How to Seduce a Scot

by Christy English

  Though, if he were honest, fisticuffs were not the kind of rough-and-tumble he was looking for.

  He could go to Madame Claremont’s. She ran a clean house, and her girls would be willing and able to take him into their beds for the turn of a coin. They would even pretend to care what he thought about the latest happenings in the world, as all good courtesans did. In his place, Robert would have bought himself a woman and not thought twice about it. But when Alex tried to walk to Madame’s establishment, he found that his boots simply would not take him there. He found himself among the menagerie at the Tower of London instead, watching the squealing girls as they pretended fear at the old lion in his cage, their beaus manfully standing by before ushering them protectively away for ices at Gunter’s.

  Alex did not even feel amusement at watching the shenanigans of English courting. Instead, all he could think of was how much Catherine would like the Tower, as all the other young ladies seemed to, and how he should escort her there before the week was through.

  When he caught himself in that thought, he cursed and headed home.

  Of course, he had no home in London. His home was by the burn at Glenderrin, or on the open sea with his brother Ian. But knowing that even now Catherine Middlebrook sat taking tea with his sister, Alex turned like a homing pigeon toward the Duchess of Northumberland’s town home. The Duchess of Northumberland’s house, while grand, was far too fussy for his taste. If he took a house in London, he would not ruin its clean Georgian lines with velvets and tassels.

  He caught himself thinking that and cursed again in silence. It would be a cold day in hell before he took a house in London Town.

  Alex came into the front hall of Northumberland House, handing the butler his coat and hat. He carried no walking stick, though Robert thought he should obtain one. “What better way to conceal a weapon,” his brother often said. Alex preferred to wear his weapons openly, just as he liked his whisky neat. Let a thing be what it was, just as he was always himself, with no pretense otherwise.

  He stood like a green boy in the entrance hall, listening outside the parlor door while some benighted soul pounded out Beethoven very badly on the duchess’s pianoforte. He waited until the noise had stopped before he stepped inside and found Robert trapped against the arm of one settee by Mrs. Angel herself. Robert shot him a harried look, and Alex smiled. Catherine’s mother had clearly run the boy to ground.

  “Good day,” Alex said, bowing to the lady. Robert stood as if to be polite, barely masking his intent to escape the clutches of Mrs. Angel. A little girl waved to him from behind the pianoforte, before barreling into the same song all over again. Perhaps it was the only one she knew.

  He scanned the room: the angel and his sister were not there.

  “If you’re looking for Mary Elizabeth, she’s taken her quarry to play among the rafters on the third floor.” Robert’s brogue was thick, for he could not care less about the fashionable necessity to leave one’s Scottish roots at home.

  “Are the knives locked up?” Alex asked.

  Robert frowned. “Aren’t they always?” Before Alex could relax, Robert added, “Of course, Mary Elizabeth has the key.”

  Alex caught himself before he swore in front of Mrs. Angel. The lady stared at him, her blue eyes taking in every aspect of his person, as if he were a stoat on sale at market.

  “Catherine went to the ballroom with her friend, Mr. Waters. Perhaps you may go and seek her there.”

  “I had better do so, madam. I do not trust what my sister may have gotten up to.”

  Mrs. Angel smiled blithely, as if she could see not only beneath his words, but beneath his very skin. “Indeed, you must. Catherine needs protecting, you know. And in case she forgets to say so, thank you for the beautiful flowers.”

  Robert’s eyes were as sharp as a dagger on him, no doubt seeing everything his brother wanted to hide. Alex ignored him valiantly, though there would be hell to pay later.

  The child at the pianoforte piped up then. “Catherine liked your flowers best.”

  “There were others?” Alex asked before he could stop himself.

  The girl did not answer, but her mother did, her smile shifting to feigned innocence. “Indeed, our household received a great many bouquets this morning. Such a warm welcome for a young lady just up from the country. London gentlemen are ever so kind.”

