A Scot to the Heart

by Caroline Linden

  He was so caught up in the dance that it gave him a genuine start when the next woman turned to take his hand, and he recognized the alluring beauty from the other table. The one who had smiled at him.

  Hand in hand they spun around each other, then separated. Each time the dance brought them back together, Drew stared. Up close she was more than mesmerizing. Her dark hair was coming out of its pins, trailing down her back and flying around her as she circled the other dancers. Like the other ladies, she picked up her skirts and tapped her feet with energy. Her color was high and her face fierce with joy. And when she caught him staring at her, she only gave him that infectious flirtatious smile again.

  The dance came to an abrupt end when someone tripped and sprawled on the floor. The piper stopped playing just as the fallen man began vomiting. With cries of alarm, the dancers scrambled away from him.

  By sheer chance, Drew and the mystery woman were crowded together into a back corner, pushed almost behind the piper by the crush of people hurrying for the stairs. Someone shoved him in the back, and then the woman stumbled against him. Instinctively he put up an arm to shield her, and her eyes flashed toward him in gratitude.

  He could only think of one thing.

  “Who are you?” he asked, lowering his head to hers and stubbornly blocking the stream of people from this quiet corner. She smelled like the sea and oranges and woman.

  She gave him a gleaming glance and said something he couldn’t quite make out over the roar of the crowd. He leaned down more. “What? What’s your name?”

  Her hands came up on both sides of his face. For one breathless heartbeat, she pressed her lips to his in a sudden, searing kiss. He felt it to the soles of his feet and the roots of his hair; every nerve seemed to snap with the shock and beauty of it, as if she’d struck him with lightning. On pure instinct he cupped one hand around her nape and kissed her back.

  Before he could manage to put an arm around her, though, she released him and ducked under his elbow into the crowd surging up the stairs. Even with his height advantage, he lost all sight of her in an instant.

  His mouth still tingling, he waited out the worst of the exodus behind the stairs, then pushed his way through the room to retrieve his coat. Duncan was lying on a table, tapping his toes and laughing at Ross, who turned out to be the fellow who had lost his dinner all over the floor. Ross leaned weakly against a table leg, his arms thrown around it for support and his face white. Monteith was arguing with the landlord, who had fought his way downstairs and was scowling at the spray of sick all over his floor.

  With a lurch Duncan rolled off the table. “Let’s go,” he said. “Monteith! Bring what’s left of Ross.” He tossed a pair of guineas toward the landlord, whose aggrieved expression didn’t change even as he snatched the coins from the air.

  Out in the street, they heaved Ross between them, Drew and Monteith both trying to make sure the man’s face was angled away from them. Chairmen in Highland garb trotted past carrying sedan chairs, their boots thumping on the cobblestones. A dog barked somewhere nearby. Lopsided, winded, and more than a little drunk, they staggered through the streets, Duncan singing something bawdy in Scots and Ross moaning at him to be quiet.

  “Monteith,” Drew said over Ross’s head lolling on his shoulder. “Who was the woman in blue?”

  “Eh?” Monteith squinted at him. “Which one? Half the females there wore blue, St. James.” The last words came out slurred.

  He gave up. Monteith was even drunker than Duncan, who was frightening away the stray cats that prowled the streets. Someone flung open a window and yelled at him to be silent, which made him begin another verse, louder than ever.

  Tomorrow. Once Duncan sobered up, Drew would find out who she was. He could still taste her mouth on his, and he yearned to taste it again.

  Chapter Three

  It took forever to get the easel in just the right position. The morning light was excellent, but the windows were narrow and admitted little of it. Opening the sashes helped, but the drapes still obscured the view, until she took them down.

  And after all that effort, Ilsa Ramsay noted with chagrin, she was out of green paint.

  Well. Perhaps the hills ought to be more violet than green, now that she thought about it.

  Aunt Jean came into the room and stopped short. Ilsa preferred to think it was in appreciation of her painting skill, which had improved tremendously in the last few months. She daubed another burst of heather onto her painting of the distant Calton Hill, replicating the vista out the drawing room windows.

  “Are the draperies in need of cleaning?” asked her aunt after a moment.

