The suspicion that her expression was as vapid as her brainless hound’s sparked a revival of spirit. “Is that a proposal?”
He laughed comfortably and tucked her closer. The delicious scent of clean male enveloped her. “No.”
“Good.”
“When I propose, you’ll be in no doubt of my intentions.”
Even through her contentment—how pleasant on a cold night to nestle in a man’s strong arms—that stirred a prickle of alarm. “I’ll say no.”
“That is your right.”
“Why on earth should I marry?” Charlotte asked, then rushed on before Lyle reminded her that if they married, he could kiss her every day. Right now, in his embrace, that argument had a power she’d never have credited this morning. “I’m in charge of my own destiny. I answer to no man but my father, and he lets me have my way in most things. I have money, and rewarding work, and a place in the world. A husband would never permit such freedom.”
“So fear of a husband curtailing your independence keeps you lonely.”
She winced. “Lonely is such a prejudicial word. I’d rather be lonely than a slave.”
To her chagrin, he laughed. “You underestimate my sex, Miss Warren.”
“Do I? Most men want a conformable wife.”
“I can well imagine a lily-livered coward shying away from taking you on. But don’t try to tell me that you haven’t had your chances. I refuse to believe that every man in Hampshire is blind and stupid. Unless thin English blood is to blame.”
“You forget I’ve got thin English blood.”
He smiled. “There’s nothing thin about your blood, lassie. Perhaps that’s why it takes a proud Scot to see your true worth. I don’t want a milk-and-water miss at my side. I want a woman of strength and fire. A woman like you.”
Shocked, she struggled to sit up. He’d started out with the familiar teasing, but purpose had resonated through that declaration. “Nobody’s ever said anything like that to me before.”
“I want a wife to share my joys and troubles.” His Scottish burr deepened with every word. “I want a wife who meets a challenge with a sparkle in her eyes. I want a wife who gives me a run for my money.”
Inside her, something cold and cramped unfurled. “Words are cheap,” she said, as much to quash her yearning, as to dampen the urgency that turned his blue eyes to sapphire.
“Mine aren’t.”
“I don’t want to marry,” she said almost frantically, pushing away and struggling to her feet. “You can’t make me.”
“You mistake me, Charlotte.” He didn’t try to catch her, and his smile was gentle. She had a humiliating feeling that he saw through her belligerence to the confused and frightened girl beneath. “You’re not a woman to be bullied, even if I could stomach playing the autocrat.”
“But you are bullying me,” she said, knowing she was unfair. She backed away on unsteady legs, stretching a shaking hand toward the sideboard behind her.
He shook his dark head. “No, mo chridhe. You mistake me. I’m courting you.”
“I don’t want to be courted.” For pity’s sake, could she sound any more panicked?
“Try it. You might like it.”
She’d like it far too much. “I don’t know you.”
He kept smiling. “That’s the purpose of courtship, my love.”
Oh, he was a devil. A cunning, conniving, Scottish devil. He must know how that soft endearment rippled through her, demolishing all defenses.
“You’re wasting your time.” She wanted to sound resolute, but her declaration emerged as a whimper.
“It’s my time.” He studied her as he stood up. “And I’d hardly say it’s wasted. I can’t remember enjoying anyone’s company as much as I have yours.”
“You must lead a very dull life, then,” she snapped, grateful to sound more like her forthright self.
“Hardly, but today has been exceptional. We’ve had natural disasters and revelations and kisses and laughter and arguments and a shared meal, delightful for both fare and conversation. I feel like we’ve already shared a lifetime, yet it’s only midnight on our first day. I’m agog to discover what tomorrow holds.”
“With luck, the rain will stop and I can send you back where you came from.”
He didn’t take her seriously. She couldn’t blame him. “Och, but you’re a stalwart lassie.”
“No, I’m a tired lassie,” she retorted. “It’s late and I’m going to bed.”
“Sleep well,” he said and reached for her.
