Never Tempt a Scot

by Lauren Smith

  Her eyes narrowed. “You think far too highly of yourself if you assume I would ever beg you for anything.”

  “You just did, lass. You begged me to touch you, and I surrendered to your pretty plea.”

  She stared at him, lips trembling, and he felt like a cad.

  “Rest, lass. We have a while to go before we stop again to rest. I’ll not touch you again . . . for now. You may sleep without fear.” He moved back to his seat across from her, and she began to relax. In a few moments, she fell asleep, and he simply watched her.

  That sense of something being off continued to bother him. He had every reason to believe that this was the woman who’d ordered his abduction. It had to be pity he felt. She was reaping the consequences of her actions, and she was terrified, as she should be.

  His instincts rarely failed him, yet right now those same instincts warned him that there was something wrong about Miss Hunt. Something he was missing and couldn’t understand. It bothered him more than he wanted to admit.

  Jane Russell hurried up the steps of the townhouse that Lysandra said was being rented by Rafe Lennox. They’d only just left Lydia Hunt’s townhouse. No one had been at home, but Lysandra had begged the butler, Mr. Annis, to tell them what he knew about Lydia. A horrifying story had been related in whispers.

  “I wouldn’t tell a soul, Miss Russell, but as you are a close friend of my lady, and I know you have her best interests at heart, I must tell you the whole affair,” the butler had said to Lysandra.

  Jane could barely believe what she’d heard. Mr. Kincade’s drugging and abduction. Lydia’s discovery of Kincade and her attempt to rescue him. The drugged Scotsman stealing Lydia away into the night at knifepoint. It was almost too incredible to believe.

  The crucial bit of information lay in that Kincade had taken Lydia to Rafe Lennox’s residence. The driver had, after being questioned by Jane, admitted that he had lied about where the coach had taken Lydia and Kincade.

  “Oh, Mama, I hope she is here,” Lysandra said as Jane tapped the knocker under the door.

  “As do I.” Jane didn’t want her daughter to know how truly worried she was about Lydia Hunt. Abducted. Held at knifepoint. Taken away in the night. The child was ruined if word ever came out about this, and she was in grave danger. Jane was determined to help her.

  The door to Mr. Lennox’s house opened.

  “We are here to pay a call on Mr. Kincade,” Jane said to the butler.

  “I’m terribly sorry, madam, but Mr. Kincade is not home at present.”

  “When shall he return?” she asked quickly. Time was of the essence if she was to bring Lydia home. She might then be able to concoct a story that would explain Lydia’s disappearance and thereby save her reputation.

  “He has left Bath, madam,” the butler replied uncertainly.

  “And Mr. Lennox? Is he at home?”

  “No, the master is also abroad.”

  “Abroad?” Jane asked. “What the devil do you mean, abroad? Did they run for France? Did they take that poor girl with them?”

  The butler held up his hands. “Madam, please calm yourself. Please, do not upset yourself. The master would not wish anyone to suffer a fit of hysterics.”

  “Hysterics?” Jane pushed her way past the butler and into the foyer. “You would perish on the spot if I ever succumbed to hysterics. Bah!” She spun and jabbed a gloved finger into the butler’s chest. “Where have they gone, and do they have that poor girl with them?” Jane narrowed her eyes. “And should you even contemplate trying to deceive me, know this—my son is Lucien Russell, the Marquess of Rochester, dearest friend to Ashton Lennox, the older brother of your master and the person who pays to keep this house running and staffed. Think wisely about your next words.”

  The butler’s face was ashen. “I have no intention of deception, my lady. The master and Mr. Kincade, along with their female guest, departed for Scotland.”

  “Scotland?” Lysandra gasped. “Do you think they’ve gone to Gretna Green? Is Lydia to be married to Mr. Kincade?”

  The butler swallowed hard before he answered Lysandra’s inquiry. “No, miss, they are bound for Edinburgh.”

  “Not Gretna Green? But it is so much closer. Surely the inconvenience would—”

  “Lysandra, dear, what I believe the man is trying to say is that Mr. Kincade does not have marriage in mind. Am I correct?”