  Alex could not trust himself to speak without cursing, so he did not. He bowed once, turned, and left the room. He thought he heard laughter in his brother’s voice, as Robert said, “Shall we have another tune, then, Miss Margaret? Alexander may be a while hunting your sister and mine.”

  Alex closed the door on Mrs. Angel’s pointed gaze and his brother’s amused voice, and climbed the stairs to the third floor two at a time. There was only one room free of furniture where Mary Elizabeth indulged herself in knife play.

  Pray God she had not stabbed their guest by accident already.

  Five

  Catherine held the throwing knife in her hand. It wasn’t a long steel blade, as she had heard was used in the former colonies of America. It was nothing like a machete that she had read had been used to cut through the jungles of Africa. It was a deadly sharp blade, rounded along its edges, except for the tip, which was quick to draw blood. As she had discovered to her chagrin as soon as she handled it carelessly.

  Mary Elizabeth had showed her how to dress her wound quickly with her own handkerchief, ripping it neatly into thirds and tying a makeshift bandage into place over her wrist where the shallow cut lay. She had never experienced a small wound with so little fuss made in her life. She savored her new friend’s casual attitude both toward knives and the blood they drew. Catherine did not live in a world where such things as bloody knives existed, especially for a lady. To enter a world in which they did, even for the space of an hour, was the most exciting thing she had ever done.

  Spending time with Mary Elizabeth would never be dull, it seemed.

  The small blade in her hand was perfectly balanced for a woman’s strength. It seemed that Mary Elizabeth’s father had had them made for her, and her brother Robert had taught her how to use them. Catherine could barely imagine what it might be like to have an older brother, much less one who offered to tutor a young lady in the use of knives, but it seemed the Waters clan took self-defense very seriously indeed.

  Catherine had been throwing knives at the wooden board set up for that purpose in the Duchess of Northumberland’s ballroom for almost an hour. She had lost all track of time as she looked from the blade in her hand to the target before her and let her knife fly. Amazingly enough, she had discovered, much to her pleasure, that she was very good at it.

  “Well done, Catherine. One more and then I will feed you more tea sandwiches. Or perhaps you and your family might stay to dinner. God knows the duchess keeps enough food on her table to feed an army.”

  Catherine smiled and did not reply. She cast her last knife at the wooden board, hitting the center of the bull’s-eye, which in this case was the outline of a somewhat menacing ruffian. Someone, Catherine suspected Mary Elizabeth, had drawn a jaunty top hat on him to indicate his Englishness.

  “I must applaud your efforts, Miss Middlebrook. It seems you have killed our pirate outright with a clean blow to the heart.”

  The hot, honeyed tones of Alexander Waters’s voice seemed to caress her, and she felt her cursed blush rise into her cheeks unbidden. Her stays were too tight suddenly, as if she had run a mile, though she rarely walked anywhere in her life save to church when they were home in Devon.

  “Don’t devil her, Alex. She’s a prodigy. It seems our girl here has a bloodthirsty streak.”

  Catherine swallowed hard in an effort to find her voice. “I am sure I would never be able to throw a blade at an actual person. I would be horrified to draw blood.”

  Mary Elizabeth dismissed those words with o
ne wave of her hand, and went to collect the knives sticking out of the board. “Nonsense. You would kill a man to keep him from killing you.”

  “I am not certain I would,” Catherine said. She felt Mr. Waters’s eyes still heavy on her, like a warm blanket before a roaring fire. She was sure that in a moment she would begin to perspire from the heat of his gaze alone, and humiliate herself completely.

  “I have seen you with your mother and your sister. If you’ll marry to protect them, you’d kill a man to do so. Taking one more evildoer out of the world would be no great loss. Not compared to giving up the rest of your life to a husband,” Mary Elizabeth said.

  Catherine choked on nothing, unable to reply. She wished herself dead in that moment, or perhaps shrunk to the size of a mouse, that she might scurry into the wainscoting and disappear completely.