She jumped like a frightened rabbit. “What are you doing?”
He collected a candle from the sideboard behind her. “I’ll light you back to your room.”
“How…polite,” she said, wanting to insist she could manage. But when she met his urbane expression, the churlish response shriveled to nothing. She turned to bank down the fire, cursing the weather, stranded Scottish earls, and her own weakness.
“Miss Warren?” He gestured toward the door when she’d finished.
He’d called her Charlotte. Once. Without her permission. That soft Scots lilt turned her name into music. Despite everything, she couldn’t help regretting the decorous “Miss Warren.”
They crossed the cavernous hall, Bill’s nails clicking on the ancient tiles, then climbed the imposing stairs. Silence and shadows loomed about them. Not threatening. She’d lived in this house all her life. Any ghosts at Bassington Grange were friendly. But the air vibrated with a strange expectation, as if with every breath, something significant inched closer.
When they reached her room, Lyle waited as she brought out a candle for him to light from his.
“Good night, Miss Warren.”
Was that it?
“Good night, my lord,” she whispered. Of course she wouldn’t succumb to seduction, but it was lowering to realize that there was no seduction to resist.
Breathless, surprised, humiliatingly frustrated, she lingered outside her room and watched him disappear down the endless hallway, the light of his candle melting into the darkness.
For very good reasons, she’d placed him in the bedroom farthest from hers. How perverse now to feel forlorn that he was so far away. “Lord Lyle?”
He glanced back. Did she imagine his sudden alertness? “Aye, Miss Warren?”
“I want to ask you something.” This delay was risky, but she wasn’t quite ready to let him go.
“Anything.”
She struggled to think of a question that wouldn’t end with her flat on her back with him on top of her. “What does the A.A. stand for?”
“What?”
“In your monogram.”
An attractive note of self-mockery deepened his laugh. “Oh.”
“Well?”
“Alexander Ardmore.”
“Grand names,” she said softly, meaning it.
“Aye, names to set a mere lassie atremble,” he said, and even across the distance, she felt the warmth in his flashing smile. She clutched the doorknob to stop herself running after him and begging for a kiss.
For a long moment, he stared back. She had the uncanny feeling that he guessed how she wavered between prudence and recklessness. Then he turned away.
Once Lyle was out of sight, Bill trotted back to her. “You’re an easy mark, my fine fellow. At least one of us has some backbone.”
The terrier’s expression indicated skepticism. Maybe he wasn’t quite as brainless as she thought.
* * *
Charlotte awoke to darkness. She had no idea of the time, but the fire had burned down to a dull glow. Wind rattled the windows. Perhaps that had disturbed her, but she didn’t think so. When she rolled over, she made out Bill’s white shape in front of the closed door. Even through the gloom, she noted his watchfulness.
A faint light shone beneath the door.
Heart thumping with apprehension, and forbidden excitement, she pushed up against the pillows. It could only be Lyle, standing outside her room in the deepest
hours of the night.
Should she speak? Demand he go away?
Or would knowing she was awake encourage him to come in?
What might he do to her in the middle of a stormy night? What might she let him do?
Anticipation tightened every muscle.
How long did she sit there, holding her breath until she was lightheaded, tense as a deer sensing the hunter?
Eventually Bill gave a soft whine and settled again. The light under the door retreated. Charlotte was safe.
She lay down and drew the covers up about her chin. It seemed no fierce Scottish earl would ravish her tonight.
And her strongest reaction was aching disappointment.
Chapter Seven
* * *
Lyle lay awake, listening to the rain slap against the window. His hands curled into the sheet below him. The storm inside him vied with the one outside. The knowledge that the woman he wanted was within reach fueled a pounding demand in his blood.
What a blasted inconvenience a conscience was. All night, sin had whispered its alluring message into his ear. Had even convinced him that if he went to her room, the comely Miss Warren wouldn’t send him away. Because his deepest instincts insisted that he could make her want him, that she’d surrender her innocence in a conflagration of passion beyond anything he’d ever known.
