Stranded With The Scottish Earl

by Anna Campbell

  “Nonetheless you cried.” He drew back to stare into her face, trying to see past her beauty to what went on in her mind. “Are you lying to make me feel better?”

  She released a choked laugh and tried to avoid his gaze. “When have I ever tried to make you feel better?”

  “When have you ever cried?”

  “Oh, curse you, Ewan. Can’t you leave it alone?” With some difficulty, she tugged free and sat up.

  “Not when you’re unhappy.” He rose until he sat in front of her.

  She scowled. “You’re going to make me admit it, aren’t you?”

  By the second, guilt and worry faded. In their place came a great happiness that turned the whole world golden. “Admit what, Charlotte?” he asked, hoping like hell he hadn’t mistaken where she was going.

  She swallowed, her slender throat working. Her voice was low and vibrant with emotion. “I had no idea it could be like that. You made me feel things I never imagined were possible.”

  “Good things?”

  “Now you’re just looking for compliments.”

  “Charlotte,” he said warningly.

  Her lips curved. “Marvelous, wondrous, extraordinary things.”

  Lyle should be happy. After all, not long ago, the thought that she wouldn’t have him under any circumstances had tormented him. Hell, not much more than a day ago, she’d baulked at letting him into the house.

  Now she’d given him a promise of marriage and commended his lovemaking. He was a fool to want more, but for one luminous moment, he’d hoped she might declare her love.

  “It’s your first time,” he said in a gloomy voice. “I’m not surprised you’re feeling a wee bit floaty.”

  She stared hard at him. “First time or hundredth time, I believe it’s something remarkable between us that made it like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like the beauty tore my soul into pieces.” Her voice was husky.

  His heart crashed against his ribs at her confession. Surely that was enough. Why couldn’t he accept what she offered? She told him everything he wanted to hear—except the most important words of all. “That’s just pleasure.”

  She gave him the familiar unimpressed look. “I’m no expert, Ewan, but I’m pretty sure that pleasure alone wouldn’t make me cry.” She bit her lip, and her eyes deepened to dark honey. “Only love could make me cry.”

  Chapter Twelve

  * * *

  Charlotte felt like she ripped out her heart and placed it like a sacrificial offering before him. Even now, after their breathtaking passion, she wasn’t sure whether Ewan was likely to stamp on it or treat it as a trophy.

  Or say the words she longed to hear.

  He liked her and wanted her. And for some absurd reason, he’d decided to marry her even before they met. None of that added up to love. Or at least the sort of love she felt for him. The persistent, passionate, painful kind.

  Particularly painful when a girl took the awful risk of declaring her feelings to a lover. And that lover treated her like some scientific oddity. And drew away as if afraid that too much contact might encourage false conclusions.

  “Say something,” she forced out, already bracing for an unfavorable reaction. Annoyance. Or amusement.

  Or worst of all, pity.

  Ewan still looked odd, as if he hadn’t quite understood what she’d said. “You love me?”

  She supposed she could pretend it was a joke. By now, he must be used to her sarcastic ways. He might almost believe her. And if he did, it would salve her pride, if not the gaping wound inside her.

  But she’d ventured this far. She wasn’t coward enough to retreat. With shaking hands, she dragged the sheet up to cover her nakedness, hoping the fragile linen might armor her against the hurt she’d invited. She pressed back against the bedhead. “Yes.”

  The blue eyes continued to measure her with almost detached curiosity. “I’m….I’m astonished.”

  Better than pity, she supposed. At least it should be. “You don’t have to love me back. After all, it’s absurd to fall in love in the space of a few days.”

  To her chagrin, a ghost of a smile played around his lips. “Absurd.”

  Anger came to her aid. Thank goodness. She’d much rather feel angry than vulnerable. “This doesn’t have to make you feel uncomfortable. I won’t cling, or pine, or make scenes.”

  “I’m not uncomfortable,” he said steadily. His expression remained enigmatic.

