To Tempt a Scotsman

by Victoria Dahl

  Alex let her weak knees give and sat down hard on the floor, on the exact spot where she'd just been deflowered. He was so angry. She hadn't thought he'd be so angry.

  Weren't men supposed to be honored by being the first? Surely he was just the tiniest bit thrilled.

  "Blast!" She fell back onto the rug with a moan. "Stupid, stupid!" This was not going as planned. She'd finally man­aged to get rid of this damned burden of a maidenhead and now she sat alone on the floor, bleeding and sore and teary-eyed. Worst of all, she felt guilty. He hated her now. She had led him astray, tempted him into ignoring his morals. She should have known better. Anyone who'd ever heard the story of Adam and Eve should have known better. The woman is always to blame for sin.

  Still, she couldn't pout herself into believing him unrea­sonable. She had misled him, knowing exactly how he'd feel if he knew the truth, knowing he'd be shamed. And it hadn't even been worth it. After that first experience with him months ago, she'd been so impatient to complete the act, had been so sure after that prelude that the finale would be so much more.

  She'd even been hopeful he wouldn't notice, had begun to wonder if she was still a virgin after all the fumbling with Damien. And Danielle had assured her that virginity could be faked, so she'd thought it must be a subtle thing, like the difference between one vintage wine and the next.

  It had not been subtle at all. She'd felt like a fish squirm­ing on a spear and was surprised there wasn't a pool of blood widening beneath her.

  Curious, she eased the wet cloth under her skirt and pressed it between her legs. The cold was shocking and heavenly. When she drew it away, only a few spots of blood stained the white. Utterly undramatic.

  Well, she knew now. And all those whispers of a woman's burden and wifely duties were apparently true. The act itself must be strictly for the man's satisfaction. But the before. That was something. Perhaps even worth the after. Certainly no woman would do it otherwise.

  Sighing, Alex pushed herself up to her knees and stood with slow care. She'd assumed he would offer marriage if he discovered the truth, but she had planned to explain rea­sonably, gently, that she had no wish to marry. She hadn't expected that he would be so opposed to marrying her. Selfish English bitch, indeed. She was no more selfish than he. He had not saved himself for marriage, had he?

  Wondering if he'd abandoned her, she tiptoed to the front door and opened it a crack. Nothing. She stuck her head out in the green-scented air. It was true dark now, and quiet. She waited for her eyes to adjust, hoping Collin wasn't standing a few feet away watching her gawk about like a startled cow. She found the yard empty and peered toward the stable. No light, no sound but the soft snort of a sleepy horse.

  Muttering a curse, she crept off the step and snuck across the leaf-strewn grass toward the darker square of the open stable door. A prayer tumbled silently from her lips as she drew closer. If Collin was inside, what would she say? Oh, hello. You 're still here. Just checking. And if he wanted to yell at her for a few more minutes. . . Wouldn't that be fun?

  But he wasn't inside, unless he crouched in one of the black corners. No, he wasn't there, but his horse was. He hadn't abandoned her.

  Tears filled her eyes and spilled over to leave hot trails across her cheeks. Alex swiped them away with a hard flick of her hand and sniffed loudly, startling Collin's horse into a nicker.

  "Sorry," she whispered and hurried out, across the cool grass and back to the warm glow of the house.

  Where in the world was he? The closest village was a mile away and it had been almost dark when he'd left. He'd grown up in the country though, free to roam and explore, day or night. Perhaps it was nothing to him to wander on strange roads after dark.

  Alex shivered at the thought and closed the door, briefly considered latching it and chose not to. She thought about dinner also, but her stomach roiled with something more sinister than hunger. No dinner then, just bed. And she was tired enough to sleep despite the horrible turn of the day. After extinguishing most of the lamps, she took a candle up the stairs, cringing only occasionally at her soreness.

  I should be glad he wants nothing to do with me, she told herself. Better than being impaled again, certainly. Though, God, she would miss the rest of it. And she'd had no time to explore his body. The sad thought made her sigh.