  “No,” said Ilsa. “They were blocking the view.”

  Jean picked up one corner of a drapery, lying in a heap on the sofa, and clucked over the loose threads where a ring had torn away. “And did they offend you, as well?”

  “I didn’t tear them down, that ring was already loose.” Carefully she added tiny highlights of light blue to the heather. Yes; the hillside did look much better with some heather. Pity the real one couldn’t be so easily improved.

  Jean dropped the drapery. “I suppose I’ll have to sew it back on.”

  “You needn’t put yourself out. I didn’t mean to create work for you.” She tilted her head critically to survey her work. “I like the room brighter. Perhaps I’ll never rehang the draperies.”

  “What? Anyone will be able to see right in!” Jean sounded appalled.

  “Only if they climb a ladder propped against the front of the house, which would be notable even in Edinburgh.” Ilsa resisted the urge to roll her eyes. The building across the street was a small concert hall, with blank windows on this level.

  Jean threw up her hands. “Ach! What goes through your head, child? Of course we need draperies!”

  “We don’t, actually. They’ve been down for an hour and the house is still standing.”

  Her aunt’s face puckered in frustration. “That’s not what I meant!”

  “But isn’t it the important question? We don’t need draperies. We like them. They demonstrate how stylish we are to anyone who calls. But the panes are well-fitted and there are no draughts, and right now draperies only impede the fresh, clean breeze.” She carefully placed another tiny dot of blue on her painting. “I think it may be far more beneficial to our health not to have them.”

  “There’s no arguing with you,” muttered her aunt.

  Ilsa smiled in relief. “Thank you, Aunt, I am so pleased we are in agreement.”

  “Hmph.” Jean folded her arms. “I never said that.”

  “As long as we don’t argue about it, you are quite entitled to disagree with my every word.” She ran the brush around the bottom of the paint pot, then peered inside as if more green paint might spontaneously appear.

  “You know, Ilsa, not everyone would be so tolerant of your whims,” warned her aunt, reopening a line of contention that had plagued them many times before. “No gentleman would put up with—”

  “Yes!” Ilsa got to her feet and began unbuttoning her smock. “No gentlemen. That is a most excellent rule.”

  Jean puffed up in offense. “Such a broad condemnation! ’Tis unfair of you.”

  Ilsa laughed. “I’ve not condemned men! Only gentlemen. I adore my papa and Robert.”

  Jean put one hand to her brow wearily. “Robert is not a man.”

  “Nor is he a gentleman, which makes him perfect.” Ilsa hung her smock on the sconce by the fireplace.

  The drawing room door opened. “Oh my, you’ve got rid of the drapes,” exclaimed Agnes St. James.

  “No,” said Jean firmly, taking down the smock.

  “Yes! What do you think?” asked Ilsa.

  Her friend surveyed the bare windows, which appeared much larger without the heavy damask draperies surrounding them. There was a fine view, off to the left, of the distant hill over the rooftops. “It’s much brighter without them.”

  “It is. I like it.”
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br />   Agnes’s approval soothed the faint rumble in Ilsa’s conscience. Agnes would say something if it were entirely disreputable not to have draperies at her windows. Ilsa didn’t see how it could be, but she’d come to distrust Jean’s opinion on anything regarding propriety. Agnes was at least a neutral judge.

  “Robert is pestering the butler,” her friend told her. “He sent me to inform you.”

  Ilsa grinned. “You mean, he sent you to scold me about neglecting Robert. He must be fretting for his ramble in the park, poor dear.”

  “Poor,” said Jean disapprovingly under her breath.

  “I would have taken him myself if Mr. MacLeod had not told me you were up,” Agnes went on. “I didn’t expect to see you so early. You came in rather late.”

  She smiled in memory of last evening’s fun. “I wish you could have come with me.”

  Agnes laughed. “My mother would never approve of me going to Mr. Hunter’s! I would be marched right home to a blistering scold.”

  “We can’t have that,” said Ilsa in sympathy. “I hated to leave you alone, but I’d given my word to Miss White.”

  Agnes waved it off. “I’m glad you went. Was it wonderful?”

  Ilsa thought of the tall, handsome fellow who had embraced her so protectively. “It was marvelous.”

