Stranded With The Scottish Earl

by Anna Campbell

  “You never told me what that means,” she said, knowing he should go, yet not ready to say goodbye.

  The tenderness in his smile squished her heart into a ball of sentimental goo. “Aye, I did.”

  “When?” She was sure she’d remember if he had. She intended to remember every detail of the last two days until her dying breath.

  The faint glint in his eyes, visible even through the gloom, hinted at teasing. “I’m devastated that you’ve forgotten so fast, lassie.”

  “Tell me,” she said, fighting the urge to fling herself against him and beg him not to go, scandal be hanged.

  “Why, it means ‘my heart,’ and you already know that’s true.”

  “Oh.” Tears misted her vision. She’d become disgustingly weepy since she’d met Lord Lyle.

  “I’ll have to teach you the Gaelic, if you’re going to be a proper Scotswoman.”

  She strove to match his lightness. “I’m not sure how useful it will be. I can’t run around calling your crofters my heart.”

  “It will be devilish useful when you talk to the laird, my darling.”

  She tried to smile, but her face crumpled. “I wish you didn’t have to leave.”

  Compassion softened his features, and he released the reins to tug her against his chest. “I wish I didn’t, too. But for the sake of your good name, I must.”

  “How can it be so hard to let you go when we only just met?” Charlotte choked out against the steady thump of his heart, twining her arms around his waist and pressing close as if nearness might make him stay. Saraband’s bit clinked as the horse began to nose at the muddy grass.

  “Och, it’s a glorious mystery,” he murmured. “Now, kiss me goodbye, before I forget all sense and rush you down this hill and back to bed.”

  Their kiss was long and poignant, but vivid with the joy of love found and returned. It held echoes of the splendors of the night just passed.

  Charlotte felt Ewan’s regret as he raised his head. “Until tomorrow, bonny lassie.”

  “I love you.”

  “And I love you.”

  He bent for another kiss, then swung himself onto Saraband’s back. The horse, restless after two days in the stable, danced under his weight, but settled after Ewan’s Gaelic command.

  He caught up the reins. “Prepare yourself for a quick wedding, my sweet Charlotte.”

  “I will.” She came up to the horse and he leaned down to kiss her again. Deeply, and with all the longing that vibrated between them.

  He caught her face in one hand and angled it toward him. “Go, or I won’t be responsible for the consequences.”

  “Travel safely,” she whispered, placing her hand over his. Even through the fine leather of his gloves, she felt the warmth of the contact.

  “When I come back, we’ll never be parted again.”

  He straightened in the saddle and set his jaw. She knew he had to go. Better by far if the gossiping world didn’t know they’d been together during the flood.

  But dear heaven, how she hated to see him ride away when she’d only just found him. She’d been right to say love made you cry. Tears trickled down her cheeks as she stood in the woods long after Saraband’s hoof beats faded to nothing.

  Bill emerged from the trees to sit beside her. He gave a sad whine.

  “I know.” Charlotte bent to scratch behind his ears. “We don’t want him to go, do we? But he’ll be back soon. I promise.”

  She straightened. There was no time to dilly-dally, yearning after Ewan. She and Bill set off down the path at a run.

  If the crossing over the brook was clear, the way from the village would soon be open. She needed to hide all trace of Ewan’s presence, which meant changing the sheets in both bedrooms and tidying away the remains of their very late supper from the kitchen.

  It was strange, but despite a night of the wildest debauchery, she felt completely pure this morning. Love had blessed what she and Ewan had done. But she knew the world would be avid to discover Charlotte Warren’s fall—and talk about it.

  * * *

  To Charlotte’s surprise, the first person over the bridge to the manor a couple of hours later wasn’t one of the servants, but her father. Sir John leaped off his favorite gray mare with the vigor of a man half his age and hurtled through the doors with his usual brio.

  “Where’s my girl?” he bellowed, bursting into the hall and looking around the vast space with a pleased expression. “All’s fine in Bassington Lea, you’ll be pleased to hear.”

