“Aye.” Duncan was smirking. “Thought certain you’d’ve found that out by now, the way you were staring . . . So this was all brotherly concern?”
“Of course. What else?” He raised one hand at the publican for more beer, to avoid that smirk.
Now his friend laughed at him. “Mrs. Ramsay’s above your touch—one of these modern Scottish lasses, she is, independent and rich enough not to need a husband. Although . . .” His blue eyes glinted with mischief. “It must be said, no other lad in Edinburgh has a dukedom to dangle in front of the woman.”
Drew replied with a good-natured curse; Duncan replied in kind, and they fell into a mutually amused silence.
A modern lass, Duncan called her. By that he meant a vivacious, spirited woman of wit and intelligence—precisely what Drew had seen the other night. No wonder Agnes liked her.
And it only intrigued him more.
Ilsa heard the door but was still startled when Agnes burst into the drawing room. “Would you like to come to tea?” asked her friend breathlessly. “With my family.”
Slowly Ilsa closed her book. She had just reached the portion about Christopher Columbus, who found the ports of the Mediterranean “too narrow for his active mind,” with which she sympathized. Not that she wouldn’t welcome a chance to explore even the Mediterranean, it being far wider than the bounds of Edinburgh. “Now?”
Agnes nodded.
She had been to tea once before, and it hadn’t gone beautifully. Ilsa was sure, in hindsight, that she’d shocked Mrs. St. James, and not in a good way. She wasn’t sure which had been the worst sin: leaving off mourning for Malcolm after six months, or missing church to go golfing. She had never been invited back, and frankly had thought she never would be.
But that restless feeling hadn’t gone away, and even Robert had deserted her on their morning ramble today. She closed her book and rose. “That sounds lovely. How kind of your mother to think of me.”
Agnes grinned. “Let’s go!”
Not until they were almost to the St. James house did Agnes reveal why she was so keen for Ilsa to come along. “My brother will be there. He told Winnie and Bella he brought gifts, and they pestered him to bring them today.”
Ilsa glanced at Agnes. So that was it; she was to be a buffer. From what Agnes had said after dinner the other night, Saint Andrew had been stern and depressing. “How likely is this brother of yours to have chosen good gifts?” she asked lightly. “One does so hate to get excited for a length of beautiful silk or a romantic new novel, only to be presented with a butter churn.”
Agnes snickered. “Oh, he’s probably done well. I just don’t look forward to what they mean.”
Her brow went up. “What they mean? Surely he doesn’t expect something in return for a gift. That would make it no gift at all.”
Her companion was quiet. “He does expect something,” she said at last, very quietly. “And he means well, but . . . I am not eager to do it.”
There was no time to ask what Agnes meant. It was only a few minutes’ walk, and they had arrived already. Agnes hurried up the steps to open the door.
The St. James home was smaller than Ilsa’s, narrow but neat. A babble of conversation was clearly audible from the sitting room upstairs. Agnes hung up their hats and led the way.
Ilsa followed slowly, uncertain of her reception. She had a growing suspicion Mrs. St. James had no idea she was coming and wanted a chance to judge the room before she was judged in turn.
Winifred and Isabella St. James she knew; sometimes, one or both of them would join her and Agnes for a walk on the hill. Once they had all played a spirited game of golf, with much hilarity on everyone’s part. Winnie was the beauty of the family, with her mother’s red-gold hair and blue eyes. Bella was dark like Agnes, with a sly wit and keen eye for the ridiculous. All of them were irreverent and amusing, and excellent company.
Mrs. St. James sat smiling on the sofa, her fair hair pinned up under a proper lace cap of the sort Aunt Jean kept urging on Ilsa. She was a handsome woman in her fifties, but more reserved and dignified than any of her daughters. Ilsa was a bit cowed by her.
It was the man in the room, though, who caught her eye. Even down on his knees in front of a trunk, he was tall. Wavy dark hair fell over his brow before he flicked it back impatiently with one large hand. He was dressed as any Scot would be, a brown philibeg with a white shirt and gray coat—much as he had been the night they’d danced in the oyster cellar.