For hours, desire had warred with honor, and almost won. He’d stood outside her room, breathing heavily, as if he’d run up a mountain.
Honor had hauled him back from the precipice.
Honor couldn’t vanquish hunger. Retreating from that closed door had been agony.
But if he used his experience—and her own barely awakened needs— against her, he didn’t play fair. The devil inside him sneered at the schoolboy statement, but he couldn’t do Charlotte Warren wrong.
What a day it had been. Just like this, destiny seized a man. He smiled out into the night. His particular destiny was breathtakingly pretty. And opinionated. And innocent. And demonstrated an intriguing talent for kissing.
Content despite his frustration, he rolled over. Tomorrow he’d pursue this unorthodox courtship, and kiss Miss Warren, and perhaps convince her to favor his suit. Challenges all.
As he closed his eyes, his hand slid under the pillow to touch the small leather case he’d kept with him since receiving it in London.
* * *
The next morning, Lyle wandered downstairs, lost in fantasies of what he’d do to Charlotte when she finally accepted him. As he was sure she must.
A search of the ground floor revealed no trace of his hostess, although he discovered a pretty but rather spineless picture of her in the dining room. It was still early—he’d never adjusted to London hours of sleeping until noon—but he knew she’d risen before him. In the drawing room, she’d tidied away the remains of their informal dinner, and the curtains were open to the pouring rain outside.
Selfishly he was grateful for the awful weather. While the deluge kept them trapped, the delectable Miss Warren was all his.
When he descended to the kitchens, he found her standing at the table, slicing the ham. A smile of sheer delight spread across his face. “Good morning, Cinderella. Lovely day.”
She glanced up with a wary expression, the barriers that had become so rickety back in place. A plain white apron covered last night’s dress, and she’d bundled that extravagant hair away from her face. The severe style suited her, revealing the pure bone structure and graceful neck.
“I do so loathe a man who is witty before nine in the morning.”
Actually his comment hadn’t been sarcastic. The mere sight of her turned the rainy morning radiant. “Good God, lassie, you’re putting me off the idea of breakfast. Cheer up.”
Her lack of welcome couldn’t dampen his happiness at seeing her. He’d never been in love before. He’d never imagined love could strike a man harder than a rock falling on his head. Harder, and with the same lack of warning. But watching the slim, golden-haired woman lit by stark gray light through the high windows, he admitted the inescapable truth. He was head over heels with Charlotte Warren.
He bent to pat Bill, who scampered up to greet him. Charlotte swiveled around to check the sausages, frying on the stove behind her. The kitchen smelled marvelous. Spicy meat. Coffee.
Coffee…
Lyle looked around and spied a pot on the bench. “May I?”
She didn’t turn. “Go ahead.”
By the time he’d poured two cups, she’d set a plate of sizzling sausages and eggs on the table. “Please start.”
Love clearly sharpened the appetite. But he waited until she sat before he took the chair opposite and began to eat. “Miss Warren, this is magnificent. I’d marry you for this breakfast alone—you don’t even have to throw in your father’s wine cellar.”
She glowered as she lifted her knife and fork. “It’s not nine o’clock yet.”
He was buttering his second piece of toast before he noticed that she wasn’t attacking her meal with the same gusto. “Too much claret last night?” he asked sympathetically.
“No.”
Lyle sat back in his chair and finished his coffee. “Then what is it?”
She rose with a sigh and scraped the rest of her breakfast into Bill’s bowl. “It’s rained all night and the low-lying fields will be underwater. I’m worried about the livestock.”
Any impulse to jocularity faded. The trouble in her eyes made him want to fight monsters for her. “I’ll go out and check.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s raining buckets, and you’re a guest.”
“An uninvited guest. All the more reason to put me to work.”