  Charlotte was crossing toward the staircase, Bill at her heels, when she witnessed this exuberant arrival. She stopped and put her hands on her hips.

  “Good morning, Papa,” she said coldly. Whatever the end result of his matchmaking, she had a bone to pick with her impulsive parent.

  Her father might be theatrical, but he was far from stupid. He lowered the arms he’d stretched out toward his daughter, and his regard turned watchful. “Is that any way to greet your father, miss?”

  “It is when he’s lost his mind.”

  “That’s doing it too brown, Charlotte.” He didn’t make the mistake of pretending ignorance. With a sigh, he swung his greatcoat from his shoulders and tossed it onto a hard wooden chair near the door. Then he began to tweak his elegant clothing, straightening his spotless cream silk waistcoat over his substantial stomach, and fiddling with his gold fob watch. All to avoid her accusing stare.

  “Do you think so?”

  Her father’s expression was sheepish when he at last met her eyes. “I can see you misunderstood my last letter. That’s why I came down as soon as I could. I need to explain.”

  “What is there to explain?” Through the open door, she saw the servants filing up the drive. After the days alone with Ewan, it felt odd to imagine her home full of people once more.

  “You’re angry with me.”

  “Yes.”

  “And hurt.”

  “Maybe,” she said, although they both knew that she was.

  Her father leaned down to pat Bill who was sniffing around his boots. “I should have phrased my suggestion better.”

  Charlotte’s lips tightened. “I doubt there was any way of saying you’d arranged a marriage without asking me that would make it better.”

  Her father chanced a step in her direction, but didn’t try to touch her. He looked genuinely distraught, although sometimes with him, it was hard to tell the difference between sincerity and artifice. “It wasn’t like that.”

  She didn’t relent. “Tell me what it was like, then.”

  “It was…” To her amazement, her father spread his hands, struggling for words. Words came to him the way swimming came to a trout. “Dash it, it’s hard to explain. And it will sound deuced insane. I met young Macrae, and a voice in my head said, ‘He’s the one for my Charlotte.’ He’s a grand fellow. I’m sure you’ll like him. All the fine London ladies are mad for him.”

  “Well, I’m glad it was love at first sight—at least for one of us.” She stifled a pang at the thought of all those fawning London ladies. “Why don’t you marry him?”

  Her father’s smile was gentle. “I fell in love with your mother at first sight, you know.”

  She did know. It was a memory he treasured and often spoke about. “That gives you no right to throw me at a stranger like an old coat that no longer fits you.”

  He frowned. “Dear girl, is that what it felt like? No wonder you look like you want to cut out my kidneys. I can only say I’m devilish sorry. I had no such intention.”

  She folded her arms and regarded him with displeasure. Out on the forecourt, one of the grooms led her father’s gray around to the stables. Groups of servants crossed the lawns and made their way to the back of the house.

  “So what exactly was your intention?”

  Her father’s expression was earnest, and much as she wanted to stay annoyed, she recognized his regret at bruising her feelings. She shifted to the side so the returning staff couldn�
��t see their discussion.

  “I just wanted you to meet Lord Lyle. God forgive me if you thought I meant to compel you into a match. You should know better. Your papa has always been a romantic.”

  “The letter was full of plans for the wedding.”

  He had the grace to blush. “I might have had a brandy or two when I wrote it.”

  “It felt like you’d already signed the settlements. It felt like you were forcing my hand.”

  “Good Lord, Charlotte, as if I’ve ever been able to make you do anything you didn’t want to.” Her father hooted with laughter. “The next time will be the first.”

  She narrowed her eyes, even as she conceded the truth of his remark. Her father went on before she could summon an objection. “All I wanted was for you to take a look at the chap. We make up our minds fast in this family. If you were set against the fellow, then I’d send him on his way.” A dismal expression descended on his still-handsome face. “And now, damn me for a thoughtless fool, I’ve gone ahead and given you a dislike for Lyle before you’ve met him.”

