Secrets to Seducing a Scot

by Michelle Marcos

  His shadow along the ground announced his arrival.

  “Ambassador?” she said, squinting in the sun. “Whatever are ye doing oot in the kitchen garden?”

  “Looking for you, actually.”

  She wiped her hands on her pinafore. “Oh? What may I do for ye?”

  Gazing down at her kneeling before him, her rosy freckles and dazzling blue eyes looking up at him, he suppressed a truthful answer. “Er …” He raced for an answer. “Salve. Mr. Slayter’s been in a brawl, and he’s suffered a few bruises. It’s nothing serious, but I was wondering if you had any remedy that would help him in that regard.”

  “I see,” she said, an answer that quickly made Earlington nervous. Gabby was a woman who saw a great deal more than most, even the things he didn’t want her to see. “I’ll get Caointiorn to take him some cream of calendula.”

  “Yes.” Earlington wrung his hands, his gaze bouncing around the garden.

  “Will that be all, sir?”

  He couldn’t look her in the eye. “I was wondering … that is, if you’re not too busy … if you would be so kind … could you talk with me awhile?”

  Gabby nodded slowly. “Aye. But ye may as well make yerself useful. Take that spade and help me dig these holes.”

  A bemused frown crossed Earlington’s face. He had had in mind a quiet chat over a cup of tea. But he was fascinated by the prospect of the fresh adventure, so he shrugged out of his coat and laid it on a nearby shrub. He took the spade from a milk pail full of gardening tools and began to burrow into the ground.

  “Aboot four inches deep, mind, and wide enough for yer hand to fit.”

  He set about digging holes in the soft, moist earth. Although his trousers grew damp at the knees, he actually found pleasure in working the cool soil with his bare hands.

  Gabby was silent, and he could sense that she was waiting for him to speak. But he found it difficult to put his feeling to words.

  “Er, I’m afraid I’m not very good at this.”

  She handed him a different spade. “Little by little, as the cat eats the fish.”

  He shook his head. “No. I mean talking with you.”

  “Aye. I ken what ye mean.”

  “Oh.” There it was, that feeling that she could understand well beyond that which was plain. “You see, I’ve been very concerned about the negotiations. They’re not going as I’d hoped. The factions have split, and the ones with revolutionary sympathies are taking control. The English Parliament is perfectly prepared to go to battle with Scotland, and the Scottish Council is daring them to. It seems the only one who is after peace is me.”

  “Aye.”

  “And now I’ve awakened a great swarm of enemies. The opposition has not only threatened my daughter, but actually accosted her. I’m afraid that any attempt to negotiate a peace with Scotland will not only endanger what’s left of my family, but will be to no avail whatsoever. I even made a promise to keep my daughter safe, a promise I’m not confident I can keep.”

  “Aye.”

  “And to top it all off, I’m so angry at those men for laying their hands on her. I actually started to think a spate of war might do those stubborn Scots some good. They robbed me of my impartiality and turned me against them, when all I really wanted to do was restore their faith in union and bring about goodwill on both sides.”

  “Aye.”

  Despite his problems, he had to chuckle at Gabby. “Do you always talk this much?”

  She smiled. “Aye.” She lifted a wisp of hair from her cheek. “If the Good Lord had meant for us to be doing more bletherin’ than listening, he would hae given us two mouths instead of two ears.”

  Earlington smiled. “Perhaps you’re right. However, I would appreciate even half a mouthful right now. I’d like to know your thoughts.”

  “Why should a man of yer importance be after asking someone like me?”

  He shrugged. “Call it seeking the wealth of wise counsel. King Solomon was widely believed to be the wisest man who ever lived, and even though he needed wise counsel the least, he wrote about its value the most.”

  Gabby handed him a bowl full of peeled garlic cloves. “Drop one of these in all of the holes, then push the soil back in.”

  “What’s it for?” he said, puzzling over the bowl.

  “The garlic will dispel the wee beasties that’ll be after m’neeps.”

