Stranded With The Scottish Earl

by Anna Campbell

  To his surprise, amusement lit her eyes, and she laughed. “Modesty, is it, Lord Lyle?”

  Charlotte bent to collect the pile of damp clothes he’d left on the floor, turning in a blink from grand lady to housemaid. Perhaps she’d make a decent Cinderella after all. “I’ll spread these in front of the fire in the kitchen so they dry.”

  Surprise delayed his next question as she headed for the door. Bill leaped up to follow her. “Is that it?”

  “Come downstairs when you’re ready.” She reached for the doorknob. “We’ll have supper in the drawing room. It’s just off the hall. I’m sure you’ll find it.”

  Lyle couldn’t be any more confused if she’d waved a wand and turned a pumpkin into a carriage. “What about our wedding?”

  She raised her eyebrows as if he spoke complete gibberish. “You expressed an interest, my lord. I responded with a refusal. Now there’s no reason you and I can’t spend a pleasant evening together. Are you hungry?”

  “Aye.” Around noon outside Winchester, he’d stopped for beef and ale. He hadn’t eaten since.

  “I’ll see what I can find.”

  “You can cook?” he asked, genuinely curious. London’s delicate ladies looked like they lived on dew and nectar. Prepared by someone else.

  “Of course I can cook.” She paused on her way out and cast him a smile that was pure friendliness. What in Hades was she playing at now? She acted as if he’d never held her in his arms. Perhaps he should remind her. He smothered the urge to tumble her onto the bed until she was his dazed darling again. For a while there, he’d had the upper hand. But somewhere she’d clawed back the advantage.

  Exhilaration bubbled in his blood. Exhilaration and the determination to win this lassie. He’d always enjoyed games. This one promised champion fun.

  Devilry made him smile. “That’s an excellent skill in a wife, my love.”

  She laughed, the wee baggage, and left the room with a confident swagger that made him itch to kiss the insolence out of her.

  * * *

  “Can I help?”

  Charlotte looked up from the omelet that started to firm on the stove top. Lord Lyle was fully dressed in a dark blue coat that brought out the rich color of his eyes. She suffered a spurt of naughty disappointment that he covered that superb torso with clothing, however elegant.

  “Can you make toast?” She gestured to the loaf on the table. He said he wanted a managing wife. She’d show him the error of his ways.

  “I can try.”

  “You’ll need the toasting fork, and then…” She stopped and studied his suspiciously interested expression. “You’re teasing me.”

  “Just a wee bit, lassie.” With eye-catching efficiency of movement, Lord Lyle set to his task. Every gesture set her foolish heart racing. From the first, she’d thought him an impressive figure of a man. But now she had firsthand experience of what a splendid physical specimen he was. She’d touched that strong back and felt the powerful embrace of those long, sinewy arms.

  He produced several perfect golden slices, then turned his attention to loading a tray with the cold ham, cheese and dried fruit she’d found in the larder. Competence invested his every action.

  Including his kisses.

  She killed the traitorous thought before it could go any further. The only way to weather their unavoidable togetherness was to act as she would with an acquaintance. Dinner and polite conversation, with an embargo on topics like kissing and weddings, would get them through the evening.

  Then if heaven had any mercy, tomorrow the rain would stop, the river would subside, and the earl would ride away on his magnificent horse and forget the unsuitable woman who had briefly caught his fancy.

  Her foolish heart smarted at the thought of him forgetting her. But her head had taken charge, and her head insisted that if she kept the tone pleasant but impersonal, she’d escape unscathed.

  She cut the omelet in half, served it, and placed the plates on the tray.

  “Let me take that,” Lord Lyle said.

  She didn’t argue. He might as well use those muscles for something useful, instead of beguiling silly girls who should know better. “Thank you.”

  Snatching a bottle of her father’s best claret, she followed the tall man up the steps, then directed him to the drawing room.

  “The dining room is too big for two and as cold as charity,” she said cheerfully, pointing to the table where she ate when she was on her own.

  She stood back and let Lyle arrange the food. Amazing how graceful he made the everyday movements. Then she reminded herself of her plan. Jolly. Uninvolved. Polite. That was Charlotte for the rest of Lyle’s visit.

  But this enforced intimacy inevitably recalled lying in his arms, when she’d been far from uninvolved. With shaking hands, she set two wineglasses from the sideboard on the table and lit the candelabra that provided a centerpiece for their makeshift meal.

  Charlotte was grateful that Lord Lyle didn’t comment on her jumpiness. She wasn’t optimistic enough to imagine he hadn’t noticed. Those deep blue eyes didn’t miss much at all.

  As if to prove her right, he stepped back from the table and stared at the Reynolds hanging over the mantelpiece. “Your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “She looks like you.”

  “Do you think so?” Charlotte regarded him skeptically. “She was considered a great beauty.”

  He cast her a wry glance. “You’re not too bad yourself, lassie. There’s no need to hide your light under a bushel, just because you’ve got a couple of freckles.”

  “Only seven.” Her hand rose to cover the freckles on her nose, until she realized he was provoking her again. Her lips flattened. “Oh, you’re an annoying man.”

  “Aye.” The amusement drained from his eyes. “How old were you when you lost her?”

  “Fifteen.” The memory of her mother’s death remained sharp, despite the ten years since it had happened. She usually avoided speaking of those sad days. To her surprise, she didn’t mind telling Lord Lyle. Perhaps because he was a temporary presence in her life. “A winter fever caught her, and she was gone in two days.”

  “That’s hard.” He turned back to the picture. “She looks like a gallant lady.”

