Secrets to Seducing a Scot

by Michelle Marcos

  “Your gloves are wet,” she ventured. “Perhaps you ought to remove them to let them dry.”

  He shot her a warning look. “No’ the now.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I’d forgotten about your scar.”

  Zoe’s ears perked. “You have a scar?”

  “Aye.”

  “May I see it?” she asked.

  “No.”

  Zoe blushed. “That was rude of me, wasn’t it?”

  His eyes bore into Serena’s. “No ruder than Miss Marsh was for bringing it up.”

  Serena stiffened. “I was only trying to pass the time.”

  “Find some other topic of conversation.”

  She wanted him to be the topic of conversation. “Very well, then. I’m glad to see you’ve finally decided to identify yourself with the costume of your heritage.”

  “Costume of my—? Ye mean the kilt?”

  “Of course. And the—” She pointed to the black cloth pinned to his shirt.

  “The fly plaid?” He chuckled. “This is no’ a costume of heritage. It’s a very practical garment.”

  “In what way?”

  “It kept the rain off yer backside, didn’t it?”

  Zoe giggled. Serena flicked her a withering glance.

  “Nevertheless, it is a costume, just as my dress is a costume. Does one wear anything under that?”

  A twinkle in his eye signaled his amusement. “May-hap ye’d like a wee keek?”

  Serena felt a blush zooming up her neck. The answer to that question was embarrassingly yes. “Hmm. Thanks all the same, but I fear that, in the words of William Shakespeare, it may be ‘much ado about nothing.’”

  There it was again. That smile. It transformed his dangerous face into something quite delectable, dripping with sexual charm.

  “Please yerself.”

  She’d love to, but he was making it very hard. She would have to find a way to make him very hard. Who knew … perhaps her next column would be all about his column.

  SEVENTEEN

  As they left Fort Augustus, a band of silver edged the dark thundercloud, until finally the storm cleared altogether. The carriage rumbled past the shore of Loch Uanagan, beside the rough hinterland of Newtown, and along the green pastures at Aberchalder. It was a rich tapestry of landscapes, and despite Serena’s initial dislike of the stark country, she had to admire its wonders.

  Invergarry was a little more than a scattering of homesteads at the foot of thick forest. But in one large pasture, hundreds of people gathered. Colorful flags flapped in the high breeze, and tents and tables skirted a huge playing field. The music of flutes and drums added a decided twinkle to the chill air. Even from her carriage, Serena could smell meats roasting on spits.

  Zoe was fairly bouncing in the carriage, and for once Serena shared her enthusiasm. It was a festive scene, full of unusual scents and sights, and Serena could hardly wait to explore them. Unmindful of ladylike decorum, she opened her own door.

  A gloved hand pulled her in again.

  “Remember what I said,” Malcolm remarked. “Never leave my sight. Understood?”

  Irritated, she jerked her arm away. She was unaccustomed to being around brusque men—at least, men who didn’t worship her beauty and charm. “Very well. Just make sure to keep your distance, or people will think we’re friends.”

  Arm in arm, Serena and Zoe hurried along the edge of the playing field. Everywhere she turned, there was something fascinating to look at. To one side, vendors were noisily selling fabrics, bread, ale, and livestock. To the other, people crowded around the competitions. Out of the corner of her eye, Serena saw something fly into the air. Grabbing Zoe’s hand, she yanked her in that direction.

  They joined the gathering that circled a group of men who took turns pitchforking a heavy jute sack and tossing it backward over their heads in an attempt to make it fly high over a horizontal bar between two standards. Judging by the strain of the effort, it was not an easy task.

  Adjacent to this game was another in which a man clutched a heavy rock to his neck, then spun around and around before he released it, tossing it as far as he could. Serena watched in amazement at the distance these thick, burly men could make the unwieldy rock fly.

