To Tempt a Scotsman

by Victoria Dahl

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  Copyright © 2007 by Victoria Dahl

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  ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-0015-0 ISBN-10: 1-4201-0015-7

  First Printing: August 2007

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Printed in the United States of America

  This book is dedicated to my mom, Helen.

  I would never have become a writer without you.

  Thank you for filling my life with books.

  And to the love of my life, Bill.

  You've believed in me from the beginning,

  and I think you love my stories even more than I do.

  You re my husband, my best friend, my biggest fan,

  and my hero, all in one.

  Thank you to Adam and Ethan for being smart, sweet, and sometimes quiet. I love you.

  Thank you also to my wonderful agent, Amy Moore-Benson, for believing in my work, and to Connie Brockway, whose

  books inspire me. And special thanks to all my friends: Amy Jo, the Wild Cards, the Hoydens, and so many others.

  Last, but never least,

  thank you to my critique partner, Jennifer.

  Together we've kept our sanity intact through the many highs and lows of writing. . . Or have we?

  Chapter I

  Yorkshire, June 1844

  Lady Alexandra Huntington squinted at the invoice in front of her and breathed out the vilest curse she knew. Un­ladylike, of course, but then she was sitting at a man's desk, in a man's office, wearing men's riding breeches, and doing a man's job. Her language was likely the least shock­ing thing about her at the moment.

  "Bi. . . Bin. . ." she tried again, glaring at the tangle of scratches that were supposed to be words. "Oh, for God's sake." The miller's writing had always been doubtful, but the man's penmanship had recently taken a turn for the worse. She knew the bill of sale must have something to do with grain, probably oats crushed for the stables, and still she could make neither heads nor tails of it.

  It couldn't be helped then. She would have to search out the stable master and compare his recent orders with the few letters she could make out on the invoice. And though the man was polite enough—she was the sister of the duke, after all—he clearly wished she would give up this game of managing her brother's estate.

  Alex stood and snatched up the paper. The click of her boots was absorbed by a thick rug as she stepped into the hall, so even though she hurried, the faint echo of an unfamiliar voice still reached her ears.

  "You must be mistaken," a man said, as she moved toward the front rooms. The words bounced off the marble walls of Somerhart's entry. "His Grace assured me his sister would be home."

  Alex blinked, shocked to hear herself spoken of. Her brother had sent someone from London to see her? It seemed unlikely, however. . . She slowed her pace and paused in the shadow of the side hall to peer toward the front door.

  The man stood only a few feet inside the door, tall and dark and glowering at Prescott. That alone was interesting. No one glowered at her brother's butler. Prescott controlled access to a young and powerful duke.

  Alexandra felt her prickling interest grow stronger. She edged a little farther into the room.

  "If you'd care to leave a card, sir—"

  "I do not have a card." The man's eyes flicked toward her, pinned her for a bare moment. He could not suspect who she was in her current attire, with her black hair pulled into a tight knot and the jacket hiding her curves. Still, Alexandra straightened at the brush of that silver gaze, even as it moved back to Prescott. The butler stood silent, not the least affected by the man's coolness. Ten sec­onds passed. Then twenty.

  With a stiff shrug, the stranger finally gave in to the im­possibility of intimidating Prescott. "Please tell her I need to speak with her. I'm at the Red Rose."

  She watched as he turned, felt the soft tug of her im­petuous nature. Who in the world was he? He should have been cowed by the butler's utter indifference, but he looked self-assured to the very fiber of his being even as he was turned away.

  His brown hair needed trimming and he appeared to have forgotten his cravat as well as his calling card, but the perfect cut of his brown coat spoke of wealth. And a Scot's burr softened his deep voice—and sped her pulse.

  Surely her brother would never speak of her to someone he didn't trust. "Prescott."

  Ever unflappable, Prescott simply stepped aside. "My lady. A Mr. Collin Blackburn to see you."

  "Thank you, Prescott."

  Collin Blackburn froze at the sound of her voice. She watched him turn and step back inside, watched his eyes slide past her to search the corners of the huge entry for a more likely figure, but when he realized who she was, only the barest lift of russet brows betrayed his shock. "Lady Alexandra."

  She let him stare a moment, let him take in the oddness of her attire. No gentleman had ever seen her in riding breeches before, none other than her brother. She was dressed inappropriately, indecently even, but it mattered not in the least. She was a fallen woman. She'd earned the free­dom to do as she pleased, so she let him look his fill and took the chance to study him as well.

  He stood as tall as her brother but wider. Wide shoul­ders, broad chest. Definitely no padding in that coat. His body wasn't bulky though. He was, in a word, solid.

  His face looked purely masculine. Not handsome ex­actly, but stark and compelling. The slightly crooked nose spoke of an old fight, but his high cheekbones and wide mouth turned the mind to more pleasurable pursuits. She glanced back to the clear gray eyes that studied her so in­tently and saw his pupils tighten when he met her gaze.

