A Scot to the Heart

by Caroline Linden

“How long will you be gone?”

  His eyes, glowing gold and green, flashed toward hers. “A fortnight.” He lowered his head and sucked the tip of her ring finger between his lips. “Dare I hope you might miss me?”

  She hooked her finger and pulled his wicked mouth to hers. “Desperately,” she whispered, and claimed his lips in a kiss that felt like it had been eons in the making. He slid off the bench to his knees and crowded closer as he pulled her to him. Boldly Ilsa opened her legs and took him there, full against her.

  His hand speared into her hair, dislodging the hat. His tongue teased hers. She cupped his face and kissed him back, deeply and absolutely, until his free hand settled on her collarbone, his fingers loose around her throat.

  “Did you invite me here to seduce me?”

  He drew his fingertips down her throat, pausing on the edge of the gauzy kerchief tucked into her bodice. “Not . . . specifically.” Slowly the kerchief came loose until it fell from her shoulder. “But if the opportunity arises . . . should I refuse it?”

  “Never.”

  The corner of his mouth crooked. “Shall I continue?”

  “Yes.” She let her head fall back as he pressed his mouth to her throat. “Will someone come in?”

  “No,” he breathed, his hand spanning the small of her waist and urging her forward on the bench. “For fifty pounds Dr. Hope would keep out the King himself.”

  That was enough for her; when his hand skimmed up her calf, she put her arms behind her and arched her back, a wanton pagan sacrifice to his desire.

  “I want you,” he murmured against her skin.

  “Yes,” she gasped as his fingers stroked between her thighs. A spasm rippled through her as he touched her again with intent.

  And there in the midst of exotic plants from around the globe, she let him seduce her, his hand under her petticoat and his mouth on her breast. When she felt climax licking at her nerves, she reached for him, dragging up the front of his kilt until he rose up on his knees and fitted himself against her aching center, thrusting home with a harsh moan that pushed her over the edge. Tears gathered in her eyes as they moved and strained against each other, absorbed in each heavy stroke of his flesh joining hers, each hungry gasp, each urgent touch and stroke and hold until he broke and shuddered in her arms. Still shaking from her own climax, Ilsa clutched his shoulders, pressing her mouth to his neck, damp from exertion.

  I love him, she thought with a start of amazement. I love him.

  After several minutes he lifted his head and gazed at her. She smiled back—good heavens, she might never stop smiling from the euphoria thrumming through her veins. His own lazy but happy expression sent her heart soaring.

  “A fortnight,” he whispered. “With only this to warm my heart and blood.”

  She moved, undulating against him, and he caught his breath. “Perhaps it will encourage you to return sooner.”

  He grinned. “God willing.”

  He helped her restore her clothing, and then sat on the bench holding her hand while she leaned against his shoulder, telling her about his trip to see the lord advocate. Rarely had Ilsa felt this blissful sort of joy; his hand, so large and strong around hers, his body so solid and wonderful beside her. Was this what love matches were like?

  “I’ll come to call when I return,” he told her when they finally walked out. It was nearly noon, when the gardens would open to other visitors. He tried to argue that he would see her home, but she told him her maid and Robert would be enough. It would be hard enough to conceal the happiness bubbling inside her without him; she was afraid that if he walked back into Edinburgh beside her, it would be in all the newspapers tomorrow that Wild Widow Ramsay had thrown herself at the next Duke of Carlyle. “You’ll be here?”

  She laughed, reaching up on her toes to kiss him one last time. “Where would I go? You’re the one who keeps leaving again and again.”

  He cupped her jaw and kissed her on the forehead. “I may go mad from missing you these next several days.”

  And I you. She tugged the cloth at his throat back into place, having dislodged it during their frantic coupling. “You shan’t,” she said firmly. “How shall you find your way home if you run mad?”

  He laughed and let her go, reluctantly. “Then I shall ride like the wind, throw diplomacy to the dogs, and race back as if the banshees were after me.”

  And at that moment, it felt as if Fate was smiling upon her, deciding to repay her for her lonely childhood and indifferent first marriage by showering pure happiness upon her.

  She should have known better.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Drew left the next morning for Ardersier in strangely high spirits.