  A cheer erupted behind her, and Serena pulled Zoe toward it. By this time, Serena’s beautiful yellow slippers were smeared with wet mud, but she didn’t really care. On this playing field, a beefy man hoisted up a slender, twenty-foot-long tree trunk by its end between his clasped hands and cradled it against his shoulder. The man pulled all sorts of grimaces as the heavy trunk swayed in the air and he struggled to keep it from falling over. Once he gained its balance, he ran with it, heaved it up and over, and the tree trunk fell end-over-end. The crowd cheered, signaling a successful throw.

  This seemed to be the most difficult game, and Serena was enthralled. The competitions all centered on common objects—rocks, logs, heavy hammers—but the difficulty of the tasks made them fascinating. Back home, the most strenuous competitive game gentlemen engaged in was horse racing, or perhaps even the odd game of court tennis. Never had she witnessed a sport that required such feats of pure brute strength. And all by thickly muscled men wearing what her own countrymen disparagingly called “skirts.”

  She turned around, and there, behind her, was Malcolm. His eagle eyes were scanning the crowds, keeping a watchful eye on the people who surrounded her. He, too, wore a “skirt,” but she’d be hard-pressed to find someone less feminine. A man like him would never fit in in English Society.

  Truth be told, he didn’t seem to fit in among all these other Scots, either. There was something otherworldly about him, as if he was caught between two civilizations, ill-fitting in both. For one thing, whereas everyone at the gathering was wearing their colorful tartans, his was but black. For another, there were those brown leather gloves he never removed, hiding that brand that he never showed. She was itching to know what he had done to deserve such a punishment.

  “These certainly are peculiar games,” she said, loud enough for Malcolm to hear behind her. “I’m not certain I understand the rules of this one.”

  She could sense Malcolm step in a little closer behind her.

  “This is known as the caber toss. The man who tosses the caber so that it lands straight ahead, in the twelve o’clock position, wins.”

  “That’s what I mean. There’s no thought involved, no … strategy. It’s all about whoever is strongest.” She couldn’t resist turning around and glancing at his body.

  “There’s a time for chess, and a time for wrestling. Think of this as the latter.”

  “Will you not play, Mr. Slayter?”

  “Aye. Love a good game of chess.”

  “No, I mean here, now. Tossing that … caber.”

  Malcolm shook his head. “No’ the now.”

  “Why not?” She’d give anything to see him use those incredible muscles she’d glimpsed under his rain-soaked shirt earlier.

  “If I’m in there,” he said, pointing to the field, “then who will be out here protecting ye?”

  She turned around and faced him full-on. “Must you be at my side at every moment? My goodness! If you were a Roman soldier, I swear your name would be Ubiquitus!”

  He tried to suppress a grin. “This is a competition among clans. I canna participate.”

  “Why not? What exactly is your clan, Mr. Slayter?”

  He looked away. “I’m sure ye’ve not heard of it.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “No clan wears a black tartan. From whom do you hail?”

  “I am a Highlander. Nothing more.”

  “Why will you not name your clan?”

  There was a warning in his eyes. “Turn around, Miss Marsh. Ye’re missing the competition.”

  He drifted back into the crowd. It was a growing frustration that she could not see into his life. But she thought it best to leave that line of questioning for another time. “I’m hungry, Zoe. Let’s go get something to e
at.”

  Malcolm followed them to a wooden cart where a stocky lady with thick arms had arranged three baskets of pastries that gave off a delicious aroma.

  “Mutton pies, biggest size,” she sang, showing the spaces in her mouth where her teeth used to be.

  “What’s this one here?” Serena asked, eyeing the flaky triangles that were fairly bursting with filling.

  “Mincemeat bridie, hot and tidy.” She picked up two and handed one to each of them in a cloth.

  “Would you care for one?” Serena asked Malcolm.

  “No’ the now,” he said.

  Serena dropped two coins into the woman’s hand and took a bite of the pastry. Instantly she sank into a realm of pleasure. The beef-and-currant filling was warm and flavorful, and the buttery pastry added just the right touch of crispness. It was common food, eaten by common people, but right now, to Serena, it was heaven in her mouth.

  “Serena, can we go see the collies?” Zoe said between mouthfuls. “I love to see the dogs do tricks.”

  “Sounds delightful,” Serena replied halfheartedly,

  “but I see a fortune-teller’s tent over there. Let’s get our palms read!”