  She undressed more slowly and with less climactic results than earlier in the evening. Instead of pressing herself into the warmth of a naked man, she sponged herself off with tepid water and slipped on a linen shift. The bed was cold and unfamiliar and she lay in it alone, alternating between self-pity and worry for Collin. The moon rose bright in the window just before her eyes closed, and she fell asleep to dream of dark hands running over her skin and the pleasure of a hard kiss.

  A groan woke him to a dazzling agony of sunlight. Rais­ing his head, Collin rubbed his palms over a scratchy jaw and heard the groan again. His own. Too many pints of ale last night and not a drop of whisky to be found. The memory re­minded him of where he was, what had happened the night before, and he let his head fall back with a thump.

  "I've straightened the bedroom, sir. I'd like to start on the kitchen, if you don't mind."

  Collin opened one eye against his better judgment, closed it. He didn't have to look to know it wasn't Alex. Aside from the fact she'd never uttered a phrase like that in her life, this woman's voice was noticeably deeper than hers.

  "Cup of tea, sir?"

  "No," he rasped, then "yes."

  The invisible woman snorted and approached in a quick whoosh of skirts, her shadow relieving his eyelids from the merciless light.

  "Thank you."

  She sniffed. "There's a spring out past the stable if you'd care to clean up."

  Collin opened both his eyes, taking in the dark shape of the woman standing over him. She retreated a little when he took the cup of tea and he could make out her blond hair and long face. Younger than he'd expected. Thirty at most. She slanted him a wary frown and moved away, glancing back at him only once.

  "Thank you," he called again as she began to bang around in the other room. He swung his legs onto the floor and grimaced at the mud that spattered his clothes. He hoped it was mud, anyway.

  The tea nearly scalded his tongue, but he drank it as quickly as possible. The promise of a dip in a cold pond prodded him to hurry. The water would hopefully ease his aching back and clear the ale fog from his head, and he didn't particularly care to argue with Alexandra reeking of sweat and mud and maybe worse.

  "There's towels and such upstairs," the woman said when he brought the cup to the kitchen to set it on the oak table.

  "Oh?" He threw a glance at the stairs, not even consid­ering going up them. "She's not here." "Hm?"

  "The lady's not here."

  He watched her brow lower in concern, realized the coolness seeping down his cheeks was the feeling of blood draining from his face. She had gone. Grown angry and disappeared with the same wretched suddenness with which she'd appeared in his life.

  "When did she leave?"

  "Sunrise, same as when I got here. She needed help dressing. But she's not gone, you understand. Only went for a ride."

  "A ride." He looked to the closed door as if it could con­firm this. "You're sure?"

  "Oh, yes." She smiled then, wide enough to reveal a gap where she'd lost a back tooth. Her brown eyes twinkled. "Had a bit of a row, did you?"

  "A bit, yes."

  With a chuckle, she turned back to the pot of water where she rinsed a wineglass before looking about the kitchen for more dishes. Her gaze fell on the ruined pie. "There are plates and knives in the cupboard, you know."

  "Plates?" Collin stared at the pie with her, mind still reeling with the shock of thinking Alex had run off. "Oh. A crow got to it before we could."

  "Hm. I thought perhaps she'd smashed your face in it."

  He narrowed his eyes at her, a look that had terrified many a stable boy, but she only snorted again and went back to her chor
es, humming some jaunty tune as she moved about the room.

  Collin spun on his heel and headed for the stairs. There were two rooms above, he found—one small room tucked in beneath the eaves at the end of the hallway. The door to the larger room stood open also, revealing a massive four-post bed and a bright yellow bedspread, mottled by the leafy light pouring through the window.

  Spotting a wardrobe, Collin strode in and threw open the doors, searching for towels and soap. Instead, he found thin shifts and vividly colored dresses. He closed it with a snap. The dresser then.

  The first drawer was empty. The second yielded a tangle of white lace and silk that startled him even more than her dresses had. He slammed it shut with a force that rat­tled the doors of the wardrobe.

  Vowing to retreat without the towels if he encountered her stockings, he jerked open the bottom drawer.

