Caught by the Scot

by Karen Hawkins

  Conner’s voice was so close behind her that she jumped and moved away, oddly uncomfortable in her own skin.

  He poured her a finger’s width of the amber liquid and handed her the glass. “Something to hold off a gray day.”

  She took the glass and sipped the whisky. Instantly, her throat and chest warmed. “Ah. It’s good and smoky.”

  “So ’tis.” He took a sip, satisfaction plain on his face. “Just the way I like it—silky smoke, with just a hint of a bite.”

  She paused, her lips on the edge of her glass. Was he still talking about his whisky? Or something . . . else? Her mouth went dry, and she moved to the fireplace as if seeking warmth rather than running from it. “I cannot believe you followed us here.”

  “I did nae follow you at all; I’ve been here at least an hour, perhaps longer. I did nae meander on my way, as you’ve been doing.”

  “I wasn’t meandering.”

  His eyes were the color of a flower she’d once seen on a mountainside in France, a pure, pale blue that could appear both icy cold and burning hot. Now, they burned, and she wondered if the whisky had added to it.

  “Are you afraid of marriage?”

  The abrupt question took her aback and she had to think about it for a moment before she answered. “I’m not afraid, no. Unlike you, I welcome the thought of marriage and sharing a home with someone who will make the same commitment. I’m sure that’s something you would find onerous.” She didn’t know why she’d added that last bit, but it had slipped off her tongue as if waiting for the opportunity.

  “I would like a home,” he said, surprising her. “Eventually.”

  She raised her brows. “And when will this magical ‘eventually’ occur? You’re more at home on a ship than elsewhere.”

  He looked down at his glass and swirled his whisky. “Do you know why that is?”

  She realized with surprise that she didn’t. “Pray tell.”

  “When my parents died, we were living in our family seat, Lennoxlove House.”

  “Where Jack resides now.”

  “Aye. When he’s home, which is nae often.”

  “None of you seem fond of staying in one place,” she observed.

  “We all had the same experience. After our parents died so suddenly, our lives changed quickly, too much so. Anna had just turned eighteen and she went from being a sister to being a parent, and the only one, too.”

  “I cannot imagine how difficult that must have been.”

  He took a drink of his whisky, his voice husky. “Anna decided we would stay at Lennoxlove, keep the same tutors, the same servants, and live as if things were the same.”

  Theodora saw the shadows in his eyes and said softly, “But things weren’t the same.”

  “Nae, and my brothers and I, being too young to understand, were angry. We were angry at fate for stealing our parents, angry at them for leaving, angry with our lives for being less, and angry at Anna for nae fixing it.” He grimaced, his tone heavy with regret. “We dinnae make it easy on her and became wild. And when she grew stern over our actions, it made it seem as if we had nae only lost our parents, but our sister, as weel.”

  “You were all hurting.”

  “We were raw, cut to the bone with sadness. The whole house seemed like a prison of memories that hurt, a sister who was forever unhappy, and the three of us lost . . .” He sighed. “It was a difficult time.”

  “Anna loved all of you.”

  “As we loved her, but we dinnae understand her anger. It was just so . . . big.”

  “She was trying to keep you safe.”

  “Desperately, but that never occurred to me, or to the others. And as soon as we were auld enough, we left one at a time, and never returned. I know now that broke Anna’s heart, but all I could think was that finally, I could start anew, withoot being tormented by my sister’s fury, or the weight of memories of those I’d lost.” He sighed, long and deep. “I was a bloody fool.”

  His regret was so evident that Theodora looked away to give him some privacy, dropping her gaze to her glass of whisky, the amber color reflected by the fire. In all the times she and Conner had talked, he’d never mentioned this, which had to have been one of the worst times of his life. She took a sip of whisky to loosen her throat. “I’m sure all of you did the best you could. It was a terrible situation. There was no making it right.”

  He finished his whisky, and his gaze found hers. “Perhaps. But now you know why I feel more at home on a ship. There are nae memories from the past lurking oot on the waves. Only the present and the future, for you’re always moving forward. You cannae go backward in a ship.” He flashed a lopsided grin. “At least, nae on purpose.”

