her, as much as he was feeling for her, she was not the woman he was supposed to marry. Not the woman his mother and father would have chosen for him, and certainly not the woman his grandfather had in mind to break this damned curse of a will. He would be expected to marry someone of his own station, not a governess.

  Euan had spent the rest of the day in his private gymnasium, tearing his body to shreds with his training dumbbells and the weighted bag that hung from the ceiling he used when he didn’t have a partner. He ached from the exertion; his knuckles were raw. And none of it helped to alleviate the angst.

  Now he had to go to dinner. He would see her
, and he was afraid he’d drop to his knees in front of her and declare his undying…what? Lust? Adoration?

  Euan tugged at his cravat, feeling as though it were overly tight this evening. When he passed by a window in the corridor as he made his way to the dining room and saw his reflection, the crease between his brows was more than noticeable. The frown causing his mouth to downturn made him look sour and unapproachable.

  The brooding self he was most comfortable with had returned. And he much preferred the teasing, light-hearted man he’d been of late.

  Mostly, he was disappointed in himself. Where the hell had his willpower gone? Kissing Bronwen in the garden had been a mistake. A delicious, mind-altering mistake. He should feel guilty. It was what he kept telling himself. He was a rogue, after all. Except, the only guilt he felt about the kiss was how upset she’d been after. For he’d truly thought when he’d kissed her that it was for the right reasons—because he desired her, wanted her. Because she’d seemed to want it in return. The moment she’d stormed into his castle and taken the position as his governess, he’d been struck. Mesmerized. Enchanted.

  Stunned by her spirit, her quiet beauty, and the whimsical way she had about her in quiet moments that made him want to creep into her mind and set up camp in that faraway place. The way he felt the overwhelming urge to protect her. To fight all of her demons. And that the very idea of her leaving, disappearing from his life forever, sent tremors of dread to coil around his spine.

  But instead of telling her that, trying to explain and see if she might return any of those sentiments, he’d planted his mouth on her as the lecherous lout he was and demanded something from her she wasn’t willing to or interested in giving. He’d shown her exactly who she thought he was.

  Which hadn’t seemed to matter because she had pulled him closer…had sighed against his mouth. Had kissed him back—quite enthusiastically.

  There was more at work here than simple denial. It was likely the heavy truth that sat on both their heads. She was on the run from something that scared her—which he’d yet to uncover—and he had a pistol pointed at his head to find a bride, fall in love and procreate.