To Tempt a Scotsman

by Victoria Dahl

  Weight pressed her knee, drawing her eyes from their distance to see his hand on her leg. "We can't stay silent forever, Alex. Can we not discuss this?"

  She stared at this hand, so wide and strong. So warm and deceptively gentle. She stared until he removed it from her person to clench it against his thigh.

  A hot stove flared to life in her gut. She felt like herself again, like the self she'd hidden from him and his suspi­cions. Oh, and she had tried so hard to bury her hard-to-love boldness beneath layers of pleasantness, obedience. For him.

  His hand rose again, hovering over her knee.

  "Don't touch me." A sharp stop bounced her back against the seat. They were home. His home. "And find an­other bed tonight. I do not wish to sleep near you."

  "Damn it—"

  "Shut up." She darted out the door when it swung open, dragging her beautiful silver skirts against the carriage frame with not the least twinge of regret. She landed in a scrambling heap and pushed past the stunned groom to stomp her way up the stairs and into the gloom of West-more.

  "Send a glass of wine to my chamber," she growled at a sleepy maid and stalked toward her room. Perhaps he would sleep with Rebecca tonight. Perhaps this would be just the excuse he needed to fall between that bitch's thighs. And Lord help her if she dared to bring Alex's wine herself. She'd finally get the slap that she'd been begging for these past weeks.

  Oh, things had gotten worse on that front, as if the housekeeper knew of the failed attempt to push her out. Now she didn't even feign deference. She spoke to the other servants in Gaelic even when Alex was in the room. She smirked at her when they were alone.

  Oh, yes, Alex hoped she would be the one to bring her wine. She would find a new Mrs. Blackburn awaiting her sneering face. Alex's palm itched at the thought but, in the end, Danielle pushed through the door, glass in one hand and decanter in the other. She clicked the bedroom door closed with a jut of one hip.

  "How was your evening, Madame?"

  "Tiring."

  "We keep farmer's hours now," her maid replied with a huff. The woman must have something against farmers, Alex thought as she turned her back to offer the tapes of her gown.

  Danielle undressed her in tugs and touches punctuated by smothered yawns. She was too tired to chatter tonight, thank God, as Alex couldn't think well enough to reply to even the most inane conversation, and she certainly wanted nothing to do with pointed questions. When she felt the strong bands of the corset loose their hold, she pulled in a great rush of air and let it out with a shudder. The new ease in her chest seemed to free up a pain deep inside her.

  "I'll sleep late tomorrow, Danielle. No need to rise until I call you."

  Once alone, she found that the ancient latch slipped easily into place, locked for the first time in God-knew-how-long. Not for the last time though, not if she stayed in his home.

  She did not cry as she slipped into bed. She did not cry one tear for him.

  Chapter 20

  A bright, cheerful sound floated to her ears, scraping her sleep away before she was ready. Again—a musical ping­ing, steady as a tolling bell. Horseshoes . . . Adam was forging shoes again. Clang, clang, clang. Those shutters kept nothing out.

  Alex opened her eyes to the knowledge that her heart was broken. Sleep had dulled neither the pain nor the memory of its cause. Indeed, it had brought a new facet to its brilliant hurt. St. Claire's letter.

  She no longer felt guilty at keeping it secret. Indeed, it had been a wiser deception than she could have guessed. Tales of your talented lips. She'd only thought of kissing and the dozen or so men she'd pressed her lips to.

  Yes, she'd kissed Damien and even his best friend a time or two, and had thought herself well and truly scandalous. And how naughty she'd been to let Damien touch her in private places and how wicked to touch him as well, to let him press himself into her open hand, to enjoy the little whips of pleasure that touched her at her daring.

  Three times she'd snuck off to let Damien teach her what it meant to touch and be touched. Three times she'd let him pull her into a secluded room and push up her skirts, let him spend himself into her hand.

  She had thought these things too forbidden to reveal to her jealous husband, and so she hadn't told him. But, oh, she'd had no idea the scenarios he would weave if left to his own devices. That he would think her capable of debas­ing herself to such lengths. She hadn't understood, but St. Claire had. Sad to think a murderer knew her husband so well. Perhaps they were all the same. All of them.