  “Well, good,” she said, at a loss. Her fingers tightened on the sheet. What on earth happened now? Had she expected him to tell her he loved her too?

  The shaming truth was that somewhere deep inside her, she’d hoped that if she was henwitted enough to crash headlong in love with him, he might love her back. If only a little.

  “Charlotte, I didn’t fall in love with you in a couple of days.” He spoke deliberately, making every word count.

  She flinched at his honesty. Although she supposed the truth was kinder in the long run. Even if right now, she felt like he stuck a knife into her. “You don’t have to—”

  He raised his hand to silence her. “I fell in love with you at first sight. Before I met you.”

  Bewildered, she searched his face for mockery. She liked the sound of him falling in love with her—of course she did—but he wasn’t making any sense. “I don’t understand,” she said unsteadily.

  His lips twisted with the self-deprecation that she’d found attractive from the first. “Seeing we’re in the mood for confidences…”

  Charlotte’s voice caught in her throat. She’d never felt so defenseless in her life. Should she hope? Or was he just being kind?

  Ewan rose from the bed and reached down to his coat, which lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. His nakedness didn’t seem to bother him at all.

  How she wished she could say it didn’t bother her. But that would be a lie. She was too new to all this not to find the sight of him fascinating. And stirring.

  She’d loved what he’d done to her, but now her body felt stretched and achy in unfamiliar places. After that rapturous explosion, she’d imagined she’d exhausted desire, at least for tonight. But the way his muscles rippled over his tall, lean frame turned her breathless and edgy.

  Why were they pursuing this pointless conversation? They had better things to do—and only one night to do them in, before he had to ride away to preserve her reputation. She could join Ewan on another flight to heaven—a heaven of piercing physical pleasure and no awkward questions about love.

  Charlotte swallowed to moisten a dry mouth, as he pulled something from his pocket and threw the garment over a chair. When he sat on the end of the bed, she couldn’t see what he held. Whatever it was, it was small enough to hide in the palm of his hand.

  “What are you up to, Lyle?” she asked in a suspicious tone. She was more certain than ever that he was making fun of her, however straight his face might be.

  “Here.” He extended his closed hand. She still couldn’t see what he held, but automatically she reached out to accept the offering.

  “This had better not be a spider,” she said darkly.

  He gave a short laugh. “You’re such a trusting wee lassie.”

  Frowning, she stared down at the small leather case he’d passed her. To her surprise, it was familiar. “This is my father’s.”

  “Aye.” Lyle’s voice lowered into seriousness. As ever when he was moved, the Scottish burr strengthened. As ever when he sounded so intriguingly foreign, she shivered with sensual awareness.

  “But when did he—”

  “At our last meeting in London. When he told me I was the man to make his daughter happy.”

  She blushed. “You know you did that tonight.”

  His fingers brushed her cheek. “Look inside, Cinderella.”

  Even though she knew what she’d find, she held her breath as she opened the exquisite little case with its gold chasing. Her father had commissioned the miniature
portrait of his daughter a couple of years ago as a companion piece to the picture he always carried of his late wife. A charged silence crashed down.

  Charlotte raised wondering eyes to Ewan’s face. “Tell me what this means.” She sucked in a shaky breath. “I don’t want to misunderstand. It’s too important.”

  Slowly Ewan reached out and curled his elegant hand around where she held the portrait. His voice remained grave. “It was a rainy night the first time your father took me to dinner at his club. Because of the weather, we had the dining room to ourselves. We’d met by chance at the horse sale, but as the evening progressed, we found that our immediate mutual liking showed promise of becoming genuine friendship. He’s a charming man, your esteemed papa.”

  “Yes,” she said in a faint voice. Her heart pounded so hard that she felt every beat like a blow. “He is.”

  “We spoke of one another’s families, as you do when passing a few idle hours with a stranger.”

  “And he told you that his daughter was at her last prayers and desperate for a husband?” she asked with a trace of bitterness. Despite the way everything had turned out, it still hurt to think of her father foisting her off onto a man he hardly knew.