“Nevertheless, it’s not your problem. You’re welcome to sit in Papa’s library while I’m out. There should be plenty in there to keep you entertained.”
“I don’t need entertainment. I need to help you. Your problems are mine, my love.”
Charlotte must be worried indeed. She didn’t snap him down and proclaim her independence. Instead she glanced up at the windows. “It will be vile out there. Believe me, you’ll regret your gallantry.”
“Och, I won’t melt, lassie. In Scotland, we’d call this weather a heavy dew.” Not quite true. “Don’t be a wee goose, Charlotte. You’ll work better and faster with a partner.”
To his surprise, a faint smile eased her expression. “A big brute like you might come in handy.”
“We brawny laddies have our uses, you know.”
“I feel I’m taking advantage.” She removed his empty plate, venturing close enough for him to catch the fresh scent of her skin. Lavender soap. Desirable woman. The fragrance was even better than sausages and coffee.
A grunt of laughter escaped him. “Make it up to me later, when I promise any advantage taken will be mine.”
He was pleased to hear the cutlery rattle against his plate. She wasn’t so worried that she missed the promise in his statement. Still, her shoulders were straight and her tone pragmatic when she untied that devilish titillating apron. “I’ll accept your offer, then. Thank you.”
* * *
Lyle prided himself on being a braw Scot, not a soft Sassenach fribble. On his estates, he was accustomed to physical exertion. Hunting. Riding. Boating across to the mainland from the island where the family seat held pride of place. He’d always lend a hand with harvest or repairing a tenant’s cottage.
But the day that started with the animals in the outbuildings tested his endurance. At first, natural chivalry prompted him to treat Charlotte as mere decoration, but he soon realized that she was perfectly capable of keeping up with him. More, that there was far more to do than one person could handle.
An hour in the stables with feed and water buckets worked up a sweat, and Charlotte labored as hard as he did. But caring for Sir John’s coddled thoroughbreds seemed like the lap of luxury once Lyle started to trudge through driving rain to check the outside stock.
The howling wind was icy, and the rain pelted
them like freezing bullets. Mud sucked at his boots, and the grass was as slippery as glass. Wet hair plastered his head and despite his thick leather gloves, his hands soon turned numb. Even for a man in oilskins, it was like swimming the Arctic Ocean.
Most of the cattle had found shelter in open byres. If the rain persisted, keeping them fed might present problems. For now, he and Charlotte left most of them where they were, only bringing any heavily pregnant cows back to the barn. Lyle was grateful that the cows were too miserable to offer much resistance. With a wee touch of persuasion, he could coax them to go where he wanted. But nothing could combat the endless cold or keep off the rain.
He began to think of Scottish weather with a touch of nostalgia.
Charlotte toiled at his side, if not cheerful, at least uncomplaining. He tried his best to do the heaviest work, but with just two of them taking the place of an army of farmhands, it was impossible to cosset her.
They’d worked for hours and moved well beyond the house when Charlotte shouted something at him. It took Lyle several moments to realize that she was trying to get his attention. He’d hit a point where he acted purely on instinct. Every muscle ached with strain, and he’d never been so cold in his life. That included the night he’d climbed Ben Nevis with some mad university friends into a freak blizzard.
“What?” he yelled, turning from the yearling he’d wrested from the mud to see Charlotte pointing to a building barely visible through the downpour.
The gale whipped her words away, but his frozen brain kicked into motion. He reached the hut just before her and held the rickety door as she threw herself inside. The swift change from turbulence to dark, musty stillness was almost shocking. The hut had no windows and the thick thatched roof absorbed the beat of torrential rain.
“To think, they praise the gentle southern climate.” He slid back the hood on his oilskins. “This is as bad as anything I’ve seen on Silvaig.”
“What’s Silvaig?” There was a scrape of metal, then a faint flame flickered as she lit a candle. The frail light revealed that the hut was set up as a refuge.
Stranded With The Scottish Earl Page 6