  "Finally." Linen sheets and soap in hand, he rushed out the door and back down the stairs.

  "Have a good swim," a voice called.

  "Thank you, um . . ." Collin turned to look at her, the edge of the front door gripped in his hand.

  "Betsy."

  "Betsy. My thanks."

  Chapter 11

  Collin trudged back up to the cottage with a scowl, wishing he were anywhere else. He was clean and clear­headed, but he still did not want to talk to Alexandra, didn't know what he would say to her. Anger prickled his nerves, though he felt more angry at himself than he had the night before. He'd known better than to come here. He'd known the first time he met the woman that she would cause him immeasurable amounts of trouble. Then he'd walked right into it with a smile. And a cockstand.

  He tossed his bag back into the stable where he'd left it last night, relieved to see her horse still gone. She'd be home soon though, and likely as hungry as he. May as well set out breakfast. They couldn't speak if they were chewing.

  The counter was clean again, the offending pie removed and replaced with meat pasties and fruit. Collin laid out plates and added a jug of fresh milk he found in a cold box. He sliced bread and cheese, put out the platter of meat pies and the bowl of cherries. When the work-smoothed table overflowed with food, Collin hovered over it, uncertain what to do with himself, refusing to pace to the window and watch for her. He strained his ears though, until the si­lence of the house roared. Just as he cursed, as he took a step toward the window, a horse whinnied. Not Samson.

  The door cracked open and there she stood, a shadow against the light. Seconds passed and Collin's heart raced, anger and anxiety fighting to rule him. When he couldn't take the silence any longer, he gestured with a jerk toward the table. "Are you hungry?"

  She didn't move, didn't answer, and Collin felt nervous­ness join the mix of bad humor in his blood.

  "Alex?"

  "Yes," she finally said. "I am hungry."

  Moving inside with rough speed, she went straight to the table, sat in the closest chair. When he joined her, she blinked in surprise.

  "This is lovely. Thank you."

  The first thing he noticed was her riding habit—the same one she'd worn at her cousin's. Had she brought it to remind him of that day? Thinking how close she'd come to losing her virginity in a seaside meadow to a virtual stranger, Collin scowled. Alex didn't notice, she stared hard at the jug of milk as she ate.

  Her face was pale, the freckles on her nose stark against unnaturally white skin. Dark circles of exhaustion bruised the delicate flesh beneath her eyes. Collin swallowed his curse.

  He hadn't given her feelings much thought the night before. He'd been wounded and raging and had needed to be away from her. But now, looking at her, he was sud­denly reminded that she had lain with a man for the first time and then spent the night absolutely alone.

  And she was young. Younger than he'd realized.

  "Alex." She jumped at his voice. "I'm sorry for leaving. I needed to be alone."

  "Of course. I must apologize too. I did deceive you and I'm sorry for it." Her eyes never left the piece of buttered bread she held.

  "Sorry you deceived me, but not sorry you arranged this?" Collin watched her jaw edge out, watched her pink mouth tighten.

  "No," she answered, meeting his eyes at last. "No, I'm not sorry about that. Were you sorry when you lost your virginity?"

  "Alexandra. . ."

  She raised her arching brows high, waiting in vicious anticipation for whatever he had to offer. Collin retreated, shaking his head.

  "I truly don't want to marry, Collin. It has nothing to do with you. I knew my whole life that my future lay in mar­riage, as every woman does, but I never thought about it, never dreamed of who my husband would be. And my Season . . ." She shrugged, a weary movement. "I just wanted to live. It felt like a short reprieve before execution. I wanted to experience everything—drink and cigars, Covent Gardens and gambling, illicit love."

  Collin cringed, and she smiled in real amusement before her face sobered again. "When I was caught, I had to wonder if that was the outcome I'd hoped for."

  "But don't you want children? A home?"

  "Don't you?"

  "I—" He choked in surprise. "I. . . Of course. Someday."

  "Exactly. Perhaps someday I will too. I'm not nearly as old as you, you know."

  With a roll of his eyes, he leaned back in his chair, stretched his legs out in front of him. "Are you trying to tell me you're no different than I?"