  He had expected to have done this already. When he left Carlyle Castle, he’d planned to spend a week with his family in Edinburgh arranging their move to England, assess Stormont Palace in a few days, return to Fort George to resign his military obligations, and then relocate to Carlyle to assume his role as heir. He would be back within two months, he’d assured the duchess and Mr. Edwards.

  That deadline had already passed. The brief trip to Stormont Palace had turned into a visit of two weeks’ duration. He had lost another several days to the Edinburgh thieves and what to do about them. And, of course, he’d spent time with Ilsa, which he had not foreseen at all.

  Not that he regretted it in the slightest. In fact, as he traveled northward, he spent considerable thought working out a new plan. Fort George was the first step—he had savored for too long the prospect of resigning his commission in front of Fusty Colonel Fitzwilliam—but everything else would be different.

  In this plan, he wasn’t going back to Carlyle. What he’d told Ilsa was true: the duke could very well live decades longer. As convenient as it might be for Edwards to instruct him in person, Drew thought he was perfectly able to learn via letter. If Stormont Palace could be run efficiently and smoothly without the duke setting foot on its grounds in twenty years, Carlyle Castle could get along very well with him in Edinburgh, particularly since he had no actual authority as long as the duke lived.

  And the duchess had said only that he should endeavor to become respectable and sober. She’d wanted him to find a suitable wife. At the time Drew hadn’t known a single suitable woman, but now that he had met the most suitable woman imaginable, there was no need for Her Grace to introduce him to any others. Ilsa might not be the bride the duchess had had in mind for him, but she was genteel, wealthy, and beautiful, which the duchess could hardly fault.

  And Ilsa possessed one advantage which obliterated any and all objections anyway: he was absolutely in love with her. He was going to stay in Edinburgh and court her properly. If he could persuade her to marry him despite the Carlyle inheritance, he’d willingly risk the duchess’s disappointment.

  He reached the fort after several long days in the saddle, arriving in a cold mist that made him doubly glad to be quitting this spot. He found his old quarters shut up and dark, and his man MacKinnon sharing whisky with the men.

  “Captain!” He leapt to his feet. “I’d no warning of your return.”

  Drew almost laughed. “Because I sent none. I want a word, MacKinnon.”

  The sergeant was amazed by his news. “A duke!” he repeated. “A bloody duke of England!”

  “’Twas a shock to me, as well. But as it’s true, I’m done with the army.”

  MacKinnon nodded in awed agreement. “Aye! A man would be a bloody fool to stay in!”

  Drew clapped his shoulder. “You’ve been a good man for me, MacKinnon. If you also wish to be done with this . . .”

  The man hesitated only a moment. “Nay, Captain. I’ve family in Inverness.” A crooked grin crossed his face. “And ye couldna pay me enough to live in England—not you, nor a duke.”

  “Aye,” said Drew, straight-faced. “If you’re ever desperate enough to change your mind, though, I’ll have a place for you.”

  His interview with the colonel was entirely
gratifying. “Duke of Carlyle?” repeated Fitzwilliam, thunderstruck. “His heir?”

  “Aye,” replied Drew placidly.

  “You claimed you had naught to do with the family!”

  “I never did,” he agreed. “Until they discovered I stand next in line for the title.”

  The colonel continued to glare at him. “I thought you’d deserted.”

  “There’s no reason why you should have,” was his cool reply. “But now I’ve come to resign my commission, so it matters little to me what you thought.”

  That seemed to remind the colonel that the lowly captain he’d regularly assigned to oversee road repair had suddenly become someone with influence and status, and he grew a great deal more accommodating and cordial, to Drew’s amusement.

  He had allotted three days at the fort to pack his belongings, settle a few debts, and make his farewells. News of his good fortune spread through the fort like wildfire, though, and he was entreated to stay for several dinners, each including many rounds of toasts and huzzahs. He would not miss the army, but he would miss his men and his friends among the officers, and the thought that this was farewell forever weakened his resolve. His three days stretched to six, then eight, after which he swore off any more celebrations. The last one, thrown by the men of his own regiment, left him severely off-color and intensely glad he didn’t have to form ranks that morning.

  “No more, aye?” he said groggily when MacKinnon brought in water and set out his razor.