  "Thank you for seeing me."

  "Prescott, would you have tea brought to the office, please? Mr. Blackburn?" Gesturing back toward the hall, she spun on her heel to lead the way. Her long red coat opened as she turned, and she felt the hem brush against the buff riding breeches that hugged the curve of her thigh and hip. There was no mistaking the widening of his eyes, even at the corner of her vision. He'd had quite the view.

  Gritting her teeth against the thrill that chased through her, Alexandra buttoned the coat and hurried toward the door of her cramped office. The morning room would be more appropriate, she supposed, but not dressed like this. Her men's clothes would be a startling sight against a backdrop of flowered upholstery.

  Alexandra stepped into the office and waved Blackburn toward a pair of chairs by the window. He waited until she took the chair opposite his, then sat and crossed a booted ankle over his knee.

  "What did you wish to discuss with me, Mr. Blackburn?"

  He let a heartbeat pass, then another. He watched her and frowned. A lock of hair fell over his brow when he fi­nally inclined his head. "I'm here t
o ask a few questions."

  "Questions?"

  "About Damien St. Claire."

  The name tightened the muscles of her jaw in a painful bunch. Blood rushed to her ears, roared like crashing waves. She couldn't move for a long moment, couldn't make her throat work. A deep breath forced it open. "I think that you should leave," she said very carefully, very evenly.

  Blackburn shook his head, began to protest, but she stood and stabbed a finger at the door. "No. It's obvious my brother did not send you here. Leave. You can find your way out." She pushed past him to the desk and dropped into the seat behind it, hands frantically shuffling papers. A rush of hurt surged in her chest. Why would she think he'd be different from any other man?

  Standing with slow purpose, he stepped toward her and leaned to rest his fists on the desktop. His jaw looked as hard as hers felt. "Lady Alexandra, I need to know what happened between you and St. Claire—and John Tibbenham."

  "Really? How does it involve you?" Making an obvious show of widening her eyes, she looked up at him with mock dismay. "Oh, I'm sorry. You must have been one of my lovers. I find it so hard to recall them all."

  His eyes narrowed as if her words had been a slap, then a sneer twisted his mouth as he leaned close. "Believe me, my lady. If I'd been one of your lovers, you'd remember it."

  "Truly?" Alexandra let her gaze drift down to rest on the front of his trousers.

  His fists tightened to rock on her desk. "Dinna think—" he began, but she cut him off again.

  "You are not the first man to come here on the scent of easy prey. A ruined woman who just happens to be an heiress? Is that what you were thinking? Not very original, Mr. Blackburn. Please get out of my home."

  "John Tibbenham was my brother."

  Alexandra stared at him for a moment, rage trapped like ice in her chest, cracking against her ribs. When his words sunk past the roar of blood in her ears, she flinched and looked down, back to her rumpled papers, away from the hate in his eyes. The heat that had rushed to her cheeks drained away.

  John's brother. He had mentioned a half brother once, as they'd trotted through a long country dance. Not the night he'd died. Perhaps the night before.

  "I'm so sorry," she breathed and braved a glance at him. "I didn't realize."

  He only stared at her until she couldn't hold his gaze any longer, until she flinched in shame. Her fingers smoothed the corner of a letter over and over again. "I am so sorry about your brother," she said more loudly and clasped her hands tight together to cease their movement.

  "I'm looking for St. Claire. I would see him brought to justice."

  "I don't know where he is."

  "The man murdered my brother."

  Alexandra took a deep breath and tried to gather her courage. She was not a cringing woman. It was just this one thing, this one night, that shamed her. Straightening her spine, she forced herself to look him in the eye. "His death was terrible. The duel was ridiculous. Still, your brother was the one who issued the challenge. I have no idea what happened afterward, but John challenged St. Claire."

  "Regardless of your opinion, St. Claire is a criminal. Killing a man in a duel is still killing."

  "I can't help you. I don't know where he is. It's been . . . It's been more than a year."

  The office door opened and a maid poked her capped head inside, nodding toward the tea tray she held. The in­terruption should have been a relief, but Alexandra could not bear to extend this visit even a moment longer than necessary. She waved the tea away, and the thud of the closing door drummed against the silence of the room.

  "You are telling me that this man was your . . . special friend, that he fought a duel over you—a duel that left him a fugitive—and he has never once contacted you?"

  Was there any blood at all left in her veins? Her heart fluttered desperately. "Yes."

  "St. Claire arranged for my brother to walk in on the two of you."

  "What?"

  "He wanted to be caught in an indecent position with you."

  She blinked several times, felt the twist of her heart re­gaining its strength, and shook her head. "That's absurd."

  "My brother was in the middle of a game of faro when he told his friends he had to meet St. Claire. William Bunting said John went straight to that study. He did not just happen upon you."

  "But. . . That cannot be true."

  "St. Claire used you."