  Malcolm snorted derisively. “Don’t tell me ye believe in that nonsense.”

  Serena didn’t particularly, but it was enticing entertainment nonetheless. “And if I did?”

  “I credit ye with more sense than that, Miss Marsh. No one can see into the future. Those so-called fortune-tellers are nothing more than tricksters who like to prey on over-anxious people desperate for answers.” Malcolm looked into her face, his expression hanging between bemusement and concern. “Are ye such a person?”

  She hated to admit it, even to herself. But no one could answer the questions that plagued her. Would she ever return to London and the life she had left behind? Had her readers forgotten her or stopped caring about her column? Would she ever find a man who would love her for who she was?

  “Very well, Zoe. Let’s go see the collies.”

  There was a separate encampment where the livestock was kept. It was a place for horse and cattle trading, which some people were doing with overly loud voices. But there was also a large paddock in which herders were competing to see how fast their border collies could steer a small flock of sheep into a pen.

  Serena and Zoe stood behind the fencepost to watch the competition. But watching a dog bark at some confused sheep as they got corralled into a small pen had a natural time span of enjoyment for Serena. She peeked behind her to get a glance at Malcolm.

  He was gone.

  She whirled around to look for him. He was usually about ten feet behind her, just far enough to give her some space but close enough to step into a fray. Now he was nowhere to be found.

  Finally she spotted someone who looked like him inside a rudimentary aviary. She came closer to inspect. It was Malcolm, and perched on his forearm was a falcon whose eyes were covered by a soft leather hood. Malcolm stroked the bird’s chest gently, his lips puckered as he cooed softly at the animal. Watching a man like Malcolm act so tenderly incited a feeling of yearning in her—and it was something she was not accustomed to feeling.

  Then, adding insult to injury, a young woman came up alongside him. She was a brown-haired girl with freckles all over her face who apparently owned the aviary. As Malcolm softly caressed the bird, the young woman seemed to be pointing out the animal’s unique characteristics.

  But to Serena’s practiced eye, the freckled woman was clearly offering more than just birds of prey. The woman’s eyes raked Malcolm up and down, her gaze settling on the very features that Serena herself had been appreciating during the carriage ride. The woman’s hand touched Malcolm’s gloved hand, then his arm, and finally came to rest on his chest. Though crude and unrefined, her efforts at allurement were not lost on Malcolm. He took his eyes off the bird, looked down at her … and smiled!

  Serena inhaled sharply, and it fanned an inexplicable flame of jealousy within her. She didn’t even recognize the expression that Malcolm gave that woman. It was Malcolm’s face at its handsomest … and it was for someone else.

  In a fit of pique, she stormed off. Let him try and find me, she fumed. Served him right if he became well and truly worried when he went to look for her and she was not there. Here she was strategizing how best to grace him with her attentions, and instead he bestowed his own on some stupid bird of prey—two of them!

  Almost as if by intention, her steps led her to the fortune-teller’s tent. Outside, there were two ladies talking. Both had auburn hair, but one was about double the girth of the other.

  “I’m here to see the fortune-teller.”

  The rounder one spoke up. “An’ ye’ve found her. Step inside, love.”

  She held open the flap of the tent for Serena. It was dark inside, but it smelled like a garden. Hanging from each corner of the tent were bundles of lavender, rapeseed, and heather drying.

  “Can you really see into the future?” Serena asked as she perched herself on a milking stool.

  The heavy woman sat opposite her on another stool, her legs open immodestly. “Aye. All my life. An’ the babe that grows inside me has made the power even keener. The name’s Alice. What’s yer name?”

  “Serena.”

  “Serena,” she repeated, as she lifted a kettle off of a fire that burned on the ground. “Tuppence is the price of yer fortune. An’ e’en if ye don’t care for it, then ye’ll still have had a nice cup of tea.”

  Serena handed over the coin and took the cup that Alice held out.

  “Drink doon yer tea, but leave a sip in the cup.”