  Alex pushed her aching body from bed and padded to the window to push aside the drapes and throw back the shutters.

  The world moved on below her, people rushing to and fro. Horses ran in the paddock, heads thrown back to savor the bright cold of the day. A fine winter morning and no one the worse for her pain.

  These people, these diligent, dedicated people . . . None of them needed her and half didn't even want her here. She had done something wrong or lacked something they ex­pected from her. Just respect, perhaps, just the respect of their lord and leader. And the house servants followed the lead of Rebecca.

  These people had jobs and families and why should they make room for a woman who could not even engender the respect of her husband?

  She wanted to go home. To her home. She didn't belong here and she never would. She didn't even belong in her husband's bed.

  "Bastard," she whispered. "Bastard." The fist that clenched her heart released, and the fingers that spread open inside her were tipped by claws. "You bastard." Her words were lost on a sob, a cry that had waited to escape all night.

  Pain wracked her body, grief rode her soul. Her legs tried to curl up, tried to force her to the floor, but she fought it—fought it like she wanted to fight Collin. And she won. She suppressed the instinct to collapse. She forced her shoulders up and stalked to the door to throw it open and glare down the hallway to the swaying back of a girl with a broom.

  "Send my maid," she bit out. "Now." Oh, the servants would be whispering today, enjoying the novelty of out­rage at her high-handed behavior. It was her parting gift to them, the joy of justifying their dislike.

  Alex turned the glare back to her room. Was there even one thing here that she needed? Warm clothes. Coins for food and shelter. What else? Nothing.

  "Madame," Danielle panted from behind her. "What is wrong?"

  Alex spun, reaching past her maid's shoulder to slam the door. Danielle gasped, alarmed by the noise and no doubt by her mistress's face. Oh, she'd caught a glimpse of her­self in the mirror—sunken, wild eyes and pale lips framed by tangled curls.

  "My lady, what is it!"

  "I am leaving, but I need you to stay, Danielle. Can you do that for me?"

  "Stay? What do you mean?"

  "My husband . . . My husband has accused me of being a whore for the last time, do you understand?"

  "Oui." She paled, stepped away. "Oui, of course, Made­moiselle . . . Madame."

  "I am leaving. This morning. What time is it?"

  "Nine."

  "Nine, yes." Good. Dinner in three hours and he wouldn't come home for that, despite that he was only yards away. No, he wouldn't return till dark and she'd be miles gone even if he did notice her absence.

  "I'll need breakfast first. A lot of it and extra napkins. Then . . . Then I'll pack just a satchel. Can you take it for me, hide it outside the gate? I don't want the groom asking questions."

  "Oui. I'll go get the food, shall I?"

  "Yes. And I will send for you as soon as I'm home, you understand? I can't take you with, you hate horses." Her voice broke on the last word and tears spilled over her cheeks.

  Danielle cried out and tried to reach for her, but Alex pushed her hands back. "No, none of that. Get the food. I'll pack."

  Her hands shook, but not one more tear fell.

  Wool stockings. Wool scarf. Money. One of the plain dresses she'd worn for that long-ago tryst. An extra pair of gloves. What else? What else? There was r
oom for the food and more, but she couldn't think. She stuffed in a candle, wondered how she'd light it. No matter. She would find an inn before nightfall.

  Her knife. She pulled it from its hiding place under the bed and started to stuff it into the bag, then thought of St. Claire. He hated her now, and he had killed before. Alex eased the knife from the bag and stared at it. If he was watching the keep, if he followed her. . . Well, she'd do the best she could to draw his blood.

  She set the blade on the dresser. She'd hide it in her boot once she'd dressed.

  She couldn't think of anything else and her fingers twitched to do something, so she stripped off her night­dress and pulled on thick stockings, pantalettes quilted for warmth, a chemisette and a linen shift. She pulled out her boots, then spun around to yank another pair of stockings from the drawer. Layers. She laid her winter riding habit on the bed. Her fur-lined cloak and gloves. Another scarf.