  Again, the butler nodded, his face pale.

  “Oh heavens. Poor Lydia,” Lysandra whispered.

  “Where in Edinburgh are they bound?” Jane asked firmly.

  “I do not truly know, madam. Lord Lennox has a residence there, a modest townhouse, but it would likely be closed up this time of year.”

  “Write down the address, please,” Jane said, though it was not a request. As they waited for the butler to return, a handsome man about Jane’s age rushed up the steps. He removed his hat before he knocked on the open door.

  “Hello? I’m sorry to intrude, but is Mr. Kincade home?”

  Jane sized up the man and at once saw some likeness to Lydia. This had to be the girl’s reckless father. “Mr. Kincade is not here. Are you Mr. Hunt?”

  “Er . . . Yes, madam.” He eyed her more curiously now. “Are we acquainted?”

  “Indeed we are not, but now is the least appropriate time to bother with formalities. I am Lady Rochester, Dowager Marchioness of Rochester.”

  “It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady Rochester, but I am on a most urgent mission.” His apologetic expression softened Jane’s temper a bit.

  “Yes, we know, Mr. Hunt. You may know my daughter, Lysandra Russell.” Jane stepped aside to allow Mr. Hunt into the foyer with them.

  Mr. Hunt bowed again. “Miss Russell.” The rigidity in his form no doubt came from the stress of the situation, and Jane felt compelled to put him at ease.

  “Lysandra and I are going to help you find Lydia. It is why we are here.”

  “You know what happened?” He kept his tone quiet as his gaze darted around to search for servants who might be listening.

  “Unfortunately, we do. We have learned that Mr. Kincade, Mr. Lennox, and your daughter are bound for Edinburgh.”

  “Edinburgh? Why there?”

  “Mr. Lennox lives off the means of his older brother, Lord Lennox. Lord Lennox has a townhouse there that is currently closed and therefore empty except perhaps for a handful of servants. It is the perfect place for men who are up to no good to hide.”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Hunt’s face darkened. “Do you know the address?”

  “We are waiting for it now,” Jane said, and then the butler returned and presented her with a piece of paper.

  “Thank you. Good day.” She spun, leaving the poor servant to stand there gawking at her as she exited the house. Lysandra and Mr. Hunt followed on her heels.

  “I thank you most graciously for your assistance, Lady Rochester, but I should handle the matter now.” Mr. Hunt reached for the slip of paper, but she snapped it out of his reach.

  “Nonsense. You and I shall be handling this together. Lysandra, you are to return home and stay there. Mr. Hunt and I shall find Lydia and return with her.”

  “We’re going to what?” Mr. Hunt blustered.

  “You heard me. You and I shall go together. You still have much to explain. In the meantime, my daughter will spread word that you have taken Lydia on a trip in the countryside.”

  Jane tugged her white kid gloves tight and fixed the gentleman with a stern look. His brown hair was fashionably cut, with hints of silver at the temples. Jane had to admit that she liked his face, the proportions of his well-formed features. He was tall, with a muscular build. Had it not been for what this man had recently done, she would have found him attractive. As it was, he was due a lengthy lecture on good behavior, and she was just the person to provide it.

  “But we . . . We have only just met, Lady Rochester.”

  “And?” she challenged. “I am a widow, you are a widower, and we have fa
r more important matters to attend to than worrying about gossip. I care not one whit what anyone says. Why should you?”

  “Well, it’s just . . .” Mr. Hunt’s cheeks turned red, and he looked suddenly bashful.

  “Come now, Mr. Hunt, we’re both respectable adults, and we are wasting precious time as it is if we are to find your Lydia.”

  “Right. Then we shall take my coach.” He gestured toward his conveyance, which was standing behind theirs.

  “Not yet. First, follow us to my residence. I will pack quickly, and then we may be off.”

  “Very good, very good,” Mr. Hunt murmured, apparently still in a bit of shock at the sudden turn of events.

  Jane almost smiled. Even at her age, she still had the ability to surprise good-looking gentlemen. Her heart twinged as she remembered how she’d run away to Scotland to marry her late husband all those years ago.