  “Staying out until all hours isn’t dignified,” said Jean sternly. “Miss St. James has the right idea. Stay home and stay out of trouble.”

  Ilsa shared a glance with her friend. Agnes would have loved to be in that oyster cellar beside Ilsa, dancing and drinking punch and enjoying herself.

  But Agnes’s mother thought oyster cellars were no place for unmarried girls—even though plenty of ladies went these days. It had been her condition for allowing Agnes to come stay with Ilsa: she must follow all the rules of behavior that she was held to at home. Agnes had been so keen to come, and Ilsa so keen to have her, both had agreed.

  “It is the right idea to stay out of trouble,” said Agnes demurely. “Which is why I must go if you are able to see to Robert. My mother will be expecting me in the shop.”

  “Indeed, I shall be entirely proper all day, visiting my solicitor and taking tea with Papa,” Ilsa told her.

  “That is excellent,” exclaimed Jean approvingly. “I knew you would be a steadying influence on her, dear Miss St. James.”

  “Thank you, Miss Fletcher,” replied Agnes, choosing not to contradict this provocative statement. Well, Jean was not her aunt; Agnes did not need to argue with her over this or anything. Ilsa said nothing.

  Jean eyed the crumpled draperies. “Now that these are down, they might as well be cleaned. I’ll send the maid in to get them.”

  “Of course.” Ilsa had learned to accept an olive branch when one was offered.

  When her aunt had gone, she tossed aside the cap from her head. She only wore it to prevent paint getting in her hair, no matter how Jean scolded her that a widowed lady ought to wear it all the time. “Shall we have a leg of lamb tonight? I consumed so many oysters last night, I can’t face anything from the sea for a week.”

  Agnes made a small grimace. “Alas, I’m dining at home. Mother sent word my brother has returned, and she’ll have us all around her table again for the first time in over a year.”

  “Of course,” said Ilsa after a tiny pause. “Welcome home the captain with my best regards.”

  “Thank you.” Agnes rolled her eyes. “He’s hinted he brings news from our cousins in England. My mother is hopeful it’s a legacy of some sort. She’s already begun scouring listings in the New Town, certain we shall be moving to a grand new house.”

  “You are not as certain, I take it,” observed Ilsa.

  “Not in the slightest.” Agnes pursed her lips. “That family never cared for us. I cannot believe they’re about to start now, not in any meaningful way. And even if they did, Mother would insist Drew take all the benefit—aside from her new house, of course.”

  “Why should he take all the benefit?” asked Ilsa in surprise.

  Agnes shook her head. “It would be only fair. He joined the army when he was eighteen and sent his pay to Mother so we would have food and clothes.”

  “Brothers do such things?” said Ilsa in mock astonishment. “Remarkable!”

  Agnes laughed. “He’s a good sort. If there is a legacy—which I highly doubt!—he may have it with my blessing. After a dozen years in the army, he’s earned it.”

  She smiled. “How generous you are. He must be a good sort.” One of her favorite things about the St. James family was their closeness and honest affection for each other.

  “He is! At least, he can be. You’ll like him.”

  An image rose in her mind, a sober, straightlaced fellow in a red coat who spoke in single syllables and avoided anything fun. He’d gone into the army when faced with penury, after all—not for him the usual escape routes of marrying a rich girl, gambling, or piracy. What’s more, he chose the English army. Not very dashing, joining the English.

  Unbidden she thought again of the tall, dark-haired Scot from the oyster cellar. That one had a bit of the devil in him. Too bad she would never see him again.

  “A dutiful army man who likes to write letters teasing about possible legacies.” Ilsa tapped her chin and pretended to think. “Doesn’t seem likely, but one never knows.” Agnes just laughed.

  She walked with her friend down the stairs. “I do hope you’ll meet him.” Agnes put on her hat. “I doubt he’ll be in town long.”

  “Perhaps,” said Ilsa vaguely. Even his name was prissy and proper. Andrew the Saint. Saint Andrew the Self-Sacrificing. He sounded dreary and dull. She wouldn’t refuse to meet him, but neither was she eager.