  Ewan’s smile was gentle. “Not at all. You should know him better than that. He spoke in such flattering terms, in fact, that I was convinced he saw you with the over-generous eyes of a doting father. Yet I must admit I was curious. The daughter he described sounded strong and vibrant and clever—and interesting. Not to mention brave. It takes nerve to handle a Scotsman, I’ll have you know.”

  Her eyes narrowed, although his explanation soothed her pique. “This Scotsman in particular. So he showed you my picture, and you set off on this crazy quest.”

  Lyle’s lips twitched. “Not that day. Or at our next meetings. But in a week or so, he took me to a chophouse, and after a couple of bottles of claret, said that he wanted me to marry you.”

  “That’s mad,” she said. “Even for Papa.”

  “He admitted it was mad. And I laughed and dismissed the outlandish suggestion. Blamed it on the wine. I might be in London to find a wife, but I was more than capable of making my own choice.”

  “And you worried that my father had sought your friendship to set you up for the match.”

  “Aye, there was that, too.” His smile was rueful. “Nobody likes to feel they’ve been led by the nose.”

  “You must have wondered what on earth was wrong with me.”

  “Don’t rush me,” he said with a smile, his hold tightening. “And I wondered what was wrong with you, that your father tried to marry you off in such a bizarre fashion. I prepared to tell Sir John that he was barking up the wrong tree, and that he and his vibrant, clever, brave, strong daughter could go straight to Hades.”

  “That didn’t stop you setting out to see me.”

  His rueful expression deepened. “Och, well, then your papa produced his big guns. He showed me your picture. I took one look, and I was lost.”

  She tugged her hand free and opened the case again, staring down at her face. It didn’t seem so remarkable. “This was the reason you turned up here spouting nonsense?”

  He shrugged. “I looked at you and had the strangest feeling I saw my future.”

  She swallowed, then swallowed again. She felt like she had a boulder stuck in her throat. Stupid to be so moved by this unlikely story, but another embarrassing bout of tears threatened. “It’s only a painting. Pigment on ivory. It mightn’t even have been a good likeness. A lot of portraits aren’t.”

  “I told myself I was a fool. After all, no man falls in love with a picture.”

  “Yet still you came.”

  He spread his hands. “I couldn’t do anything else. I told myself that I couldn’t base the rest of my life on a pretty painting. Not to mention a fellow who I was convinced was a wee bit unbalanced, however entertaining a companion he might be. But everywhere I looked, I saw your face. I couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t concentrate. All entertainments palled. I was useless to man and beast.”

  She smiled faintly, as her heart settled into a steady, confident beat. “I like the idea of you struck down for love.”

  He touched her cheek with a tenderness she felt to her toes. “Cruel besom.” He glanced at her lips and she knew he wanted to kiss her.

  She raised an unsteady hand to keep him away. “Finish your story first.”

  “After a week of moping around London like a sick dog, I decided that the only cure for my humiliating disease was to see you in the flesh and prove that nothing uncanny had taken place when I saw that miniature.”

  “And what happened?” she asked, praying for him to say he hadn’t been disappointed. He’d spoken lightly of falling in love, but he was yet to say the words that every inch of her soul longed to hear.

  He gave her that smile that always made her silly. “You know precisely what happened. Miss Flora opened the door, and my fate was sealed.”

  “Oh,” she said, too stirred up to summon anything more meaningful.

  “Straightaway I saw the qualities I’d observed in the picture, the qualities your father had described. They were all there in the lassie who tried to leave me out in the rain.”

  “So you thought you’d found the perfect wife.”

  He burst out laughing and caught her hand. “My darling Charlotte, you’re bonny, but nobody in their right mind would call you a perfect wife.”

  “Is that so?” she asked in a dangerous voice. “I’ll have you know that—”

  Her scolding ended in a gasp as he lunged forward and tumbled her back against the rumpled bedding. “Now, before you fly up into the boughs, let me finish. You’re an impatient wee lass, my love.”