  She missed him every day, but over time the wound of his passing had begun to heal. She found pleasure with her friends and in pursuing interests outside of the home, but a part of her deeply missed other forms of companionship.

  Were there ever second chances for a widowed woman in her fifties? When she glanced one last time at Mr. Hunt before climbing into her coach, she couldn’t help but wonder.

  8

  Lydia was surprised that she had managed to sleep at all in the jostling coach after what had happened between her and Brodie. When a particularly hard bump in the road jostled her awake, she found that Brodie had wrapped her in his coat. The enticing scent of man and woods drifted up from the heavy dark-blue fabric.

  She shifted beneath it, testing her injured wrist. It felt stiff but no longer painful. That was a small relief. The last thing she needed was to be hurt while traveling so far from her family. And after what had happened a few hours ago, she would need every bit of strength to deal with Brodie. She wasn’t sure if she was grateful that Mr. Lennox chose to ride on top of the coach with the servants, leaving her alone with Brodie, or if it would be worse to have him inside the coach, watching Brodie seduce her. She was quite certain Brodie wouldn’t mind letting a rake like Lennox watch him kiss her.

  She trembled as she remembered how Brodie’s commanding mouth and wicked hands had set her body on fire. She’d been afraid—not of him, but what he made her feel. He’d sent riots of wild, frightening pleasure through her. All he’d had to do was touch her and she’d practically exploded.

  Lydia had touched herself between her legs once or twice, during bathing, but she’d always been confused and a little scared of the sensations those few brief touches had given her.

  Yet Brodie had boldly explored her and seemed to know just where and how to caress her to make that excitement build and finally create a wild release that had made her scream, though he had dampened much of her cries with that kiss. It was likely that Rafe and the valets riding outside on the top of the coach would have heard her, and her face burned with mortification that she had indeed begged him to touch her.

  At least she had convinced Brodie to agree to a few rules when it came to his treatment of her, though he had danced around actually saying yes to her rules during their discussion. Still, she was confident—or hopeful, at any rate—that he would see fit to treat her with some modicum of respect and provide her with some necessities while she belonged to him.

  Lord, the word belong seemed to carry such a weight to it now, a sensual promise that worried her as much as it excited her.

  Peeping at Brodie from beneath her lashes, she tried to imagine what life as a mistress would be like, and more importantly, what her life would be like afterward. Once he became bored with her and she returned home in disgrace, what then? It was a good thing she liked the countryside, seeing as how she would likely be relegated to a quiet life in some quaint cottage after her father had married Portia to whatever man she desired next.

  “I can hear you thinking, lass.” Brodie’s voice rumbled as he stirred in the corner of the coach opposite her. He stretched out his long, lean, muscled legs toward her, his booted feet nestled beneath the shelter of her skirts, touching her own. It was an oddly intimate thing for two veritable strangers. Their feet touching under the concealment of her clothing. It made her aware of every little move he made as he shifted in his seat from time to time to become more comfortable.

  “Are we to stop soon?” She pushed back one of the curtains on the carriage windows. The green landscape was dark with shadows. “The sun is setting.”

  “Aye, soon,” Brodie replied as he continued to watch her with an unsettling half smile.

  “You really must stop looking at me like that, Mr. Kincade,” she warned.

  He gave her a full smile now. “Like what?”

  “Like you are thinking of terrible, wicked things.”

  “I hate to tell you this, lass, but I am a terrible, wicked man. It is in my nature to think of such things.”

  “Oh!” she huffed. “Your brothers did not seem so uncouth as you when I met them.” She hadn’t realized until she discovered Brodie’s identity that she had glimpsed Brock and Aiden once at a ball, but she hadn’t really known much about them, nor had she seen Brodie that night.

  “What do you know of my brothers?” he demanded, smile vanishing.

  “Not much, but I saw them at the ball where Joanna Lennox . . .”

  “Slapped my brother?” He was grinning again. “Why do you think she slapped him? It wasna because he was kind and gentle.”