  Agnes left for her mother’s shop in Shakespeare Square. Ilsa went into the butler’s room, where Robert stood watching Mr. MacLeod polish the silver. At her entrance, he sighed in relief. “Mrs. Ramsay! I didn’t like to disturb you, but—”

  “I know.” She smiled as Robert came up to her, his big brown eyes hopeful. She bent and kissed his forehead. “Yes, my darling, just a moment.” She turned back to Mr. MacLeod. “Two for dinner tonight. Miss St. James will be dining with her family. No fish or shellfish. Lamb, if you can find a prime leg of it.”

  “Very good, ma’am.” He smiled and bowed.

  Ilsa left the room, Robert at her heels. Jean had disappeared. Ilsa would wager a handsome sum that by dinner, that loose curtain ring would have been repaired, the drapery sponged and pressed, and the whole thing hung back on the rail. Jean vigorously fended off any hint that they weren’t the most eminently proper house on the street.

  Ilsa had meant it when she said she didn’t want to argue over that, but it seemed inevitable. Jean militantly maintained her status and respectability. At times it seemed like that was all Jean did—fuss over the china, the draperies, the exact height of a hemline, or the precise way to hold a fan. A slight slip greeting a new acquaintance would provoke a lengthy scold. A low-cut gown might make her tight-lipped for days.

  Not only did Ilsa crave an escape from all that fussing and fretting, she didn’t think most of it was important. And she was so tired of toeing the many, many lines laid down by people who told her that all her desires and interests were wrong or unseemly.

  She put on her jacket and hat and opened the door, waiting patiently as Robert made his way down the steps. “Well done,” she told him, and he nudged her elbow in reply. She smiled. Robert was the perfect companion. He couldn’t dance in an oyster cellar, but neither did he scold her, or tell her she was too bold, or say anything disagreeable at all. She patted him on the back and they set off, side by side, for the open fields at the foot of Calton Hill.

  This was the part of Edinburgh she loved best. Away from the increasingly dingy and cramped confines of the Old Town, away from the construction dust and noise of the New Town, just a bright, windy day on the hill with no one but Robert. Here she felt at peace, free from society and propriety.

  �
��Should we run away to the Highlands?” she wondered aloud. “I’ve heard they are beautiful and wild, and not filled with disapproving matrons.”

  Robert shook his head, plodding along beside her.

  “Too cold? Too far?” She sighed, running fingers over his back. “You’re probably right. Glasgow? No, too near, and too like Edinburgh.” She gave him a little pat. “I have it! We could hide ourselves on a ship to America and go on a grand adventure.”

  He snorted and wandered off, showing her what he thought of that idea. Ilsa smiled fondly, watching him amble across the grass. “You can dismiss the idea that easily because you don’t have to see Mr. MacGill today,” she called after him.

  She did not enjoy visiting her solicitor. He was reputed to be the best in Edinburgh, or so said her father. Her late husband, Malcolm, had also employed MacGill, keeping things like money and investments entirely out of Ilsa’s sight, let alone her control.

  But then Malcolm died, and suddenly all that money was hers. Papa had wanted to handle it for her, but Ilsa was done with that, even if it meant she had to deal personally with Mr. MacGill, with his pompous manner and patronizing little smile. As if she were very fortunate indeed to have even a moment of his attention.

  One day I shall withdraw all my money and buy a ship, she thought. I would like to see India or Spain or perhaps the South Seas. And wouldn’t that give Mr. MacGill the shock of his life.

  She knew it would never actually happen, but it gave her great pleasure to imagine it happening.

  After a long, refreshing ramble she and Robert returned home. He trotted right past her to his room at the back of the hall. It had been Malcolm’s private study when he was alive, but now it was Robert’s domain. He would settle in for a long snooze, snoring fit to rattle the windows. Ilsa went upstairs and girded herself to face the lawyer with a proper walking dress and coiffure of which even Jean would approve.

  Despite arriving before the time of her appointment, she was still kept waiting. Idly annoyed, she entertained herself by counting the carriages that drove past. Mr. MacGill’s offices in St. Andrew’s Square were large, handsome, and ostentatious, with tall windows facing the square. She wondered why she paid him so much when he irritated her to no end.