A Scot in the Dark

by Sarah MacLean

  “All I remember of her was that she spoke of England. Of how it suited her. Of how she loved it. Of how much better it was than Scotland.”

  She smiled. “I suppose she could have come up with three things superior to those of Scotland.”

  One side of his mouth kicked up. “Likely more than three.” He grew serious. “I missed her, oddly. It did not matter that she was not the best of mothers. And so, as she had, I, too, longed for England.” He laughed, small and quiet. “I know that must be difficult to believe.”

  “Self-proclaimed reviler of all things English as you are.”

  “Not all things English. I find I have warmed to one thing.” The words shot through her. He meant her. And still, he did not let them linger. “I wanted to go to England. To follow her. To see the country she loved. The place she longed for with such intensity that she left her child to find it.”

  He stopped, lost in the story, his hands coming together, the fingers of one hand finding the scar on the other. The one his father had given him. She watched those hands for a long moment, wishing she could soothe them. Finally, she said, “And?”

  “My father wouldn’t have it. He vowed to disown me. To cut me off if I left.” Lily’s heart began to pound. “And I did not care. I wrote to everyone I could find. Distant relatives—my father was vaguely English, as well, you’ll not be surprised to discover, considering I was seventeenth in line for a dukedom.”

  She smiled. “I imagine he would have been equally thrilled to inherit.”

  “Likely less thrilled,” Alec allowed.

  “And so?” she asked.

  “A distant relative sent a letter. Called in a chit. Whatever it was, it worked. And I had a spot at a school. My father did as he’d promised—told me I could never come home. But I did not care. My tuition was paid in full. A generous relative.” He smiled, rubbing his scarred hand over the back of his neck and suddenly looking very much like the boy he must have been. “Perhaps one of the sixteen. That would be ironic.”

  Lily envisioned him, king of the schoolboys, handsome and tall and better at every sport there was. “I imagine you were terribly popular.”

  His head snapped up, his brown eyes meeting hers. “They hated me.”

  Impossible. “How is that—”

  “I was tall like a reed, all bones and Scots braggadocio. And they were born of venerable titles and ancient lands and more money than I could ever imagine. I was an imposter, and they knew it. They judged it. And they beat the arrogance from me.”

  She felt the words like the blows they described. And still, she shook her head. “They were children. They could not have—”

  “Children are the worst of all,” he said. “At least adults judge quietly.”

  “And so?”

  “For the first three years, I had no choice. I was poor, forced to clean floors and wash windows in the time I did not study in order to pay for the bits that tuition did not cover, and they could smell it on me, the need for funds.” He smiled, lost in the memory, and she could see young Alec there, the little boy alone and desperate for companionship. It was something Lily understood keenly.

  Something she would never wish upon another.

  “King was the only boy who wasn’t cruel.”

  The words made her wish the Marquess of Eversley were there, so she could thank him for his long-ago kindness. But she had a feeling the story did not end with the two boys as happy companions.

  Alec was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his head bowed, as though he were in confession. And Lily’s heart pounded with fear for the boy he once was.

  She could not stop herself. “What happened after three years?”

  He gave a little huff of humorless laughter. “I grew.” Confusion flared as he shook his head and elaborated without looking at her. Telling the story to his hands, large and warm and clasped tightly together. “More than a foot in a few months. Taller than any of them. Broader, too.” He paused, then looked up at her. “It hurts, did you know that? Growing.”

  She shook her head. “How?”

  That smile again, the one that made her want to hold him until they were old. “Physically. You ache. Like your bones cannot keep up with themselves. But now that you ask, I suppose it hurts in every other way, as well—there’s a keen sense that where you have been is no longer where you are. And certainly nothing like where you are going.” He stopped, then whispered, “Nothing like where I was going.”

  “Alec—”

  He continued as though she had not spoken, as though, if he stopped, he might not be able to start again. Lily pressed her lips together and willed herself to listen. “They went from judging me, from teasing me, from mocking my very existence . . . to loathing it. Because they could no longer dominate me. Now, I was the one who dominated. I was the—”

  She reached for him then. She knew the words that were coming. Had heard them on his lips a dozen times. Her hands clasped his tightly. “Don’t say it. I hate it.”

  He met her gaze then, and she saw how much he hated it, as well. “That’s why I have to say it, Lily,” he said softly. “Because it’s apt. Because I am the Scottish Brute.”

  She shook her head. “You aren’t, though. I’ve never met a man less so.”

  “I broke down a door the first time we met.”

  A thrill shot through her at the memory, at the sheer force of his will. “Because you wished to get to me. To protect me.”

  For a moment, she thought he would deny it. But instead, he looked deep into her eyes, all honesty. “I did wish to protect you.”

  “And you have.”

  He looked away, his gaze settling on the stockings draped over the end of her bed, left there before she fled days ago. “I haven’t, though. I’ve never once been able to.”

  She threaded her fingers into his, aching for him. “You’re wrong.”

  “You’ve had to do it all yourself.”