  A blanket? She rolled one as tight as she could and stuffed it into the bag. There, it was full. She could wedge a piece of bread in though. Some cheese and ham.

  Danielle burst through the door, face blank with distress above the tray of piled food. Her eyes darted around, taking in the clothes draped across the bedspread, the bulging satchel.

  Alex began sorting through the food before Danielle had even managed to maneuver it to the table. Salt stung the inside of her lip as she stuffed a piece of bacon into her mouth. A cut, she realized dimly. She must have bitten a hole through it sometime, trying not to cry. She didn't have that problem now. Her eyes were now dry as sand, barren as death. She wrapped food and chewed mindlessly.

  "What. . . Where will you go?"

  "Home."

  "But. . . Take a carriage, Madame, please."

  "No. I'm going now before he realizes. He would try to keep me here, try to do the honorable thing and apologize. I don't want his honor, his bastard replacement for love. I don't care to hear another apology."

  "It is not safe—"

  "Safer than staying here! He's likely to murder me some night when my eye falls too fondly on one of the grooms."

  "But you're not. . . How will you find your way?"

  "I remember the way. There's that town a day's ride from here, where we stayed the night."

  As she stuffed the last of the roadworthy food away, her eye caught on Danielle's starkly drawn face. Her eyes were bright with a fear that Alex had never seen there before and her heart clenched at the sight.

  "Danielle," she whispered, reaching to take her limp hands. "All will be well. I'll go home to my brother. I'll send for you and our life will return to what it was."

  "But, Madame, you are married!"

  "Pah." She let go her hands and reached for the habit. "Here. Help me dress."

  Given something familiar to do, the maid sprang into action, muttering French in such a low tone that Alex could only hear the occasional punctuation. Monster. Idiot. Beast.

  "Stay in the room as much as you can. I will not have you lie for me again and there is the occasional person here who'll ask after me."

  "This is not a good idea!"

  "I cannot make wise decisions even when I try, Danielle, so what is the point?" The last fold of her skirt fell into place, the cloak stirred the briar patch of her curls when Danielle swung it around her. She'd leave it unbound, it was warm that way, like wool batting.

  "My boots!" she laughed, tucking the scarf around her neck. "What a madwoman I am, all bundled up with no boots on." She giggled again, watching Danielle's blond head duck low to slip the stiff leather over her foot. "I feel mad, you know."

  "All the more reason to stop and think what you're doing!"

  "Collin . . . He . . . I cannot even tell you what he ac­cused me of. Even being a virgin was not proof enough, not for such an honorable, decent man. I will not live with a man who despises the very lust he avails himself of every night. He shames me, Danielle. He shames me at every turn. Am I such a shameful person, then?"

  Her friend's eyes filled with the tears that Alex's body had ceased to produce. "You must not think such things. He is a fool. Have I not told you they are all fools? Write to the duke. He will come for you himself."

  "No, I am sorry to leave you here, but I cannot stay an­other moment in his house. Take the bag. Perhaps you should wrap it in a sheet? I'll retrieve it outside the gate, where that grass grows so wild. Go."

  And then she was alone. She slipped her sheathed knife into her boot and cast a cold eye around the stone walls of the room, skipping willfully over the items that spoke of her bed-partner. Not her room and it never would be. Leather slid over her fingers as she pulled on her gloves and turned her back on Collin Blackburn's bed.

  The mare swung her head around in a sharp arc and caught Collin's chin with a thunk.

  "Damn it." He dropped her foot, no doubt rewarding bad behavior with exactly the thing she wanted, but he couldn't seem to bring himself to care. It likely wasn't the worst hit he'd get today. At least his tongue hadn't been between his teeth.

  Unfolding his stiff body, he rose with a grunt of true ex­haustion. Uncertainty had kept him up all night. Uncer­tainty and guilt and the dusty cold of an unused bed. Not so unused now. He wondered when the maid would dis­cover the rumpled bed. A week or two? Then again he might be moving in permanently; Alex's eyes had been that cold.

  Stepping out of the shadowed barn, Collin's hands clenched to fists at the memory of her curls teasing the man's cheek. They'd looked so. . . involved. Tense in a way that bespoke an intimate past. He'd thought he might throt­tle him . . . And apparently he should have.