But not, she realized as he looked right at her with brilliant hazel eyes, the way he’d been dressed in Mr. MacGill’s office. Only now that she had a chance to look directly at him did she realize why she’d thought that fellow was vaguely familiar. He was the man for whom MacGill had dismissed her.
Alas. Saint Andrew was both more interesting and more disappointing than expected.
She assumed a gracious smile as Agnes tugged her into the room. “I’ve invited Mrs. Ramsay to tea with us today,” said the other girl brightly. “Winnie, make room.”
“Ilsa!” cried Bella, coming to squeeze her hand. “How splendid to see you again. How is darling Robert?”
She laughed. “Very well. He misses you, and the way you spoil him.” Before she could be distracted, she curtsied to Mrs. St. James. “Good day, ma’am. Thank you for inviting me.”
There was nothing in the woman’s manner to indicate surprise or displeasure. “Come in. May I present my son, Captain St. James, to you? Andrew, here is Agnes’s friend, Mrs. Ramsay.”
He got to his feet, looming over her as he’d done in the cellar, when he shielded her from the crowd surging up the stairs. “A pleasure, Mrs. Ramsay,” he said politely.
She curtsied and smiled. Did he recognize her? She couldn’t tell.
Deliberately she took the seat furthest from him and sat back to watch as he emptied the trunk.
As Agnes had predicted, he had brought excellent gifts. For his mother, he produced a length of midnight blue brocade. For Bella it was cream silk with pink flowers, for Winnie a rich green and white stripe, for Agnes deep rose. Then he gave them swathes of lace wrapped in silver paper, as fine as anything Ilsa had ever seen, along with a rainbow of embroidery floss. He brought out several new novels—making Bella gasp aloud in delight—India tea, and a small but handsome porcelain clock.
He even had things for the family’s servant, the redoubtable Annag. For her there was a box of spices, a new apron and cap of fine linen, and a warm shawl of deep blue wool. Annag’s lined face turned pink as she accepted them; her stammering grew incomprehensible until he teased that if she didn’t like them, perhaps Bella might. Bella tossed a cushion at him, Annag smacked him affectionately on the shoulder, and then bent down and kissed his offered cheek.
Not quite the stuffy saint Ilsa had pictured.
“And the last,” he said, handing out small boxes. Sitting beside Ilsa, Agnes opened hers to reveal a silver locket on a fine chain.
“Lovely,” she whispered, earning a rueful glance from Agnes.
“Oh, Drew!” cried Bella in rapture, clasping on her new bracelets of coral beads. “How did you ever afford all this?”
He leaned back against the empty trunk and stretched out his long legs. Ilsa inched her own feet to the side to avoid his boots; he seemed to take up the entire room, sitting there so easily. “These last are not from me, as it happens. They are from the duke and duchess, chosen by Miss Kirkpatrick, her companion, sent with Her Grace’s cordial best wishes.”
The room went silent. Agnes put down the locket she’d been about to clasp about her neck. Mrs. St. James flushed. Winnie, busy adjusting her new silver hair combs, muttered impatiently until Bella poked her.
“How very generous of Her Grace,” said their mother quietly, studying the elegant brooch in her box.
The captain’s gaze fixed on Agnes. “She is well aware of how disruptive this will be to all of you. She is not insensitive to your feelings, and hopes you will be able to find pleasure in t
he news.”
“What did she give you, Drew?” piped up Bella. “Since she took the trouble to send us such lovely things. You, after all, are the important one.”
He made a face. “Some stiff new suits and a great lot of work, that’s what she gave me.”
Agnes cleared her throat. “And a house,” she said. “In England.”
“England! We’re moving to England?” gasped Winnie, her hair combs forgotten.
The captain ran one hand over his head. Ilsa had the thought that he’d not wanted to discuss that. “I must, to learn how to run such an estate.”
“But what of us?” Winnie demanded. “Are we going, too?”
Her brother turned to look at their mother. “It means you won’t have to work in the shop,” he said softly. “No more fretting over unpaid bills and mortgages.”
Mrs. St. James was pale. “We shall discuss that later,” was her reply, her gaze flickering toward Ilsa for a moment. “Annag, please bring in the tea! So much excitement requires refreshment.”