  “So you ran away from home when you were a youth, and you’ve never stopped since. And now the worst place you can imagine is a home.”

  “Och, I would nae say that. The sea called and I answered. There is something glorious aboot sailing, Thea. Something freeing and—” He shook his head in bewilderment. “I cannae describe it.”

  “You would never be happy on land.”

  “Perhaps nae,” he answered honestly. “I cannae imagine it, although there’s something to be said for having a home port. Anna’s death has brought that fact to light, among others.”

  “A home port is not a home.”

  “Nae.”

  Thea finished her whisky and held out her empty glass.

  He fetched the decanter and refilled both of their glasses, putting a goodly measure in his glass, and a small splash in her own.

  She might have protested, but then decided she would be foolish to drink too much while alone with Conner. She took a fortifying sip of the whisky, her chest tingling with the warmth. “We are a pair, us two. Opposites in many ways. You went to sea because your house no longer felt like a home; meanwhile my parents moved so often that while we had a house, we never stayed long enough to make it into a home. Not really.”

  “You’ve always enjoyed traveling.”

  “We didn’t travel, we moved—sometimes for only five or six months at a time, depending on Papa’s assignment. We always stayed in excellent hotels and apartments, as you know, but they were never home. We always had someone else’s furniture, someone else’s beds, someone else’s gardens and curtains.”

  “I never thought of how disruptive it must have been—you always seemed to enjoy it.”

  “It was what we did.” She gave a small laugh. “I carried just one picture from place to place with me. Do you know what it was of?”

  He shook his head, watching her with an intent expression.

  “Cumberbatch House.”

  “Ah. So you took your home with you.”

  “I tried to.” A pang of homesickness made her sigh. “Whenever we were home for a month or longer, I’d plan the gardens, and—if it were spring—I’d put every spare hand to work at the planting.”

  “Derrick always complained about that. He said he was forced to learn how to starch his own cravat.” Conner grinned.

  She sniffed, unimpressed. “He never had to iron anything, and he knows it.”

  “He always complained a great deal more than was necessary.” Conner took a drink of his whisky, watching her over the edge of the glass. “You said that you planned the garden every year. Even for years when you were nae home?”

  “Even then. If I wasn’t home, as was usually the case, I’d write instructions to the gardeners.” She thought about all her garden plans, each one carefully drawn out so there could be no question. “Each year since I was seventeen, I’ve added something new to the garden.”

  “New flowers?”

  She chuckled. “Nothing so mundane. New flower beds, of course, but also a new path, a folly, a fountain.” She finished her whisky and put her empty glass on the mantel. “Do you know how many times I’ve seen my creations in full bloom?”

  He shook his head, watching her with such intensity that for the moment, it felt as if the two of them were th
e only people in the world. “I’ve seen the gardens at Cumberbatch House bloom only twice. Twice, Conner. And one of those times, we came home in the spring only because Mama grew ill and couldn’t stay in Venice because it was so damp.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “That explains why you’re so determined to have your own establishment.”

  “It’s more than that.” She lifted her chin. “I want a home. And a family, and children, two dogs, a cat—I want it all. I want to go to sleep at night in the same bed, and never wonder if tomorrow will be the day we must start packing to leave. I want comfort, and familiarity, the beauty of sameness each and every day, and most of all, I want a man who craves those same things.”

  “I see.” He rubbed his jaw, looking both rueful and irritated. “We are somewhat opposite, are we nae?”

  “Too much so. All the things you dislike, I want.”

  His brows locked. “Really? If that’s what you want, this staid life with no changes, then why this leisurely elopement?”

  She threw up her hands. “Why are you back on that? I told Lance we should travel faster.”

  “Pssht. If you’d wished to, you could have convinced him to forget the damned schedule and race to Gretna Green. He’d do anything you want, and you know it. But you dinnae try, lass. Admit it.”

