Christmastide with my Captain_Scottish Historical Romance_A Laird to Love

by Tammy Andresen

  He was tempted to climb on his horse and keep riding. Kieran would be happy, anyway. Because he was not here to help the English. “An English miss fixing a wheel?”

  He heard her hiss of breath. “Why not?”

  Because the English are arrogant and entitled while still managing to be useless, because…

  He knew he must be glaring at that remark and so, instead of answering, he turned away and looked at the wheel. The driver had a few broken spokes.

  “I don’t dare drive on a road this rutted with the wheel compromised and I always keep some extras. But I can’t quite get them in. Lady Clarissa was attempting to help me, which was greatly appreciated, but we’re not strong enough, the two of us. Your arms might just do the trick.” The driver gave him a wink.

  “Brawny men are good for something, I suppose,” she mumbled in her haughty English accent that managed to make his strength and size sound like a detriment. His frown deepened. Worse than the insult, she was a lady. An unmarried one at that. He’d have to be careful not to give his own title or risk being hunted.

  English ladies were always after unmarried titles. I didn’t seem to matter whether the man was honorable, rich, or kind, as long as he was titled.

  He wasn’t just given to making false claims. It had actually been his experience. The ladies of London hadn’t paid him a lick of attention, well not that kind of attention, until he’d been awarded a title for his service. Then he’d been relentlessly pursued by young misses and their mamas. It had been an eye-opening experience that had made his ache for his own country even greater.

  “What is wrong with brawny men? Ye seem to be needin’ one right about now.” He knew it didn’t matter what she thought, but something about this woman was getting under his skin. He knelt down and the spokes popped easily into place. From this vantage point, he could see more of her face. Creamy skin and a pert little nose peeked out from under the hood.

  “They are often dim-witted and miraculously full of themselves,” she huffed.

  He stood, now covered in a fair bit of mud himself. He was used to women blushing and smiling at him. Complimenting his strength, not insulting it. He brushed his dark, overlong hair behind his ears and looked at the English lass. “And English misses often think they ken everythin’ about everythin’. You don’t ken a thing about me.”

  Part of him wanted to tell her he was an Earl as well as a decorated war hero. She should be falling at his feet not frowning at him. But he gave himself a mental shake. He didn’t care what this woman thought of him.

  She, in turn, stared fixedly at him. Though the hood covered them, he could feel her eyes on him and it made his insides tighten in the strangest way. Near nervous or excited. When was the last time a woman had affected him so?

  “I know your type, can’t even take the time to shave your face or lace your shirt,” she bit back, her hand coming to her hip. It parted the opening of her cape and revealed part of her rather luscious bosom. He sucked in his breath.

  He should get on his horse and go. But, if he were honest, she was damn interesting. Like a sharp-tongued beautiful fairy or a...he stopped his train of thought. What the bloody hell was he thinking?

  The door popped open and a pretty, petite blonde stuck her head out. She was a curvy woman who would make some man happy, but her face still held the innocence of a lass, not acquainted with the world. In a single look, he liked her immensely. She gave him a sweet smile then turned to the lady. “Did they fix it, Clarissa?”

  Slowly, delicate hands rose to the rim of the hood. Brushing back the folds, her deep, glossy, dark brown tresses tumbled in a lose coif down her back.

  Large grey-blue eyes looked at him with a vulnerability that near made him ache in places he’d thought long dead. Her expression was in stark contrast to her hissing words. As were her pink cheeks and plump sweet lips, which seem to tremble slightly as though she were nervous or afraid. Likely she was only cold, but some part of him wanted to shield her from whatever made them shake.

  “They did.” Her voice was like honey, smooth and sweet unlike when she’d spoken to him.

  His eyes locked with hers. That was how the English trapped a Scot. Pretty and seemingly harmless, a man didn’t even see them stealing his future ‘til it was too late.

  Clarissa assessed the Scottish brute in front of her. She didn’t like him. Not even a little. It didn’t matter that he had brawny muscles and piercing green eyes. Or that he stopped to help stranded travelers.

  First, there was the fact that he’d insulted her English roots. She wouldn’t even bother to tell him she was half Scot. Then there was the careless way his shirt was untied at the top, his overlong dark hair, his casual stance with one hand slung low on his hip to accentuate how much smaller they were than his broad chest. His red tartan exposed his knees in an altogether indecent way. His face had a rugged set, with his Roman nose and prominent cheekbones. Men that handsome were always up to no good. Past experience had taught her this and it was a lesson she wouldn’t soon forget.

  His strong jaw flexed as he gave her an assessing look. His interest was written all over his face. As if she’d needed more proof that he was a rake. She’d learn to spot the type anywhere, and now that she knew them, she vowed to stay far, far away.

  But she supposed some measure of gratitude was in order. Trying to keep her disdain out of her voice, she mumbled, “Thank you for helping us, sir.” She gave a small curtsey and then started shaking out her skirt in an attempt to remove some of the mud before climbing back into the carriage. Fortunately, their exchange was nearly over.

  “Ye’re welcome,” he answered in a deep rich brogue before stepping closer.

  Without another word he reached for her skirt and she straightened, stiffening from shock. He wasn’t going to…he wouldn’t dare…but he did. He knelt down beside her and grabbed her skirt, and holding it out, began deftly removing the mud. “Sir,” she gasped.

  “It’s Ewan. Ewan McDougal. Now turn.” His gruff words weren’t frightening. But her breathing was coming out in short gasps. The heat from his body had her own growing warmer. He started working on a new section of gown.

  She stared at him unable to believe this was actually happening. As he spun her again, her foot hit a rut in the road and she bobbled, just a little. His hand shot out to her hip to steady her. An ache deep inside her throbbed at his touch. She gasped, her hands coming to his shoulders to right the now-tilting world. But that only made it worse. They were broad and muscular and for moment, she had the feeling they could shield her from the world. “Please stop,” she begged.