  “Aye, Captain. Not if you’re to leave tomorrow.”

  Drew groaned at the thought of a day in the saddle, even one that led him back to Ilsa, and draped one arm over his face. “Don’t speak of that now. I may not be able to stand before then.” Rain pattered on the windows, making travel unthinkable. It was a good day to stay abed and let his head recover.

  MacKinnon was still chuckling when a knock sounded on the door. The sergeant returned a moment later with a letter in his hand. “By express messenger, sir.”

  “Express?”

  MacKinnon nodded. “From Edinburgh. He says he’s to wait for an answer if there is one.”

  Drew lurched upright, ignoring the ferocious pounding in his head unleashed by the action. The handwriting was Felix Duncan’s—who knew he meant to return soon, who wouldn’t bother sending a messenger for anything but a crisis, let alone an express messenger who rode through a storm and waited for a reply. He tore it open, scanning quickly.

  His curse made MacKinnon look up. “I need to leave now,” said Drew, staggering out of bed. “Send someone to saddle my horse and arrange for my baggage to be shipped south. And tell the messenger I’m going with him back to Edinburgh. Find him a fresh horse.”

  “Now, sir?”

  “Within the hour,” said Drew grimly, and he reached for his boots.

  Chapter Twenty

  Scandal broke like a dam bursting: a leak here, a trickle there, until the whole edifice gave way in a flood.

  The sheriff’s office had been swamped with leads after Drew left town. Mr. Duncan heard it from the procurator-fiscal’s office and told Agnes, who confided in Ilsa during a morning walk with Robert.

  “That is excellent news,” she exclaimed, thinking Drew would be pleased that his plan was working.

  Agnes nodded. “It’s been a great comfort to my mother. She was terribly unsettled by that shredded red silk. It looked like blood, she says, and she has nightmares the villains will come back for us.” She shivered.

  “I thought Mr. Duncan and Mr. Kincaid were coming by to keep an eye on things,” said Ilsa in concern.

  “Oh! They were. They do.” Pink-faced, Agnes cleared her throat. “We’ll be relieved when Drew returns, though.”

  Ilsa could only agree.

  Rumors sprouted and multiplied like weeds, each more shocking than the last. A thief had been identified, in possession of some of the stolen property, but had escaped the officers. Unspecified evidence had been located. There were several more members of the thieving ring still at large. There had been an attempted escape from the Tolbooth prison, aided by a corrupt officer, and was only foiled by a passing maid’s cry of alarm. A fortune in stolen gold had been recovered, buried in a field. The stolen goods had been shipped to Amsterdam, and the mastermind of the thieves had taken flight on board the ship after a fierce battle with the sheriff’s officers on the docks of Leith.

  Ilsa followed the rumors with interest, wondering if any were true but as absorbed as every resident of Edinburgh. Her aunt was similarly transfixed. Every day Jean scoured the newspapers, which she then dissected in breathless indignation with her gossiping friends. Ilsa had little patience for these discussions and generally went for a walk when one of her aunt’s visitors was announced.

  The worst of the lot was Mrs. Crawley, as usual. She became a daily fixture in her widow’s weeds and fluttering shawl. Ilsa took to leaving the house early and staying away, to avoid any chance of meeting her, but one morning she erred, returning from her walk as Mrs. Crawley mounted the front steps.

  Her instinct was to hurry back to the fields. She had approximately six seconds to consider it; to curl her fingers into Robert’s mane to slow him down; to duck her head and start to turn away.

  “Mrs. Ramsay! There you are!”

  She clenched her jaw to keep from cringing. She was not fond of Widow Crawley and would have kept walking away if it wouldn’t make her aunt livid. She turned back, a polite smile on her face. “Mrs. Crawley. How delightful to see you.”

  Mrs. Crawley advanced on her with hands clasped in front of her like a bishop castigating a sinner. “And how surprising! You are always gallivanting about, it seems.”

  “Alas,” said Ilsa. “I hope my aunt has conveyed to you my highest regards every time I missed your call.”

  “She has, of course. Miss Fletcher knows what is proper.” Unspoken but not misunderstood was that Ilsa most definitely did not. “I trust you will join us today.”