  She regarded him with sulky displeasure, even as happiness flowed through her veins, turning the cold night to bright summer. The sheet separated their bodies, but she could feel that, like her, he was becoming interested in more than conversation. However fascinating. “It had better be good.”

  “It is.” He kissed her with a thoroughness that stole her breath. When he raised his head, they were both panting. “I don’t want perfection, Charlotte. I want a wife who will stand up to me, and make me crazy with wanting her, and set me laughing with joy, and turn every day into an adventure. I doubt we’ll lead a quiet life, but by God, it will be interesting and worthwhile, and purposeful and passionate.”

  “And you saw all that in a tiny picture?” she asked drily, even as her heart performed somersaults.

  He smiled down at her, rolling to his side and tugging the sheet lower. “I caught a wee hint in the picture, aye. But I needed to see the original to get the full idea. And the painting did no justice to those interesting freckles.”

  She caught the sheet before it slipped below her breasts. “So say it.”

  “That’s my lassie. Implacable to the last.” His eyes were brilliant with admiration. “You still won’t take anything at face value, will you?”

  “I can’t say I feel very implacable, lying here in this bed.” She didn’t smile back. “I believe I told you I love you.”

  “Aye, you did, at that. Although you could have sounded a wee bit happier about it.”

  “Should I say it again?”

  “Aye, I’d like to hear it.”

  “Very well.” Her lips twitched, but she didn’t release the sheet. “I love you, Ewan Alexander Ardmore Macrae. I must be as mad as my father, but you’ve carved a place in my heart that belongs to you alone.”

  He nodded with satisfaction. “That’s better.”

  She cast him a sidelong glance. Dear Lord, she’d caught herself an enviable specimen of a man, even if he was far too inclined to tease. “Your turn, Lord Lyle.”

  He heaved a theatrical sigh. “You won’t let me out of this, will you?”

  “No.”

  His hand crept to the edge of the sheet, until she slapped it away. “I’m gey eager to see what’s under there.”

 
; “You know what you have to do first. Think of this as blackmail.”

  “Och, you’ll make a braw countess, Charlotte Warren.”

  “So?”

  His smile faded, and he kissed her with a depth of emotion that caught her by surprise. She shivered under the wordless worship of his lips. There was passion—as he’d said, passion was integral to their love—but there was also tenderness, and care, and something that felt like reverence.

  By the time he raised his head, she was boneless with longing and radiant with happiness. After that kiss, he didn’t have to say the words. She knew he loved her.

  Dazzled she stared up at him, lost in cobalt eyes. While she was distracted, he’d swept the sheet aside, and she lay naked to his view. She didn’t mind. With such trust between them, there was no room for shame. She basked in the searing sweep of his gaze. Her nipples tightened, and that now familiar heaviness weighted her belly.

  She waited in trembling anticipation for him to pounce. But his hand cupped one breast with the same reverence he’d betrayed in his kiss, and his expression was somber as he stared into her eyes. “I love you, Charlotte. I’ll love you forever.”

  She’d asked for the declaration. Yet still it had the power to punch her hard in the heart. She blinked away stinging tears and spoke in a choked voice. “Show me.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  * * *

  Charlotte stopped at the ancient stone bridge that crossed the brook flowing down the hill behind the house. The narrow structure was covered in weed and slime after recent submersion, but to her regret, passable.

  “I’d hoped it might still be underwater,” she said sadly, tightening her grip on Ewan’s hand. Bill who had bounded in their wake all the way, wandered off to snuffle through last autumn’s rotting leaves.

  “It’s only for a day, mo chridhe,” Ewan said, and she heard that he, too, struggled to accept their parting, however short.

  He led the bay mare. She was loaded with the initialed leather luggage that had doomed his halfhearted attempt to play plain Mr. Smith. Around them, the world was fresh and fragrant and newly washed. The sun crept above the horizon, thickening the light under the trees. The air was cold, but smelled of spring.