  A vague disquiet held her tongue. Had she truly made an effort to hurry their trip, or had she merely fumed inside her own head? Was Conner right? Was she glad for the lagging pace of the journey? She grimaced. “Blast you. Stop trying to confuse me.”

  “There’s naught confusing aboot it. You’re lying to yourself aboot that lug of a squire. You may wish to settle doon and have a home and family, but nae with him.”

  Conner was right. But the man she wished to settle down with had just explained to her all the reasons why he would never do so. Her heart felt as if a band had tightened around it, and her eyes grew blurry with tears. To hide them, she retrieved her glass and went to the decanter and poured herself another small measure. When she’d had a sip and trusted herself to speak again, she said in a cool tone, “I’ve made up my mind.”

  “Oh?”

  “Marriage to Lance is the answer to everything.” Almost.

  Conner scowled. “Fine! Wed the lug. I’ve said all I will on it, since you will nae listen.”

  He stalked to the window, leaving a teasing trace of cologne in his wake, and she found herself breathing it in deeply.

  She’d danced with most of London’s eligible bachelors and had been exposed to a wide variety of colognes. But not a single soul had worn such a delicious-smelling cologne as Conner. It suited him—spicy and tantalizing, it drew one forward. She had but to smell it and her mouth went dry, and the most improper thoughts stirred. She gulped the final bit of her drink and set the glass on a side table, her gaze never leaving him.

  What might he do if she followed him to the window and kissed him? Would it shake him as much as his last kisses had shaken her?

  She had a sneaking suspicion he would not only welcome her efforts, but would willingly take them further. The thought left her as breathless as if she’d just run up a flight of stairs, and she found herself unable to look away from his mouth, shivers racing through her.

  One step . . . and she would reach him.

  Two steps . . . and she would be in his arms.

  Three steps . . . and she would capture that fascinating mouth and kiss him as senseless as he’d kissed her.

  Yet it would only make me more miserable than I am. He’s not for me—not now, not ever.

  Conner turned his head, surprising her. His gaze locked with hers.

  For a moment, time stood still. Then he dropped his glass to the floor and strode to her, closing the space between them with impatient, furious strides. He reached her and stopped, his boots touching hers, her chest a mere inch from his.

  He put his fingers under her chin, tilting her face to his, his blue eyes warm as he—

  Lightning flashed, followed by a deep, long rumble of thunder. A hard rain burst from the sky and drummed against the roof and windows.

  Conner, about to scoop Thea to him for the kiss she so obviously wanted, cursed as the inn door banged open and the squire’s voice could be heard in the hallway.

  Thea spun on her heel and hurried to the door, her face flushed in the most adorable way.

  One more second and I’d have had her in my arms, and would have convinced her to wed me. One damn second! Conner clenched his fists against the ache of his empty arms.

  Thea stepped into the hallway. “Oh no! You’re both so wet! Come in here. We’ve a fire.” She backed into the room, Lance appearing, his coat dripping on the rug as he assisted a sopping-wet Jane into the room.

  The small woman hung on to his arm, her hair flat to her head, her soaked gown dragging about her feet, shivering as if she’d fallen into ice water.

  “Jane, you poor thing!” Thea slipped an arm around the younger woman’s narrow shoulders. “You’re shaking like a blancmange.”

  The squire wiped water from his eyes, concern plain on his face. “The lightning frightened her.”

  “I-I don’t know wh-why l-l-lightning affects m-me so,” Jane said piteously, her pale lips quivering.

  “It frightens me, too, when it is this loud.” Thea rubbed Jane’s hands between her own. “You’re so cold! Lance, where’s her trunk? She’ll need dry clothes.”

  “Spencer was unlashing it from the coach when we were in the stables.” Lance’s gaze fell to Conner, who was just retrieving his glass from where he’d left it on the floor. The squire gave a visible start. “Douglas? Where did you come from?”

  “Happenstance. We’re both going north and this is the best inn in this part of the countryside, so—” Conner placed his glass on the side table beside Thea’s discarded glass. “Here I am.”