  She blew a wisp of steam away, and slowly drank the hot liquid. Inside the rustic earthenware cup was very fine China tea. The tea leaves swam inside the cup, tickling her lips. When just a drop of the liquid remained, she went to hand the cup back to Alice.

  Alice held her hand up. “I’m no’ to touch it yet. Swirl it aboot and chuck it over on the ground. Then let me see what gets left behind.”

  Serena did so. Inside the cup, a dredging of wilted tea leaves spotted the cup.

  “Noo then, let’s see where yer fortune lies.” Alice opened her eyes widely as she turned the cup around and around in her hands. She breathed deeply, letting the images in the residue float up to her eyes.

  “Ye’ve come from afar.”

  Serena rolled her eyes. She would have thought that was obvious.

  “But there’s a lang way yet fer ye to go.”

  Her eyebrows drew together. “North? Or south?”

  Alice shook her head. “I canna tell. But ye’ll cover a great distance afore ye’re home.”

  Serena pursed her lips. She hoped it was the distance from here back to London. “What else do you see?”

  Alice looked full-faced at Serena. “There’s great danger ahead.”

  Serena’s forehead creased. She grabbed Alice’s arm to look into the cup herself. “What sort of danger?”

  “Evil men with evil intentions.”

  Serena’s heart sank. “What would anyone want with me?”

  Alice’s blue eyes peered into the cup. “I canna see that. But I can tell that the struggle will be difficult. Ye’ll need all the help ye can get to overcome it.”

  Serena pulled away. Inside her, reason warred with fear. Silently, she argued that there was no such thing as seeing into the future. But she was far from home, and her father was embroiled in a battle to stop a nation from turning against itself. Doubt crept in.

  “Is my father in peril?”

  Uncertainly, Alice shook her head. “I see a sword or an arrow. But I canna tell if it be man or woman ’tis pointed at.” Alice put her hand on Serena’s. “But here’s a good portent. Love awaits ye. And where there’s love, evil flees.”

  “Love? From whom?”

  “A good man, I see. He has the mark on him.”

  Her thoughts flew to Malcolm. “Mark? What mark?”

  “Here,” Alice said, pointing
to a glob. “See the horse’s head? That signifies yer man. An’ see above its head? ’Tis the mark of a cross. It means that sacrifice is not unknown to him. ’Tis a good man that has that mark. And there’s a crown nearby. That means he’s a man with a title.”

  It was not Malcolm after all. Serena couldn’t ignore the feeling of disappointment. She tried to convince herself to be pleased by the prediction. In her future lay a nobleman who was also a noble man. And though she was attracted to Malcolm—he was a fine-looking man, after all—the idea that she’d find love with such a rough and common person was absurd.

  And yet she couldn’t ignore that unwelcome feeling that tugged at her heart. Regret.

  “Ye’re a fortunate woman,” said Alice. “When ye find him, cleave to him.”

  “I will,” she said cheerlessly. “Thank you.” Serena stood, and then helped the pregnant Alice to her feet. She bid the woman outside the tent a good day, and wandered back toward the field.

  Alice’s words weighed heavily upon Serena. She found herself dissecting and deliberating the predictions Alice had made, wondering at the shadowy man in her future who was not Malcolm.

  Finally, in utter self-mockery, she shook her head free of the misplaced importance. Serena was no ignorant, unsophisticated peasant who would easily succumb to a fortune-teller’s musings. She was an educated, cosmopolitan woman who well understood the charlatanism of fortune-telling. Alice and her friend were probably snickering to themselves that they had just taken a small fortune off her. No doubt Alice “foretold” the same thing to all who were gullible enough to listen—a hint of danger and a promise of a prince’s love for young ladies; a prediction of virility, long life, and monetary success for the men. Serena was disgusted with herself for giving it any credence whatsoever.

  Before she knew it, her distracted wandering had led her onto unfamiliar grounds. Here, there was another competition happening. Men stood in a circle watching two men with wooden swords swing at each other. At first glance, the clacking noise of the counterfeit weapons gave the scene the appearance of actors rehearsing for a play … until their blood and bruises convinced her it was all too real.