As everyone bundled away their gifts and Annag fetched the tray of tea and cakes, Ilsa leaned toward Agnes. “That’s what he wishes you to do, isn’t it? Go to England.”
Agnes rolled her eyes. “Yes. Mama will probably go, and Winnie and Bella, too.”
“But you won’t,” murmured Ilsa.
“What is there for me in England?” Agnes shrugged, studying the silver locket in its box.
“Certainly not a particular gentleman . . .”
“Shh,” hissed her friend with sudden vehemence. She snapped the box closed. “Don’t mention that!”
Ilsa subsided but caught the captain looking at her. His brow quirked as if to ask, Is aught wrong? She merely gave a polite smile in return and turned her attention to the repast being served.
It wasn’t until after tea was done that he spoke to her directly. Agnes said she wanted to fetch something from her room and went upstairs. Ilsa waited near the door, talking to Bella and Winnie before they, too, took their gifts upstairs.
She had known the captain was waiting for a chance to approach her. She could feel his presence even without looking up to see his tall figure at her side.
“It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Ramsay,” he said. She tried not to react to his voice, deep and gruff and rolling his vowels like a true Scot. “I’m glad you came to tea.”
“Thank you, Captain.” It was hard not to look at him, and yet his piercing gaze made her feel hot and flustered. “It was a great pleasure to be invited.”
He smiled wryly, as if he knew very well that Agnes had done it without telling anyone else. “Perhaps next time we meet it will be a more festive occasion.”
Without your mother glaring at me? wondered Ilsa. “I suspect we’ve met before, Captain,” she said instead.
Gold sparks kindled in his hazel eyes. “Indeed, Mrs. Ramsay,” he said, his voice gone soft and intimate. “I believe we have.”
She kept her pleasant smile. She knew perfectly well where it had been, and what she’d done. He was as attractive now as he’d been in that oyster cellar with his coat off and his hair rumpled from dancing, his face fierce with joy and alive with wonder as he stared at her. It had been the act of a moment’s impulse when she kissed him.
Oh, if only she’d known.
“It was at Mr. MacGill’s offices,” she said, instead of any of that. “When he turned me out in order to see you.”
His face froze in chagrin. “Ah. I was rather hoping you didn’t recognize me from that unfortunate encounter. I never expected him to do it. I told MacGill he was wrong and he should never do it again.”
“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully.
“I am sorry for it,” the captain added.
That was more than David MacGill had ever said to her. She gave him a gracious smile. “That is very kind of you, Captain. Of course I do not blame you for the actions of another.”
The corner of his mouth rose. “Thank you.”
All right. She smoothed her skirts. It was no trouble to turn the full force of her disdain and indignation upon the attorney.
She was much more inclined to like the captain anyway.
Agnes clattered back down the stairs, ready to go. She bade her brother farewell, and Ilsa followed her to the street without another glance at the intriguing captain.
“Who is the duchess?” she asked as they walked.
Agnes looked around, almost furtively. “The Duchess of Carlyle. The duke is our distant cousin—so distant he’s never spoken to any of us. Our grandfather was a duke’s younger brother, not that it stopped the family from banishing him like a leper and ignoring us all our lives. But Drew is, somehow, shockingly, the next heir to the dukedom, it seems.”
Ilsa stopped dead and stared at her, dumbfounded. A duke! An English duke. But of course—that made sense of his visit to Mr. MacGill’s office, looking as expensively trussed up as one of King George’s many sons. And she’d caught the name Carlyle, too, when Mr. Leish rushed in to evict her.
But it did not fit with the exuberant Scot who’d whirled her around an oyster cellar and kissed her so hungrily. She wondered which was the true man, and then told herself it didn’t matter. He planned to remove to England; a duke was far too grand for the likes of her anyway. Andrew St. James was fated to be nothing more than a passing acquaintance.
She forced her feet onward again and tried not to feel as though a tiny flame had just been snuffed out inside her breast. There was no reason at all to have dreamt of anything beyond that one thrilling dance—and kiss. It had nothing to do with the Scottish captain turning out to be a future English duke.