  He shrugged, but did as she asked. “What do you think I should do?”

  Gabby swiped a smudge of mud off her nose with her sleeve. “I think ye should dig a small trench with yer finger, like so, all along this row.”

  Earlington sighed, running his finger along the dirt. “Not meaning to be rude, but—”

  “And place one of these turnip seeds aboot two inches apart all doon the row.”

  He took the seed pouch from her dirt-smeared hand, and pulled one of the tiny seeds out. He dropped one onto the soil, then another and another. “There. Two inches apart.”

  “Noo cover it up with the rest of the soil. Just like that. Well done. And give it a sprinkle of water to moisten the topsoil.”

  Earlington took the watering can and upturned it all along the row of turnip seeds they’d just planted.

  Gabby stood up, and shook the dirt from her hands.

  “You’re leaving?” asked Earlington, setting down the watering can.

  “Aye. I’ll be off to fetch the balm for Mr. Slayter.”

  “Wait …” Earlington’s eyebrows drew together. “What am I to do?”

  Gabby looked down at him, her face transforming into something serene. “All we can do is sow the seed. It’s up to the Good Lord to make it take root. Isn’t that right, sir?”

  Her eyes held a world of meaning. She was transmitting a message in a language Earlington was just beginning to understand, and he began to see dimly what she was saying. All he could do was sow the seeds of peace. It was not his responsibility to make the peace grow. “Yes, of course,” he agreed softly. “Still, there are those who would destroy what we’ve so carefully sown.”

  “Och, the wee beasties! They’re oot there. Probably waiting till oor backs are turned to come and snatch oor crops away. A healthy drop of the garlic should ward off the attackers for a time, no?”

  Earlington clambered to his feet. Malcolm? “For a time, perhaps. But any preventive measure wears away when there are too many to overpower it.”

  She shrugged and picked up her pail. “’Tis a chance we have to take. Do it, and there’s a good chance we will eat. Do it not, and we shall certainly starve.”

  No more speaking in riddles. “And what of the hate? How do I combat the hate that is growing within me?”

  Gabby sighed deeply. “Anger is more hurtful to ye than the wrong that caused it. Let it go. Ye’ve too good a heart to let it be poisoned by the deeds of evil men. Remember the ones who have no voice in the matter. They’re the ones ye’re doing all this for.”

  Earlington smiled at her. What an amazing woman. He stepped up to her and pressed a kiss on her cheek.

  The lady blushed to the color of her hair. Her entire demeanor changed, and once more he caught a glimpse of the innocent young girl long gone from the wise eyes.

  “Sir! What would the other servants think if they saw?”

  “They’d realize what a treasure you are.”

  NINETEEN

  Serena sat at her vanity desk, slowly brushing out the wet strands of her long blond hair. Her bath had left her scented of English roses, and her afternoon tea was still warm in its cup. Her muddied dress lay in a heap on the floor like a shed skin, and her elegant evening clothes were laid out on the bed. Though everything had returned to its normal routine, nothing was as it had been. And at the heart of the transformation was the man who lay just beyond that secret door …

  The memories of the eventful day swirled about her like a snow flurry. The sheen of the rainwater on Malcolm’s skin; the feel of his hand on her wrist in the carriage ; the elation at hi
s arrival on the battlefield; the mortifying sensation of being chastised like a schoolgirl. The remorse at putting his life in danger.

  A soft knock sounded on her bedroom door, bringing her daydreaming to a screeching halt. “Miss? It’s Caointoirn, miss.”

  “Come in, Quinny.”

  The petite maid ventured in. “I’ve come to do yer hair.”

  For the first time, the prospect of pinning her hair up in an elegant coif depressed her. “Very well,” she said with a sigh.

  “I’ve brought some salve for Mr. Slayter. Would it be all right if I go through here rather than the library door, miss?” She nodded in the direction of the secret passageway, a place where Serena’s thoughts had been just moments before.