  Ilsa made a noncommittal noise in her throat as she headed toward the door. “Indeed. Let us go in.” And get it over with, she added silently, wishing she’d been fleeter on her feet and had fled at the first sight of Mrs. Crawley.

  The widow eyed Robert with disgust as he clopped up the steps. “Really, Mrs. Ramsay, you cannot bring a pony inside the house!”

  I’d rather bring in him than you, she thought, opening the door. “He’s a very small pony, hardly anyone notices him. And he is so dear to me—aren’t you, Robert?”

  He gave a soft snuffle in reply as she ruffled his mane.

  Mrs. Crawley seemed to grow several inches with outrage. “I am shocked that Miss Fletcher allows this.” She raised a scolding finger. “Your butler ought to be awaiting your return to admit you. And that pony ought to be in a stable. One must make some allowances for a young widow whose mind is disordered with grief, but this is beyond the bounds of reason! If you would allow me to guide you, like your own mother might desire—which surely you must welcome, having been without her for so long—”

  “Oh dear, Robert, no,” said Ilsa, removing her hat. Robert had begun nibbling at the fringe of Mrs. Crawley’s shawl as she stood reprimanding Ilsa, and now was slowly unraveling the whole thing as he pulled on the yarn.

  The widow gave a cry, snatching her shawl free. Robert tossed his head and tapped his front foot on the marble floor, then trotted off toward his room.

  “Show Mrs. Crawley in to see Miss Fletcher,” Ilsa told Mr. MacLeod, who had appeared at the closing of the door.

  “You will be joining us, of course?” demanded the widow.

  “I shall be in as soon as I refresh myself,” replied Ilsa, that same determined, polite smile carved on her face. With a suspicious sniff the woman followed the butler up the stairs.

  Slowly Ilsa went to her room. A walk to Leith and back would refresh her greatly and outlast even Mrs. Crawley’s visit. But Jean would scold her fiercely, so she smoothed her hair and brushed the grass from her skirt, an
d went to the drawing room with all the eagerness of a condemned soul facing the gallows.

  The two women were ensconced on the sofa when she arrived, a large refreshment tray nearby. Jean’s guests tended to stay awhile. Ilsa quietly seated herself, resigned.

  They were discussing the recent burglaries—again. Or was it still? Ilsa let her mind wander. It had been a full week since the pardon had been offered. She thought again of Drew and wondered if the news would reach him all the way beyond Inverness. She sighed silently, wishing he would return. A fortnight, he’d said, and it was only two days shy of that.

  “But you must know, Mrs. Ramsay!” exclaimed Mrs. Crawley.

  She blinked, startled. “Must I?”

  “Why yes.” The woman gave her a sly smile. “You’re acquainted with Captain St. James, who will be a duke.”

  Her throat closed for a moment. “I am.”

  The widow’s eyes gleamed, and she pounced. “Then you must know something. The fiscal is eating out of the captain’s hand, he is. I warrant the captain knows all!”

  “I’ve no idea,” she said cautiously, her heart thudding.

  “No?” Mrs. Crawley leaned forward, her small blue eyes hungry. “And him here all the time?”

  “He is not here all the time.”

  Mrs. Crawley’s smile was spiteful as she moved in for the kill. “Perhaps he told you when you met him out on the hill.”

  Ilsa froze. Jean stiffened. “What is this?”

  “Didn’t you know?” Mrs. Crawley, the evil witch, stirred her tea and looked to Jean. “I hear they meet frequently out there.”

  Her aunt turned to her with an expression of such censure that Ilsa’s stomach cramped. “I had no idea,” said Jean icily.

  “I’m sure not,” murmured Mrs. Crawley with patently false sympathy.

  “We met by chance,” said Ilsa, her heart stuttering in alarm. “Often when he is looking for his sister—”

  Mrs. Crawley made a derisive noise. “Indeed!”

  And suddenly anger boiled over within her. This was how the gossips had hounded her last year, with innuendo and suggestion that Malcolm’s fatal duel must have been over her, that she must have had an affair with that horrid Englishman, who had done everything he could to encourage the story—not a word of which was true. Jean had made her endure it in silence, saying it wasn’t dignified to defend herself publicly. Never again.