  “Now you stop deviling our guest, Mary. You’ve made her blush and swallow her tongue both within the space of three minutes. You had best take yourself downstairs and leave the putting away of these knives to me.”

  Mary Elizabeth stared at her brother as if trying to discern something in his face. “You may lock them up again, but I have the key, you know.”

  “And I know a good locksmith. Downstairs you go.”

  Mary Elizabeth flounced to the doorway, and Catherine, still silent, moved to follow her. She stopped when she felt the heat of Alexander’s leather-gloved hand on her arm.

  “Catherine, you are wounded.”

  “I did not give you leave to use my given name.” She heard the priggishness of her own voice, but she could not help herself. He was standing so close, she had almost lost all breath she needed to speak. “It is not proper.”

  “Says the girl fresh from throwing knives.” She heard the laughter in his voice, doubtless at her expense. She kept her eyes down, but could not seem to move. The hand on her arm did not restrain her, but simply rested there, tempting her. She felt sorely tempted. If only she knew to what.

  “Mary Elizabeth, see to your guests. Miss Middlebrook and I will be down directly.”

  Catherine knew that she ought to protest, but the thought of being alone with Alexander Waters for the space of only a few minutes thrilled her, just as throwing knives had. She had so little excitement in her life. It was delicious.

  Before she could open her mouth to protest out of a beleaguered sense of propriety, Mary Elizabeth spoke for her. “I already bound her wrist, Alex. There’s nothing in the world wrong with that dressing.”

  “Did you wash it with soap?”

  Catherine listened as a new, uncomfortable silence spiraled around them. She heard in her friend’s tone the first hint of chastisement. “No, Alex. You know that’s just an old superstition Mama repeats ad nauseam. No doctor agrees with her.”

  “How many people do you know who visited a sawbones and lived to tell of it?” Alexander asked.

  Mary Elizabeth grumbled but did not answer. Catherine assumed that meant not very many. How terrible were the doctors in the wilds of the north, that they killed their patients?

  “Don’t take too long, Alex. I want my dinner soon.”

  “You heathen, eating without changing your gown.”

  Catherine heard the teasing note in his voice and she looked up, expecting him to be looking at his sister with affection. Instead, she found him staring down at her, almost as if he were trying to memorize her face. This time, she did not blush, but stared back.

  Mary Elizabeth did not seem to notice anything amiss, for she strode out of the room without a backward glance. “Come downstairs as soon as you can get away from this beast, Catherine. We’ve got fine beef pasties to eat this night, along with some roasted carrots and onions.”

  “Thank you,” Catherine said. She was going to decline her friend’s generous offer to dine with them in a duchess’s house. They had certainly overstayed their welcome. At least, her mother and her sister surely had, even if she had not. But Mary Elizabeth was gone before she could finish her thought, and she was left alone with the hulking Scot beside her.

  “So, Miss Middlebrook. Let’s have a look at the wound you got from indulging in my sister’s shenanigans.”

  “We are alone, sir. It is highly improper. I must go to my mother.” She forced the words from her lips, though for some reason it was Mr. Waters’s mouth that fascinated her. There was a sensuous quirk to his lips that she had not noticed before—as if he were a man who savored his life, his whisky, his food, and, no doubt, his women.

  She blushed hard at the thought and tried to pull away from him, hoping to put a distance between herself and her own wild imaginings. She had no idea what a man might do with a woman alone. She had only been told time and time again by her grandmother that she bloody well did not want to find out until a priest had blessed her union with her husband and there was a ring on her finger.

  Still, as she looked into the heat of Alexander Waters’s fine, dark eyes, she wondered.

  He looked down at her, and this time, the heat in his eyes faded as if it had never been. “Miss Middlebrook, I give you my word of honor as a gentleman, you have nothing to fear from me, now or ever. I would defend you with my life. As long as you are in my presence, you need fear no man or beast.”