  Serena glanced at the brown glass bottle and white cloth, and an idea came to her. “No. Leave it with me, Quinny. I’ll take it in to him. Come back later. You can do my hair then.”

  “Very well, miss.”

  Medicines. How she hated them. They were a reminder of how imperfect the world was … and how mortal. Her father was reduced to taking powders and restoratives every day, each of them foul and unpleasant, in an effort to extend his life. The thought that she was the cause of Malcolm’s need for them needled her with guilt.

  She tightened the dressing gown around her and knocked on the secret door.

  A moment passed. And then the door swung open.

  The sight of him took her breath away. He was back to trousers, but he didn’t have on a stitch of clothing above them, displaying a torso that seemed sculpted from gold. His chest was smooth, like marble statues of old, with just a smattering of hair down the middle. Muscles fanned out from his neck and connected with two chiseled shoulders. Odd scars told a tale of a tortured life.

  A look at his face brought a fresh stab of guilt. His cheek had purpled, and now she could see a tiny cut on his lower lip.

  “I-I’ve some salve for you.”

  He looked her up and down. There was no judgment in his expression, only a reserved air. “Thank ye,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Ill at ease, she clutched the bottle tighter. “May I come in?” she heard herself ask. There were dozens of reasons why it was a mistake to suggest it. Impropriety, indecency, shame … spiders. She put all those out of her head as she stepped over his threshold.

  For the first time, she got a close look at the chamber he now used as a bedroom. The walls were bare of plaster, and he used the interior wood framing as shelves. A few books, probably borrowed from Lord Askey’s library, lined one shelf, and a comb and razor lay on another. A narrow bed, certainly too short for a man of his height, edged the wall separating them. On the framing above his pillow lay his pistol holster and daggers. The smell of antique wood and mold permeated the room. It was surely a misery having to live here. And yet he put himself through it willingly. For her.

  “Let me help you apply it,” she said.

  “I can manage.”

  “No. I want to. It’s … the least I can do.”

  His frown softened, but only a little. “Very well.”

  She glanced nervously at his semi-nude body. “Show me what pains you.”

  He raised his right hand before her eyes, palm downward. The knuckles were discolored, and a tear sliced through the middle knuckle. She couldn’t look him in the eye, lest he see how remorseful she felt.

  She opened up the bottle and poured some of the grassy-smelling liquid onto the cloth. She placed her hand beneath his to sustain it, and gingerly dabbed at the broken skin. The branding scar on the back of his hand was visible to her now, and she drank in each of the ugly details with her eyes.

  “Is that better?”

  “Aye.” His expression had gentled, and he regarded her thoughtfully. “Thank ye.”

  “What else pains you?”

  He raised his left elbow up to reveal a dark bruise on his rib cage. “I can’t take a breath without remembering the face of the bastard that gave me that.”

  She sighed, and moistened the rag once more. He winced a little as she applied the unguent, so she took her time. He had a lovely warm smell to him. His abdomen was strong and sturdy, each muscle well defined. Too late she considered how wonderful it would have been if she had thought to apply the medicine with her fingers rather than a cloth.

  “And your cheek?” she asked.

  “Aye. It throbs a good deal.”

  He was too tall for her to get to it comfortably. “Please sit down.”

  He perched himself on the edge of the bed, and she wedged herself between his open legs. The hair at his temples was still wet from washing. She lifted the damp cloth and dabbed it on the swell of his cheek. It was an ugly bruise, discoloring and deforming his otherwise handsome face. Another pang of guilt damned her. That mark was a direct result of a deformity in her own character. If it hadn’t been for her, none of this would have happened to him. She glanced into his eyes, which were looking straight at her.

  Her tattered pride was unable to contain her true emotions any longer. “I’m so sorry for getting you into all this trouble.”

  “So am I.”

  His agreement stung. “I shouldn’t have stormed off as I did. Never mind that I left Zoe unchaperoned, which on its own was a thoughtless thing to do. But to put you in harm’s way was inconsiderate and foolish … and cruel.”