  Alexandra clutched the edge of her desk and surged un­steadily to her feet.

  "He told my brother to meet him because he wanted to be caught with a hand up your skirts. It's the truth. John's father looked into this quite thoroughly, I assure you. You needn't protect St. Claire. He is a man without scruples."

  Oh God, that was far too easy to believe. She'd been so young when she'd met him, only seventeen, and so thrilled to be running with a fast crowd. A true gentleman would never have accommodated her, but that had been the point, hadn't it? To dance on the edge of respectability?

  "I did not wish to involve you in this. Your brother and John's father were both quite clear that I leave you out of it. But I've been after him for nine months and all my leads have run out."

  Alexandra shook her head. She could not do this. How could he throw these foul ideas at her, then expect her help? "I'm sorry."

  She looked past him, past the dark wood walls of the office, and focused on the brightness of the sun in the window. A full minute passed before his rough sigh filled the room.

  "I'll be at the Red Rose tonight. I'd appreciate a note if you're willing to help."

  Tipping her head in a nod, Alex lowered herself to her chair.

  His hand pushed the door open before he turned back to her, an expression like hate on his face. "My brother was only twenty. He was twenty when Damien St. Claire shot him through the head."

  A memory of John laughing brought tears to her eyes. She closed them. "I am sorry, Mr. Blackburn. He was a kind young man. A good man." The door clicked softly closed before she'd spoken the last word.

  Thor flew over the hard-packed dirt, black hooves pounding out his eagerness to run the two miles to the inn. Collin needed the run as well. She knew something, was hiding something. Idiot girl. She'd probably believed whatever sweet-nothings St. Claire had whispered to her as he tossed up her skirts.

  Still, young as she was, she was no innocent. She'd played two men against each other just for the sport of it, and her game had ruined her and killed John. And just be­cause she was a tiny thing with great blue eyes didn't mean she wasn't a whore as well.

  His brother had been madly in love with her even as she took another man to her bed. There was no telling who else had been there. She'd even admitted it herself, for God's sake. And after one quick view of the shape of those thighs, Collin knew she must've attracted men in droves. John had never stood a chance.

  Collin cracked a bitter smile at the thought. If he'd met the girl at twenty, he’d have been panting after her, too. Her black hair and bright eyes were a potent combination. And the contrast of her delicate size and compact curves, the innocence of that heart-shaped face and the boldness of her clothing . . . lovely. Not lovely enough to die for though. Apparently his brother hadn't realized that, damn him for a fool. And damn their father too, for extracting this promise from Collin. Who the hell could deny an old man his dying wish?

  He was meant to be in Scotland, on his farm, oversee­ing the work on his new home, getting the horses ready for fair. Instead he gallivanted about England and France, gathering information and chasing after criminals like a runner . .. And now he had to convince a spoiled English lightskirt to help him.

  She was the cause of this, she and her lover. So, saint or sinner, Alexandra Huntington would help, whether she willed it or no.

  The edges of the letters dug into the damp skin of Alexandra's palm. Forehead pressed to the glass of her bedroom window, she crumpled the papers, willed them to disappear, to never have existed, but the strokes and spikes of Damien's a
rrogant handwriting failed to fade.

  She had wept over these letters once. Cried over the first one when he asked her to come to France and marry him. And the second, when he'd set aside his pride and begged for money to survive in exile. She had sent a generous amount, thinking it the least she could do for him.

  She had sent money once more, after one last request, though she'd hesitated that time, thinking of John. And after Blackburn's hard words, Damien's stories of hardship seemed blatantly crafted to inspire guilt. Her guilt.

  She tried to imagine her brother writing a letter to a woman, begging help. Or her cousin George Tate, or even Collin Blackburn. Impossible. She could not picture one of those men pouring out the details of their troubles and laying them at a lady's feet. Still, even if Damien wasn't as good a man as he should be, that didn't mean he was a murderer. Only weak and scared.

  Hands shaking, Alexandra dropped the letters to the floor and stripped off the boy's clothes she wore for estate work. Her gray riding habit already lay on the bed, dull against the ice blue coverlet. The wool was too heavy for summer, too dark, but she couldn't present herself to this man, this man who must hate her, in some frippery of yellow and green silk.

  She would see Blackburn. She would give him what he asked for, not because of what he'd said, not out of guilt, but because she knew something. Something she had tried to push aside ever since the morning of John's death.

  Damien had hated John Tibbenham.

  She'd thought nothing of it before that terrible night. Men were prickly about their competition. She'd assumed it was only jealousy, though she'd told Damien many times that John was only a friend.

  But when John had opened that door and seen them, when he'd looked at her with stark pain in his eyes and challenged Damien to a duel, there had been a moment—just a beat of her heart—when she'd looked into Damien's face and seen satisfaction. It had disturbed her, that look of pleasure, but she'd dismissed it in the aftermath. John, after all, had been the one to issue the challenge. And both men had refused to back down.