  “It’s raining, ye ken?” He looked up at her as though she were dull in the mind.

  “I am aware.” She tried to straighten her shoulders but the rain was worsening and they hunched back down without permission, curled closer to him and the warmth he exuded.

  “Then turn around so that I can git the back.” He gave her skirt a little tug to turn her.

  Huffing, she turned, his brisk words bringing her to her senses. Agnes stared at her open mouthed as he worked off the mud. Fortunately, no one else was here to see this, though she hardly had any reputation left to preserve, so it wouldn’t really have mattered.

  Looking down, she had to admit he had done an admirable job of removing the muck. She would be warmer for it on this last leg of the journey. “Thank you,” she murmured over her shoulder. Only a rake would touch her so but at least she would be more comfortable for his efforts.

  He stood and nodded. “Get yerself in that carriage now before ye catch yer death. Scotland is a lot colder than ye’re likely used to.”

  How did he make that sound like an insult? Not that it mattered, it didn’t a wit. She’d likely never see him again, and good riddance. “How could you possibly know what I am used to?”

  Without another word, she climbed into the carriage and snapped the door shut.

  “Who was that?” Agnes bounced a little on her seat. Agnes was
her cousin from her father’s side and her travelling companion on this journey along with Agnes’s mother, Mrs. Judith Faulkenberry. Her parents would have accompanied her but she hadn’t wanted them to. Closing her eyes, she pushed angry thoughts of them away. She’d be with her Scottish relatives soon, and Agnes and Aunt Judith were the best possible company.

  Her father’s sister was a proper English lady from her perfectly coiffed grey hair to her never-wrinkled gown. Agnes’ enthusiasm wore her out. Though her cousin was about to turn eighteen, she flitted like a butterfly everywhere she went.

  Aunt Judith had used the time while they were fixing the wheel and not bouncing about, to take a short rest. But Agnes’s enthusiasm had roused the woman. “Do stop, dear,” she mumbled to Agnes.

  Clarissa rolled her eyes, trying to exude a casualness she didn’t feel. “I don’t know, some Scot.” She didn’t want them to know that the man’s touch had sent her world tilting wildly.

  “You should have seen him brushing off her skirts, Mother. And his name was Ewan,” she imitated his deep voice. “Ewan McDougal.” Then she tapped her chin. “Say, you don’t think he’s related to your mother, do you?”

  “Probably. Some distant cousin. But there are likely a thousand of them.” She waved her hand, brushing the unpleasant thought away that she might have to see him again. Because she never wanted to see those broad shoulders and green eyes as long as she lived.

  “He brushed your skirts?” her aunt repeated, sitting straighter in her seat.

  “He was being a gentleman, Mother. Helping with the mud.” Agnes nodded.

  Clarissa didn’t respond but she thought it was unlikely to have been an act of chivalry. More probably he was just exercising his rakish ways touching her like that.

  She shook her skirts out around her to aid in their drying. “We’re likely never to see him again so let us not dwell on it. He did manage to fix the wheel so we’ll be out of this carriage—”

  “And into a drafty old castle—” Aunt Judith huffed.

  “In no time.” Clarissa finished.

  “Do you think it’s haunted?” Agnes clapped looking excited. They’d spent most of their time in the country so Agnes was constantly seeking adventure.

  “Why would you even ask that?” Aunt Judith sniffed. She straightened her already smooth skirt.

  But Clarissa held back a grin. Agnes’s enthusiasm and zest had carried her through the past month and she loved her cousin for it. It wasn’t the ideal temperament for a lady of London, but as a friend, it was divine.

  “We’ll ask Fiona, Emilia, and Ainsley.” Clarissa smiled. “I bet they’ll help us hunt.”

  “Clarissa, don’t encourage her.” Aunt Judith crossed her arms.

  “How fun.” Agnes gave her a winning grin that lit her face in the most beautiful way. Already an attractive girl, she radiated happiness.

  Clarissa was looking forward to visiting her mother’s family too. But not for ghost hunts. This place had always been her safe haven, her cousins were people with whom she could be herself. She needed that now.

  Leaning her head against the frame of the carriage, she glanced through the shutters. The carriage lurched forward, finally moving again. She could see the brawny Scot, Ewan McDougal, riding alongside the other man, who had stayed on horseback. He looked devilishly good. Another reason to despise rakes. Their handsome charm masked a devious heart.

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  About the Author

  More about Tammy

  Tammy Andresen lives with her husband and three children just outside of Boston, Massachusetts. She grew up on the Seacoast of Maine, where she spent countless days dreaming up stories in blueberry fields and among the scrub pines that line the coast. Her mother loved to spin a yarn and Tammy filled many hours listening to her mother retell the classics. It was inevitable that at the age of 18, she headed off to Simmons College, where she studied English literature and education. She never left Massachusetts but some of her heart still resides in Maine and her family visits often.

  What the Critics are saying:

  “The characters are well-developed and interesting, the plot is edge-of-your-seat intriguing, and the setting is one with so much history. If you are a fan of history mixed with mystery and intrigue, you won't be disappointed.” Linda Thompson THE AUTHOR SHOW

  “While the relationship between Lily and Eric is the primary focus of this story, the mystery/supense factor is what kept this from being JUST a historical romance. Lily in Bloom was a fast-paced, romantic read that I absoutely LOVED.” http://alysenovak.blogspot.com

  ”… it held not only a pure romance but the simple magic that goes with it. I was enchanted with this story from the beginning until the end and I didn’t want it to end. I wanted it to go on.” Robin

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