  He closed his eyes, revealing silky white lids above thick black lashes. “Apology accepted. Glad I am to know that ye’ll not be doing it again.”

  But there was more that she had to say. “You stood up for me. Not many men would have done what you did, especially after the way I’d treated you. I’m really very grateful. And I just … wanted to …”

  Everything in her being told her not to do it, but she refused to listen. She put her hands on his bare shoulders, and brought her lips to his.

  It was a gentle kiss, nothing more, bestowed upon him while he sat before her. His lips were soft and warm, yet surprised by the affection. But then he wrapped his thick arms around her as he stood up, and suddenly, she was engulfed by him. His head descended over hers, and he returned the kiss, transformed into a passionate thing.

  His lips smoothed over hers, igniting her body. She closed her eyes as she inhaled the soap-and-water smell of him. Wrapped in a blanket made of skin and flesh, Serena hummed in contentment. The kiss of gratitude had become a kiss of need, and he was quick to give her what she demanded. She could taste the salty-sweet blood from the cut on his lip, and it roused a carnal desire that she could not subdue.

  The feel of his bare skin under her hands reawakened her passion for a man. But this was so very different from her first love affair. Back then, that one fumbling tryst was born of a need to win a man’s love, and a curious desire to be pleasured. This embrace was compelled by her need to show Malcolm Slayter her own feelings, and a desperate longing to pleasure him.

  But his kisses were like nothing she’d ever known. No practiced techniques, no contrived approach. At first, his mouth opened softly to her, his response to her as guarded as a wild animal. But when he tasted her desire for him, the truth of his own yearnings broke forth. His kisses were foreign and strange, but artless—as if his whole heart expressed itself through his kisses.

  A crease formed between his thick black eyebrows as his kiss deepened. She felt his fingers spread into her still-damp hair, gently directing her in the dance of his possessive kiss. A familiar hunger pulsed in her feminine opening, desperate to be fed by his flesh.

  How glorious that his body connected with hers at every point! Their legs touched, their hips pressed against the other’s body, her breasts were flattened against the ridges of his abdomen. A rush of eroticism flowed inside her.

  Her arousal must have provoked his own, for she began to feel a thickening against her belly. And just as it started, he pulled away.

  His hands gripped her shoulders and held them at bay. “I canna carry on.”

  She could not disengage from that par
alyzing bliss. “What?”

  He fought to catch his breath. “Yer da has entrusted ye to me. I canna betray that.”

  She had never resented her father until just that moment. “But …”

  “Ye should go back now,” he said, jerking his head toward the secret door. “Before I forget myself.”

  It was precisely the thing she wanted to do … forget herself. Forget Society with its fashions and foibles, forget the need for ease and eminence, forget the pursuit of ostentation and adoration. Above it all, she desired the colossal simplicity of just her … and just him.

  He bent his head over her hand, and kissed it tenderly. She found herself shaking her head. She wanted to lie down on the too-small bed and let him open her dressing gown. To let him kiss her breasts. To give her willing hands the freedom to possess every part of his body. She wanted more …

  A lingering look from his emerald-colored eyes told her he wanted more, too. But it also begged her to help him be strong.

  Disoriented by the thrumming inside her, she let him lead her back to the doorway in the wall. But when she stepped through it, the room no longer felt like hers. She gave a last look toward Malcolm, and slowly, he shut the door between them.

  She stood against her bed for some time, reassessing her surroundings. The vanity with its ornate brushes and hairpins; the wardrobe bursting with the best of London’s fashions; the elegant bedspread covering a down-filled mattress—all the accoutrements of a lady—looked like mere toys in a child’s playpen.

  And she had very quickly outgrown them.

  TWENTY

  For the first time, Malcolm Slayter felt like a true gentleman.

  He was headed into a formal dinner with an ambassador and the lord and lady of the manor. And on his arm was Serena Marsh.

  For once, he was walking not behind her, but beside her. And she was only too happy to have him there.

  He glanced down at her. She looked exquisite in a white gown with blue flowers sewn into it.