  "Do you think you could bear to marry a woman who expected you to do nothing more than ride and shop and visit with friends?"

  "Of course not."

  "Of course not. I am never happier than when I am help­ing run my brother's estate. How can I go from that to wife?"

  "You would have a household to run."

  She speared him with a look of disgust. "I can plan a dinner for thirty in my sleep. It's not so difficult."

  Collin rubbed a hard hand over his face.

  "I have the life I want, for now at any rate. But it is lonely sometimes. That is where you came in."

  "Like a rabbit into a wolf's den."

  She snorted and the sound brought a smile to his lips. Her eyes brightened, and his anger dissolved like mist before the sun, proving just how stupid he was for this woman.

  "You should not have misled me." Even he recognized it for a pitiful reproach.

  "I know and I understand that you'll leave now. I will not hold it against you."

  "I should leave. And so should you. But I don't neces­sarily want to."

  Her eyes blinked at him. Twice. Then she stared. Collin pulled his feet under him and stood, held out his hand to her. "Why don't we go for a walk? I noticed a trail through the woods."

  "Oh. Yes, all right." With a small shake of her head, she stood also, eyes wide. "I'd like to change first, if you don't mind waiting."

  "Not at all."

  She flashed a nervous smile and darted from the room and up the stairs.

  Frowning, Collin stared at the ceiling, listening to the click of her boots above him and wondering what the hell he was doing.

  He might stay?

  Alex stripped off her clothes and threw them on the floor before remembering she had to keep them clean and unwrin­kled herself. She'd brought only a satchel, after all. So she picked up the riding habit, brushed it with a hasty slap, and hung it carefully in the wardrobe before stepping back to stare at the other choices. Three simple dresses she could wear over her loosened corset. A light wrap. She hadn't thought she'd have much use for any of them. Shrugging, Alex pulled out the lilac dress, dug a shift from a drawer, and began to dress, trying not to imagine what Collin was planning.

  He might stay. Apprehension and excitement fizzed in her chest. She hadn't thought of him staying and now she wondered if she even wanted him to. How could she pos­sibly tell him she had no wish to . . . to. . . take him inside her again?

  A sigh of frustration escaped her mouth. What a mess she'd made of this. Perhaps he'd been right after all. Per­haps she wasn't the type of woma
n who could carry on a casual affair. Still, she felt like that kind of woman.

  A quick glance at her reflection made her cringe. She didn't look like a mistress, she looked tired and pale, and the knot she'd pulled her hair into didn't help. She jerked out the pins and did her best to smooth out the tangled curls, then lifted her skirt to her ankles to frown at her boots. They weren't made for walking, but neither were the one pair of silk slippers she'd shoved into her bag. Her rump hit the floor with a smack, and she tugged off the black riding boots. Barefoot again. That seemed best. But she'd have to ask Collin to fasten the back of her dress.

  Torn between stalling and hurrying, she finally stood and left the room. Below, she found Collin already outside, his brown hair glinting copper in the sun.

  Her chest tightened at the sight of him, so straight and stern. She felt like weeping, though she didn't know why. . . relief that he was no longer so angry with her maybe. Or something more?

  Curls flying with a quick shake of her head, Alexandra straightened her spine and pushed away the thought of loving him. He'd made it clear how he felt about her—liked her well enough, she supposed, but not so well as to trust her. And the chance of the man ever declaring undying love to anyone brought a smile to her lips. Her staid, serious Scotsman. Far too in control to love beyond reason. Fine, then. She would not love him either. And she certainly wouldn't try mating with him again.

  They strolled along the path, heading toward the green archway of trees past the stable. She was conscious of the foot of space between them, conscious that they should have been holding hands or walking so close as to brush the other's clothing. Instead, they went awkward and uneasy, silence a boulder between them.

  She vowed she would not start the conversation, regard­less that the quiet made her itch. What could she say? Please stay. Stay and make love to me, but keep that thing to yourself, if you don't mind. No, that would probably be the beginning of a bad end between them. My God, who would've thought she'd be half-hoping for him to leave on their second day together?