  "Stupid prick," he muttered, meaning Dixon, but feel­ing the sting of the curse himself. Who was more stupid than he?

  He'd felt the censure of Alexandra's gaze on him all night, as he'd twisted and turned in the rough embrace of pilfered blankets. Her eyes gone blank and depthless, a shield against his hatefulness.

  "Damn your black soul," he growled, definitely mean­ing himself this time and not the startled boy who leapt out of his path. Pausing at the door to swipe his boots against the bale of hay he kept there to catch stable muck, Collin dug his fingers into the stiff muscles of his neck.

  He had wounded her. Again. Perhaps unforgivably. He'd struck out in childish anger when she had needed his protec­tion. God only knew what that blackguard had been saying to her—that rapist disguised as a pale English milksop. And the startled dismay he'd surprised from her face . . . that hadn't been fear of discovery, it had been helplessness as she'd stood in a crowded ballroom and tolerated the pres­ence of her attacker.

  His throat thickened with regret, with disgust at what he'd accused her of. Worse than that, really, for what if he'd been right? What if she had serviced a dozen men before he came along? Hadn't he been with a dozen women in his life? Hadn't he suckled and licked and screwed them and never thought twice about it? Oh, he was cruel, and wretched with it now.

  He loved her. He loved her and he had abused her as surely as if he'd beaten her to the floor.

  The walls moved past him and he was walking through the great hall, between tables still littered with the mess of dinner. Bridey's small girl worked her way 'round, stack­ing metal plates and cups. The meal was done then. Had she eaten?

  His boots slapped the stairs as he bounded up, abruptly urgent with the need to see her. He smelled of sweat and horseflesh and no doubt she'd spit and slap at him, but he wanted to see her, wanted to dare an apology.

  Her door fell open, unbarred.

  "Alex?" A sound stirred from the turret room. A woman slipped into view, her blond hair a disappoint-ment. "Dan­ielle. Is your mistress about?"

  Collin glanced stupidly around, as if she crouched behind the bed. The maid did not answer and when he looked back to her, she only returned his stare, though her lips twitched into a momentary snarl. Well.

  "Ah, has she gone for a ride?"

  "You could say that."

  He felt a flicker of irritation and set
it aside. "What does that mean?"

  "You may figure that out on your own."

  "Please don't growl at me. Just tell me where she is."

  "Fool."

  "What?"

  "Salaud, she has left you." "Left me? But—"

  Danielle swung about, skirt and hair flying out in a wave as she stepped back into the turret room and slammed the small door behind her.

  "Left me?" His brain seemed to creak under the pres­sure of the words and his eyes wove circles around the room, finally landing on her wardrobe. With one great lunge, he yanked the doors open and shook his head at the crush of dresses inside. Left him. . . No, she couldn't have. Her things were still here, her trunk still lurked at the foot of the bed. Her maid was sitting not ten feet away. She couldn't have gone anywhere.

  No, she hadn't left. She was probably hiding in the turret room even as he stood here reeling.

  "Danielle!" The door burst open under his palm with a sharp crack. "Damn it, is she here?"

  But his wife was not in the tiny round room, only her maid staring at him past her tears. Danielle, crying? What was this? A shaft of ice pierced his churning gut. "What the hell is going on?"

  "I told you!" She sprang to her feet to face him, a tear dripping from her chin. "She has left you."

  "But all her things are still here. You are still here. Where could she have gone?"

  That narrow shaft of ice split and widened. She had left him, run away. Left in the dead of night for all he knew. And where could she go with just the clothes on her back? Back to Kirkland Hall?

  A suspicion struck him, terrible in its familiarity, and com­fortable despite that. Fergus. Fergus who liked her so well and defended her and who hadn't yet shown his face today. Fergus who lived not two miles from here and was missing from his post.

  Collin's hand shot out to grip the maid's arm. "Has she gone to him? Has she?"

  Her face flushed and twisted into an ugly snarl as she reared back, pulling herself from his tight fingers. She did not answer his question. Instead, she drew herself up and spit full into his face.