  She listened breathlessly to the most poetic oath she had ever heard a man take. He was very solemn, and for a long moment, she felt as if a spell had fallen over them, as if he had sworn more to her than just his respect. The silence spun out, until it seemed to hold a wealth of feeling that made no sense, a layered tapestry of emotion that it would take her a lifetime to understand. She had known this man less than one day. And yet she felt as safe with him as she once had with her own father.

  His lips quirked, and the moment and all its import slipped away. “I will defend you, even if the beast in question is myself.” He smiled, and she found herself laughing out loud.

  “That is reassurance indeed, Mr. Waters. Still, I must go downstairs before your brother takes an ax to the duchess’s beautiful pianoforte to save himself from further pain.”

  It was Mr. Waters’s turn to laugh then, and as she listened to the deep warmth of it, she wished for an odd, wild moment that she might never go anywhere else. His laughter was food enough, bread and meat together.

  She shook her head at her own strange turn of thought. His Scottish poetry must be rubbing off on her.

  “Robert has heard far worse than your sister’s playing, I assure you. When Mary Elizabeth was learning, we all thought we might go mad. My brother Ian fled to the sea to escape it.”

  Catherine drew away from him, and this time she forced herself to walk toward the door. “I had better get downstairs, so Mr. Robert Waters does not join him.”

  She had almost made it to the hallway when Alexander caught up with her and took her hand in his.

  “You won’t slip away that easily, my girl. Come with me. A decent cleaning and a decent dressing will take less than five minutes, and will save this from becoming infected. If you were to fall ill from a visit to my house, I would not forgive myself.”

  Catherine had never heard of the odd practice of washing a wound, but she did not want to give up his company just yet. She knew she was wicked and improper, and no doubt her mother would scold her roundly, as she deserved.

  She knew all this, but she went with him anyway.

  Six

  The sight of that one, singular woman throwing a knife had been the most erotic thing Alex had ever seen.

  He almost could not speak a word of sense for five minutes after. He’d let his sister prattle on about preparing dinner and killing a man, neither of which she had any experience with, until he had regained his breath and some modicum of self-control.

  The girl had been like a doe in flight as soon as she’d laid eyes on him—frozen before she ran from the hunter. He had been careful to modify his tone, to
treat her as he might his sister, but still she would not look at him. He could not help but touch her.

  Now, alone in his room, the most improper place to care for her—wounded slightly or not—he stripped off his black leather gloves. He spoke of the weather, of the ices at Gunter’s, of the ball at Almack’s the night before, all banal, urbane, pointless conversation. Which wasn’t actually a conversation but a monologue, since Miss Middlebrook did not speak a word.

  He knew better than to take her into his bedroom proper, for then his angel would no doubt fly back to heaven at once, never to be seen again. He brought her to his sitting room and fetched wash water for her wound himself.

  She was still waiting for him when he came back. He had not been gone long, but part of him had been certain that she would disappear as soon as he was out of sight. Part of him almost hoped she would, because the tightness in his trousers was becoming uncomfortable from being near her for too long. Of course, it was a sweet discomfort, one he savored as he looked at her.

  The slanting rays of the afternoon sun warmed her yellow hair. It was piled on top of her head as it had been the night before, only now she wore no flowers in it. Her girlish, light blue walking gown did nothing to camouflage the glinting intelligence in her green eyes. He wondered why she had bought such a simple dress, or if perhaps she had made it herself.

  The thought of her tiny hands manipulating a needle and thread was almost his undoing. He had to breathe deep before he stepped into the room and let his presence be known. His angel sat and waited for him, as calm as a bishop.

  “Thank you for indulging me, Miss Middlebrook. I would be deeply horrified if you left my house wounded, with no one to care for you.”

  “This is the duchess’s house,” his angel said. She smiled as she looked up at him with a sideways glance that on any other woman would have seemed coy. On her pure face, it only looked like harmless teasing. Still, that look made him want to touch her lips with his. “And my mother might look after me,” she said.