  “No,” she said, forcing him to meet her gaze. “Don’t you see? You’ve given me the power to do it. You’ve given me the strength for it. You wanted to give me freedom? Choice? You have. Again and again. Without you—”

  He shook his head, stopping her. “I was a brute, Lily.”

  “You weren’t,” she said. “They hurt you. You fought back.”

  “Indeed, I fought. Like a damn demon. I wanted them all to know that I was not for their play any longer. That if they came for me, they would risk losing everything.”

  She nodded, proud of the boy he had been. Knowing that she should not wish pain upon a group of children, but grateful that he had found a way to win with them. “Good.”

  He laughed again, low and humorless, and shook his head. “You won’t think so when you hear the rest.”

  He tried to pull his hands from hers, but she wasn’t having it. She clutched him tighter. “No.” He looked up, surprise and something much more unsettling in his eyes. Something like fear. She shook her head. “You are here. And I am with you.”

  She saw the words hit him. Saw the deep breath he took in their wake.

  Saw him resolve to strike back.

  “The boys could not fight me and win,” he said quietly. “And so their sisters finished the work.”

  She was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and he could sit there until the end of time, watching her. But he loved her too much to keep her, and so he told her the truth, knowing it would drive her away. Knowing it would prove that he was not for her. That she could find another, infinitely better.

  You could make her happy, if you decide to do so.

  Stanhope’s words were the worst kind of falsehood. The pretty one. The one that tempted enough to ruin a man, and the woman he had vowed to protect. And so, when her brow furrowed in her confusion at his words, he gave them to her again, clearer.

  “My school was paid for, but everything else cost money. Food. Drink. Linens. The wash. And the work I had done for it—it was suddenly unavailable; no doubt the coo
ks and cleaners at the school had been paid well to forget I existed. I could not survive without funds.” The memory of those months, desperate and hungry and angry, lying in the dark, wondering what would come next. “King would sneak me food and put my shirts in his laundry now and then, but I was proud and it felt like—”

  “Friendship,” she whispered. “It was friendship.”

  It had been. King had always watched for him. But—“It felt like charity.”

  She nodded, and he saw the understanding alongside the sadness in her eyes. Alongside the pity. “It is hard to believe we deserve better.”

  Did she not see? “Don’t compare us. You were never—”

  “What?”

  The frustration in the question unlocked him. He stood, forcing her touch from him, unwilling to bear it. Being here, in Lily’s little room, was the worst of it. Every word was wrapped in her, and even as he paced, he was barely able to move—his size reducing the space to a step. Two.

  Finally, he stopped, thrusting his hands through his hair. He let out a long breath and said, “Peg came to me when I was fifteen.” He felt her still at the name. At the words. “It was Michaelmas holiday.”

  “It is always Michaelmas,” she said, softly, and he did not understand. She did not give him a chance to ask. “Go on.”

  “She was the older, very beautiful sister of another boy. I was hiding from the families who had come to visit, telling myself I required study.”

  “But you were simply trying to ignore what you did not have yourself.”

  He looked to her. “Yes.”

  She smiled, small and sad. “I know that well.”

  He ignored the comparison. Pressing forward. “She followed me. No one was in the library . . . and then she was.”

  Lily’s gaze narrowed. “How old was she?”

  “Old enough to have had a season. Old enough to know what marriage would be for her.” He thought of Lord Rowley, debauched and rich as a king. “She came to me and offered me . . .”

  “I can imagine.”

  “You can’t, though.” This was the bit he had to say aloud. It was the bit that would convince her that they were not for each other. That he would never be worthy of her. “When it was over, I did what was expected to be done. I told her I would seek out her father. That I would marry her.”

  Lily’s attention was rapt, and he loathed it, the way she saw into him. The way she understood him more than anyone ever had. “She refused.”

  He turned away. Looked out the window, over the dark London rooftops. “She laughed.” He paused, his own humorless laugh coming on the heels of the words. “Of course she laughed.” He put a hand to his neck, wishing he were anywhere but there, reliving the sordid past. “She was daughter to a viscount. Set to marry an earl. And I was poor and untitled and Scottish. And a fucking fool.”

  “No,” Lily whispered.

  He did not turn. Could not. Instead, he spoke to the city beyond. “Not poor any longer.” He was lost in the memory. “She paid me ten pounds. It was enough for a month of food.”

  “Alec.” She was behind him now. She’d come off the bed, and he could hear the desperation in her voice. He had to turn to her. To look at her. To show her the truth.

  And so he did, seeing the tears in her eyes, hating them. Loving them. What a life it would have been if it had been Lily who had found him in the library all those years ago. And instead . . .

  “She sent her friends after that. Aristocratic girls who wished for an opportunity to play in the gutter. To quench their thirst for mud. To ride the Scottish Brute.”

  He saw the words strike her. Hated himself for doing it even as he forced himself to finish. “They paid my way through school. And I played the whore. I suppose I should be grateful that, as a man, it was never the shame it would have been if I were a woman. I was revered. They whispered my name like I was their favorite toy. A fleeting fancy. Peg used to say that I was the perfect first and the worst possible last.”

  “I do not care for her,” Lily said.