  Oh, what was the point in pursuing this? Charlotte realized that berating her father achieved nothing. Especially when it was clear now that he’d let his enthusiasm run away with him. He hadn’t decided it was time for his spinster daughter to marry the first eligible man who proposed. “So you don’t want me off your hands before I’ve reached my own decision?”

  “No, never, my darling girl. I just want you to be happy. I was acting in your interests, not my own. I don’t want you living hundreds of miles away in the blasted wilds of Scotland. But the more I got to know Lyle, the more I believed he was made for you.”

  She suffered his rueful expression for another moment, then stepped forward and hugged him hard. The familiar scents of bay rum and security surrounded her, reminding her that while he could be woefully impetuous, his love had never faltered. “I suppose I’ll forgive you.”

  After all, her father, annoying as it might be to admit, had been right about Lord Lyle. She had made her mind up fast. Ewan Macrae was the man for her.

  “Thank you.” Her father hugged her in return. “I know I go at things like a bull at a gate, but I just want what’s best for my lovely girl.”

  “I love you, Papa,” she muttered into his coat.

  His arms tightened. “And I love you, chicken.”

  Someone cleared his throat from the doorway, making Charlotte release her father and step back quickly in embarrassment.

  A tall figure blocked the light. A familiar tall figure.

  “Ewan—” She choked on his name, before she remembered that she and Lord Lyle were meant to be strangers.

  Stupid to be so overjoyed to see him. She’d only left him at the brook a couple of hours ago, with the promise that he’d come back to the manor tomorrow. But her heart flooded with happiness. The time apart, even so short, had hung around her neck like a noose. Now he was here, the world was full of sunlight again.

  It seemed love created its own weather.

  “Lyle, I wasn’t expecting you until next week.” When her father recognized the newcomer, his face lit with unconstrained pleasure. Bill raced toward Ewan in rapturous welcome and jumped about, demanding attention.

  Ewan looked up from patting the dog and cast Charlotte a brief, smiling glance of apology. “Sir John, I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d call.”

  “Welcome, welcome.” Her father strode forward for a hearty handshake. “You must have had a deuced soggy ride down from London.”

  “I stayed in Winchester during the worst of it.”

  “We’re all at sixes and sevens here. Place has been half underwater for two days, and all the servants have been holed up in the village, but I’m sure we can find a bed for you and give you a decent breakfast.”

  “Good of you,” Ewan said calmly.

  Her father looked past Ewan to frown at Bill. The terrier sprawled on his back, inviting Ewan to rub his belly. “That’s dashed odd. That dog is always shy with strangers.”

  Oh, no. Charlotte’s cheeks heated. The brainless hound might yet prove her downfall. Luckily Ewan was a quick thinker. “I like dogs. Maybe he senses it.”

  “Maybe,” her father said, sounding unconvinced. Then he dismissed the small mystery, thank goodness. “No matter. Nice to see he already thinks you’re one of the family.”

  “Very nice,” Ewan said, and Charlotte could tell from the gleam in his eye that he was fighting laughter.

  “Now, come and meet my Charlotte.” Her father beckoned her forward from where she hovered in the shadows. “I’m hoping you two will be the best of friends.”

  “My lord,” she said, dipping into a curtsy. She hoped her father would put her pink cheeks down to annoyance—or a girl’s natural reaction to meeting an attractive man. “Welcome to Bassington Grange.”

  Ewan’s lips twitched at her unaccustomed politeness. As she rose, he took her hand and bowed over it. At his touch, immediate warmth flowed through her, banishing the last shred of pique with her father.

  His fingers squeezed hers, and excitement bubbled up like champagne. How she wanted to kiss him. And wouldn’t that shock her proud parent?

  “Thank you, Miss Warren. I’ve heard so much about the beauty of the local area. I was curious to discover it for myself.”

  She cast him a knowing glance and only realized when her father’s face creased into a beaming smile that her hand lingered in Ewan’s. “By God, that’s what I call a fine beginning,” her smug papa declared.