  Lightning flashed, followed by a loud crack of thunder. Jane gave a startled squeak, and Lance’s attention instantly returned to her. “She’s still shaking.”

  “Come.” Thea led the poor woman to the chair by the fireplace.

  Conner said shortly, “I’ll fetch my coat from my room. It will warm her.”

  “My pelisse is closer,” Thea answered. “It’s hanging in the hallway. We’ll wrap it about her until her clothes are brought in.”

  Conner moved toward the door, but Lance was faster. “I’ll get it.” He strode out and returned with the wool pelisse.

  Thea tucked it about the trembling young woman. “There. Let me stir the fire—”

  Thunder crashed again, rattling the windows as lightning flickered wildly. Jane shrieked and clutched Thea close.

  Thea put an arm about the girl’s shoulders. “You’re safe here.” The thunder rumbled again, although not so loud. “This storm came so quickly! Did you see it roll up when you were outside, or were you surprised by it?”

  “It came very suddenly!”

  “Which made it all the more frightening, I’m sure. I used to be terrified of lightning.”

  Jane looked at Thea. “But no more?”

  “Not as much, although loud thunder still makes me jump. Once, when I was living in Spain, a fierce storm came through town. It crashed and rumbled so loudly that the floor shook, and the spire on the local cathedral was struck twice.”

  “Oh no!”

  “Oh yes! Once it was over, I was certain that when I looked outside, nothing would be left standing. But everything was still there—just freshly washed. Spain was like that, always unexpected. Have you ever been?”

  “No, but I’ve wanted to visit.”

  “Oh, you should go one day—it’s lovely.” Thea began to tell tales of her time in Spain, her voice low and soothing.

  Conner watched, admiring the way she distracted Jane from the storm. Thea continued talking over the thunder, wondering aloud whether a hot bath could be had from the inn, how lovely the lemon cake they’d had earlier had been, and other inane comments.

  Jane shivered
less and less, while the squire hovered nearby looking concerned.

  Conner added wood to the fire, thinking regretfully of the kisses he’d been denied because of the blasted storm chasing Lance and Jane indoors. With a sigh, Conner shoved his uncharitable thoughts aside and tugged the bellpull.

  The small, thin maid appeared and bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, sir?”

  “Is Miss Simmons’s bedchamber ready? She was caught in the rain and will need the warmth of a fire and a warm bed.”

  “Oh yes, sir. Her room is ready, and a fire has already been lit.”

  “Guid. I daresay the ladies could use a pot of hot tea, as well as a bath if that’s possible.”

  “Indeed it is. It won’t take long, as the fire was already stoked for supper.”

  “Thank you. That will be all, then.”

  The maid hurried off and Conner turned back to the small group, well rewarded when Thea smiled at him. It was a sweet smile, a mixture of gratitude and appreciation.

  He felt a surprising rush of—happiness? Pleasure at being useful? He didn’t know, but the strength of his reaction shocked him.

  Lance rubbed his hands together, looking eager, obviously wishful of being of some use. “We must get Jane into some dry clothes. She’ll catch an ague if she stays as she is.”

  Thea looked surprised. “An ague? Please don’t even suggest it! She’s not shivering now, for the fire is warm and my pelisse is quite thick.”

  “You never know when an ague might come upon someone, especially if they have weak lungs. My younger sister Lucy has weak lungs, and being wet is a sure path to a dangerous infection.”

  Conner noted the frustrated look Thea sent the squire before she said in a bracing tone, “I’m sure Jane is in no danger of infection. It’s merely a little rain.”

  Jane, her hair slicked back from her heart-shaped face, her lashes spiked about her wide eyes, looked more like a kitten than ever. “I’m afraid the squire is right. I have weak lungs. This could well develop into something harsher.”

  Lance said in a bracing tone, “You need a mustard plaster. The smell is horrendous, but they do wonders at holding illness at bay.”

  Jane looked hopeful. “Do you think one could be made?”