  Peg was not the point. He pointed to the trunk on the wall. Made the point again. “When I tell you that I am unworthy of you, it is not a game. It is not a falsehood. Those pristine white clothes, the hems you’ve embroidered with love and dedication, the damn boots with their little leather soles . . . they are for another man’s children. The dress. It is for another man to strip from you. A man infinitely better than I.”

  He begged her to understand. “Don’t you see, Lily? I am not the man you marry. I am the other. The beast you regret. But now—you can have another. A man you deserve.” He pointed to the painting. “That thing . . . the painting they would have used to destroy you—it is no longer your albatross. And now, you may choose a different path, far from the scandal. Whatever one you wish. Don’t you see? Choice is the only thing I can give to you.”

  She opened her mouth to answer and he slashed a hand through the air, begging her to be silent. “Do not. Do not choose me. How are you not able to see the truth? I will never be for you. I could not even—I arrived in London with a single task—to protect you. And I couldn’t. I could not keep you from them. From the gossips. From Hawkins. Dear God, you were nearly run down on Rotten Row. And that’s before I took advantage of you. I should never have touched you.”

  He waited for the agreement to come. For the judgment.

  He waited for her to leave.

  And when she moved, he braced himself to watch her go. Except she did not leave. Instead, she came to him. He stepped back, desperate to avoid her, too broken to touch her. But the room was too small and she was a superior opponent.

  She did not touch him.

  Worse. She reached up and removed the pins from her hair, letting it fall around her shoulders like auburn silk. His mouth went dry and his gaze narrowed before she said, “I’ve something to say now, if I might.”

  As though he could stop her, this warrior princess, dressed like a pickpocket about to thieve his damn heart.

  “It is a great fallacy, you know. The idea that first is most meaningful. That second is. That any that follow are. That the circumstances of those early encounters somehow mean more than the one we choose forever. It is the lie the world tells us, but you have taught me to know better.”

  She looked to him, the love in her eyes stealing his breath. “I have heard your tale. And now it is time for you to hear mine. When I am old, Alec, and I look back on the faded memories of my life, shall I tell you of what I will think? It will not be him. And when I think on my scandal, I shall be grateful for it, as it will have brought me you. But I will not think much on it, because I will be too busy thinking of you. Of the days we sparred and the nights I wished we might. Of the hours I spent wrapped in your plaid. Wrapped in you. Of the way you look at me, as though there has never been another woman in the world.”

  And there hadn’t been. Not for him. She put her hand to his chest, where his heart threatened to beat from it. “Of the way you have held me. And the way I have loved you.

  “So tell me, Alec Stuart, self-made man turned duke, strong and kind and brilliant beyond measure.” She was going to destroy him with her words and her gaze. “When you are old, of whom will you think?”

  And suddenly, it was the only question that mattered.

  “You,” he said, reaching for her. Or perhaps she reached for him. It did not matter, as she was in his arms.

  And it was true. He would remember her.

  “Always you. Forever you.”

  Even if this night was all he had.

  “None of it matters,” she said, the words strong against his lips, “Not the past, not the women, not the scandal. None of it matters when we are here, and we have each other.” And then she was kissing him, and he was lifting her in his arms and her legs were wrapped about him as though she belonged there.

  And she did.

  Without breaking the caress, he returned her to the bed, lowering her to sit on the edge of it, coming
to his knees at the bedside. She released his lips and pulled away. “No,” she said. “I do not wish you on your knees.”

  “You shall like it when I show you all the things I intend to do to you from this particular position,” he said, his lips finding purchase at the soft, warm skin of her neck before opening and giving him access to the line of her jaw and the lobe of her ear. “Leave me here to worship you, love. And I shall make it worth your while.”

  He took her lips again, loving the little sigh she released, the way she went limp at the touch, as though he she could not resist him.

  As though he was as irresistible as she was.

  The caress lingered until her hands fell to his shoulders and she pushed him back, again, putting space between them. “I don’t want you on your knees, Alec,” she repeated. “I want you.”

  His hands threaded into her hair, “I am with you, love. I couldn’t be anywhere else.”

  She shook her head. “You don’t understand.” She leaned back. “I don’t want you with me. I want us with each other.”

  When he finally understood the words, they were like a blow to the side of the head. He sat back on his heels there, on the floor of her tiny room under the stairs, and watched her for a long moment, as color rose in her cheeks and she said, “Do you see, love? I want us together.”

  She wanted them equal.

  Not a guardian and his ward.

  Not a duke and a miss.

  And not the other.

  He swallowed, unable to find any other words but “I see.”

  She had once more ruined him.

  She saw the truth in him and smiled, wide and gleeful, before she went to her knees on the bed, shucking the coat and shirt she’d worn as a disguise that evening—as though she’d removed men’s clothing from her person a dozen times—revealing her high, lovely breasts, soft and perfect as peaches and fresh cream.

  His mouth watered, and he raised his attention to her auburn hair, cascading around her shoulders. And then she reached for the fall of her trousers.

  He watched her for a long moment his eyelids growing heavy with desire before he could not help himself. “Stop,” he growled, his gaze riveted to those long, lovely fingers where they lingered at the fastening of her trousers.