  “I couldn’t agree more, Sir John.” Ewan smiled down at her with unqualified approval. And love. Such love that surely her father must wonder if love at first sight was a Macrae specialty, too. And Charlotte had a sneaking suspicion she looked just as dazzled.

  All was well that ended well, indeed.

  Epilogue

  * * *

  Silvaig, Easter 1848

  It was stormy, the night of the annual Easter play. From his place in the wings, Ewan Macrae, Earl of Lyle, looked around the huge barn on his island estate and whispered a prayer of gratitude that everyone was safe. Although the audience would be sparse this year, with the seas so high and the wind blowing straight from the North Pole.

  His two sons, Angus and Hamish, stood at the door directing tenants and friends to places on the long benches set up for the crowd. Both were fine young men; Angus, his heir, dark like him, and Hamish as fair as his mother. In the wings opposite, he saw his father-in-law fussing with his costume. He played Cinderella’s father. Beside Sir John stood the lassie Lyle had adored since he’d first held her as a baby twenty-two years ago, his beloved daughter Alice. Alice was dark, too, with her mother’s sparkling amber eyes. And headstrong temperament.

  “She’ll make a very fetching Cinderella,” his wife said, coming up beside him and linking her fingers with his.

  “Aye, she will, but nothing to match her mother, mo chridhe,” he murmured, turning to place a kiss on her lips. “This is the first time you’ve put Cinderella on since I met you. If she’d seen you in the part, wee Alice might quail from the competition. She’s got big shoes to fill.”

  “Are you commenting on the size of my feet?” Charlotte asked.

  He laughed softly. “It would be a braw laddie who taunted a lass as fearsome as you look right now.”

  She glanced down at her outlandish garb, a garish mixture of green and orange. “I must say I enjoy playing a character part. I’m too old for the romantic lead.”

  His hand tightened. “Not in my eyes. You make a very pretty Ugly Stepmother.”

  “Flatterer.”

  Except it was true. Lady Lyle was as lovely as the day he’d married her. The glow of happiness lent her eternal youth.

  Unwillingly he shifted his attention from his beautiful wife to a disturbance at the doors. “What the devil’s going on over there?”

  He was halfway down the center aisle before he realized that his youngest son Michael had rushed into the barn
accompanied by a party of bedraggled strangers. Bill’s granddaughter Bridget barked in excitement until Angus picked her up. Bridget’s sister Bess cowered behind Hamish.

  “Michael, what’s happening?” Charlotte asked just behind Lyle.

  “These gentlemen seek shelter against the weather, Mamma,” he said. He was only twenty, but he stood as tall as his brothers, and his black hair and blue eyes proclaimed his inheritance from his sire. Angus and Hamish left their places at the door to listen, and the rest of the cast emerged from behind the scenery to see what caused the commotion.

  The crowd of incomers quickly sorted itself into four roughly dressed sailors and two young men in fine, if drenched, clothes. One stepped forward and offered his hand. “Lord Lyle, I’m Julian Black. I believe you know my father.”

  Lyle automatically took the man’s hand. “Henry Black’s boy?”

  “Aye.”

  Henry Black had vast holdings on the Borders and a fleet of ships that quartered the globe trading in luxuries. This lad had a look of his father. Handsome, golden as the sun, self-assured.

  The young man went on, gesturing to his companion. “This is George Plum, my oldest friend. We were sailing to Skye, but were blown completely off course. Luckily the crew is unharmed and the ship undamaged, but it’s not the night to be out on the sea. We beg your kindness until the storm passes, and we can continue on our way.”

  “Papa, what is it?” Alice in her humble Cinderella costume—a costume close enough to her mother’s all those years ago to revive fond memories in Lyle—ran lightly down the stairs at the side of the stage.

  “Travelers in need, chicken,” he said, smiling at her. “Mr. Black, Mr. Plum, this is my family. My wife, Lady Lyle. You’ve met Michael. These are my older sons Angus and Hamish. And this ragamuffin is my daughter Alice.”

  “You’ve caught us in the middle of putting on a play, Mr. Black,” Charlotte said. “I apologize for our odd appearance.”