  Lydia didn’t believe him. Joanna would never have run off to Gretna Green with a terrible man. She was all kindness and compassion, and only the best of men could have ever won her heart. Brock Kincade had to be a paragon of virtue compared to Brodie, whom she was growing more upset with every passing hour. Yes, he was attractive, but his handling of her had proved he was a terrible man, and that was not an opinion that would change soon, no matter how much she liked how he kissed.

  “If you are bored, you may come over and sit on my lap.” He patted his strong thigh with one hand. “I promise to find a way to entertain you.”

  “You would like that, wouldn’t you?” she shot back and let the coat he had put around her fall to her lap. His gaze swept over her body, and she had to fight the urge to cover herself with it again.

  “I would indeed. When a man suffers frustrations, there is nothing better than to take a lass to bed and”—he let his eyes fall to her breasts and hips before he continued—“satisfy his needs in the roughest, most enjoyable ways possible. I could make you scream my name, Miss Hunt, and you would beg me for more.”

  Lydia threw the coat at him, which he easily caught with one hand. She wished she had heavier, harder things to throw. Of course, she suspected anything thrown at his block head would likely break instead. She finally sighed. “Are you going to be like this always?”

  “Like what?”

  “Exasperating.” She waved a hand at him. “You will drive me mad.”

  “Then yes, I will always be this way. You know, I think I like you angry at me, lass. An angry woman has no place for fear, and I don’t want you to fear me.”

  “You don’t?” she asked. She hadn’t expected that.

  “No. And besides, you flush so prettily when you’re raging at me.”

  “I do not rage,” she huffed in protest.

  “Aye, you do, and I find it appealing. You don’t scare me—you amuse me.”

  Lydia wanted to scream. “I’m not here to amuse you, you cad!”

  His tone changed to one far more serious. “No, you are here to please me.”

  She was suddenly exhausted with dealing with this stubborn man, and her rare show of a temper was returning.

  “I’m here because you are a stubborn fool. I told you I’m not the woman who bound you to a bed and drugged you. That was Portia, my younger sister.” Lord, if she ever laid eyes upon her sister again, Portia would have a great deal to answer for.

  “And I believe you are clever enough to lie and in
vent a sister who does not exist to engender my sympathies. It will not work.”

  “If only that were true,” Lydia muttered. “Someday when you realize how you’ve been mistaken as to my identity and character, I pray that you will suffer dearly for it,” Lydia growled. She was done being polite. It had gotten her nowhere with this man. To think that she had been jealous of Portia when she’d assumed her sister’s beauty and their father’s money would win this man over. No, this man was odious, controlling, and a bully. He was everything she despised in a person. Yet when he kissed her, she seemed to forget all of her qualms and complaints.

  I must endeavor to avoid such things whenever possible. He may turn me into his mistress, but I do not have to make it easy for him.

  The coach came to a stop, and a few voices outside came closer. The door nearest Brodie opened, and Rafe peered inside. The sun had fully set now, and lamplight from a nearby coaching inn silhouetted him from behind.

  “You two all right in there? I thought I heard shouting,” Rafe said with a smirk.

  Lydia stood, collected her reticule, and made to leave the coach. Rafe reached for her waist, lifting her down to the ground. Brodie leapt down behind her, his boots crunching on the stony road beneath him.

  “See if you can acquire three rooms,” Brodie said to Rafe.

  “Three? My heavens, you do work fast. Well done, old chap.” Rafe turned and walked into the inn.

  “Why did he say that? Why three rooms?” Lydia paused as she counted in her head. A room for Rafe and Brodie, a room for the valets, and a room for her. Well . . . that was thoughtful. So why did that make Rafe laugh? Did he find it amusing that Brodie would let her have her own room?

  She followed Rafe into the inn and tried to ignore the heat of Brodie’s body as he stayed close behind her. The inn was busy, and nearly every table was full. Rafe leaned against the bar, one leg bent casually as he leaned in to speak to a man at the bar. The man handed Rafe three sets of keys.

  Brodie put a possessive arm around her waist. “Over here, lass.” They wound their way around the tables to one of the few empty ones left. Rafe passed by them on his way toward the door and tossed Brodie a key.