“Don’t tell anyone,” Agnes was saying in the same hushed voice. “It doesn’t seem real to me, it doesn’t! And I don’t want to move to England, and no, it’s not because of anyone in Edinburgh.”
For once Ilsa didn’t tease her friend about the handsome solicitor who always seemed to be in their favorite coffeehouse, ever ready to fetch them a plate of warm currant buns.
“I would miss you terribly,” she told Agnes, linking their arms. “You’re very welcome to stay with me. Perhaps that’s the answer! Surely your brother would be far too busy in his new duties to notice either your presence or your absence.”
“Precisely. I’m sure I don’t need to go with him, and what’s more, I won’t.”
Ilsa squeezed her hand fondly, but in her heart she knew Agnes might not remain so sure. If her mother and sisters went with her brother, it would be very hard for Agnes to stay behind, even if Ilsa threw open her door and invited her to stay permanently in the yellow bedroom across the landing from her own.
She sighed at the thought. In just the last few days she had become very happily accustomed to Agnes’s company at home. She had someone to talk to besides Aunt Jean—someone who shared her interests and humor. Agnes came with her to lectures and the bookseller’s and the coffeehouse; if Mrs. St. James didn’t disapprove, she would even come along to the oyster cellars.
Ilsa was making other friends, but none were like Agnes. If she left for England, it would make Edinburgh a quieter, lonelier place.
And suddenly her opinion of the captain felt a bit colder, that he would take away her dearest friend.
Chapter Six
That night he danced with Ilsa Ramsay again.
She wore red, her bodice cut low over her perfectly plump breasts. Her coal-dark hair streamed around her shoulders as he lifted and spun her around in his arms, letting her down slowly, so she slid along his body. Her eyes shone with promise, as potent as the sheen on her rosy lips, parted invitingly.
There was no one else in the room. It was only the two of them, moving about each other more and more slowly and deliberately, every touch lingering, every glance heated. Then there was no music, just the thud of his heart and the husky invitation of her whispers as she tugged at his clothing, pressing against him as he undid the laces on that scarlet gown and tasted her skin . . .
Until a pistol went off behind him.
Drew startled awake, rearing straight up into the low ceiling and cracking his head. Cursing, he erupted out of bed and had his sword in hand before he realized the gunfire was actually Felix Duncan banging on the door.
“St. James,” came his low, urgent voice. “Get up, man! You have a caller.”
Pulse racing, head aching, it took a moment for the words to sink in. “What?” he croaked, wincing as he pressed one palm to the lump already forming on his skull.
“Your mother is here,” said Duncan, his lips right at the keyhole from the sounds of things. “Come out and face the enemy.”
He let out a shaky breath. Quietly he resheathed his sword. “Aye, aye,” he called to his friend. So much for the intensely erotic dream he’d been having of a dark-eyed siren about to take him by the hand and lead him to . . .
“Idiot,” he said under his breath. He was a sinner just for thinking of her that way. In penance, he dunked his whole head into the basin of cold water.
He didn’t know what to make of Ilsa Ramsay; that was the only explanation for his fascination. In his mother’s drawing room she was as reserved and polite as Miss Kirkpatrick, the duchess’s very proper companion. She pretended not to remember the searing kiss they’d shared under the oyster cellar stairs and made a point of mentioning her abrupt dismissal from MacGill’s office in his favor.
Did she despise him? Blame him? Think about that kiss every hour, like he did?
He ought not to think of her at all. Not only was she bewitching and inscrutable, he needed to focus his thoughts on his future duties to Carlyle—and a future duchess. Getting twisted up by a Scottish temptress would not help him with either.
Hastily dressed, he went out to the tiny sitting room. True to Duncan’s word, there sat Louisa St. James, straight and proper on the battered sofa. At his entrance Duncan gave a hasty bow and practically ran from the room.
Drew didn’t blame him. He also did not feel up to facing his mother at the moment.
“Good morning,” he said with forced cheer. “What brings you here at this hour?” A second thought struck him. “And what about the shop?”
A Scot to the Heart Page 6