  Charlotte studied the beautiful image, and for the first time saw past her grief to a lovely woman who had just married the man she adored and who thought a long life of happiness lay ahead. It was something of a shock to realize that when the picture was painted, her mother had been three years younger than she was now.

  “She was.” Her voice lowered. “You would have liked her. Everybody did. She had the gift of happiness, and she bore her sorrows bravely. My father hasn’t recovered from her loss.”

  “Sir John spoke of her in London. It’s clear he’s never stopped missing her.”

  “They fell in love at first sight and never looked at anyone else. He met her at her first ball in London and proposed the next day.” Charlotte smiled fondly, for a second forgetting that she was angry with her father. And that tonight, perhaps love and marriage weren’t the wisest choices of topic.

  “My parents died last year in a carriage accident outside Edinburgh. I still miss them.”

  Meeting Lyle’s gaze was like sinking into cobalt velvet. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

  “No reason you should,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “My sisters and I are just out of mourning.”

  “Sisters?”

  “Aye.” He grimaced and resumed the familiar teasing tone. Except now she knew him well enough to see that this time, at least, he had to work to achieve that lightness. “Margaret and Kirsty. Both married. Both sure that they know just what a younger brother needs. I told you I was used to managing women.”

  She heard the fondness in his voice. “You’re lucky. My parents would have loved a brood of children, but there was only me.”

  He caught her hand and squeezed it. “There’s nothing ‘only’ about you,
Miss Warren.”

  “Th-thank you,” she said uncertainly. Telling him about her mother had changed things in a way she couldn’t quite identify. Upstairs he’d described their interactions as a game. But sharing their experiences of loss and family ventured into unexpected territory—and left her uneasy.

  “I—” she began, unsure what she wanted to say, but frantic to shatter the bond between them.

  He raised her hand to his lips for a brief kiss. How she wished he’d stop doing that. He released her and stepped closer to the table to pull out her chair.

  “Quite the feast. My compliments, Miss Warren.”

  Disoriented and worried that long-held resolutions tottered on their foundations, Charlotte straightened and told herself the world couldn’t change in an instant. She remained quiet as Lyle opened the claret and filled their glasses.

  He sat opposite and took a sip. “My God.” He sighed in appreciation. “If your father has more of this claret, I’ll marry you just to get into his cellars.”

  Her knife scratched against her plate and she set down her cutlery. “My lord, that subject is closed.”

  “Really? What a pity.” He began to cut into his omelet. “What about kisses?”

  She choked on her wine. “I’m not going to kiss you.”

  “Not right now, perhaps,” he said in an airy tone. “Although should the impulse strike, feel free.”

  She stiffened in her chair and struggled to revive her defiance. “I’d hate our meal to get cold.”

  “Och, so would I. Excellent omelet, by the way.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So shall we talk about what happened upstairs? I really think we should.”

  “Over my dead body,” Charlotte said sharply.

  He took another sip of claret and leaned back in his chair, looking very much at home. “Perhaps later.”

  “Perhaps never.” She scowled at him. “I’d prefer it if we avoid mentioning my woeful lapse in judgment.”

  He smiled at her as if she hadn’t just insulted him. “Let’s not spoil our meal with arguing.”

  Which, she was well aware, did not an agreement make.

  Of course he didn’t agree. He had his own agenda, and he meant to stick to it. Charlotte had a horrible feeling that if he wanted to talk about kisses, they’d talk about kisses.

  And marriage.

  He was nothing if not persistent. The unwelcome suspicion arose that Lord Lyle’s determination might even rival hers. And she was the stubbornest person she knew.

  Seeking to calm her rush of nerves, she drank some more wine. Rich, complex flavors filled her mouth. She closed her eyes in pleasure. When she opened them, Lyle watched her with disconcerting concentration, his hands flat on the table’s polished surface.

  She narrowed her gaze, daring him to say anything…incendiary. “It’s my father’s best. Seeing it’s his fault we’re in this mess, the least he can do is supply us with a decent drop to drink.”

  Lyle lifted his glass in her direction. “In that case, I toast my amiable host and my exquisite hostess.”

  She braced for more, but he set down his wine and addressed himself to his food with an enthusiasm that she couldn’t help liking.

  The worry was that the more she saw of Lord Lyle, the more she liked. As the meal progressed and he told her about London and she told him about her life on the estate, that liking burgeoned. Even while her intuition screamed that this compatibility was more dangerous to her future plans than his kisses.

  And his kisses had come close to demolishing every scrap of her resistance.

  Chapter Six

  * * *

  “How is it you’ve never been to London?” Lyle asked idly.

  Despite Charlotte’s intention to keep her distance, she found herself sharing the couch in front of the fire with Lord Lyle. She finished the last of the wine while he enjoyed a glass of her father’s best port. The earl wasn’t touching her. He’d been a perfect gentleman all night, something that shouldn’t rankle. But she was far too conscious of his arm stretched along the back of the chair behind her.

  “I’ve run the estate since I was fifteen.” She set her glass on a side table without shifting away from Lyle. “I’m busy enough here without going anywhere else.”

  “Still, a bonny lassie like you must have wanted a season, to show off in the latest fashions, and dance all night, and dazzle society’s laddies. When they were younger, my sisters never shut up about it.”

  She shrugged and rested her hand on Bill’s head. He snoozed between them, not much of a chaperone. Bill was usually wary of strangers. But given how fast Lyle had won her over, she could forgive her dog’s capitulation. “What would be the point? I don’t want to marry.”

  Lyle eyed her curiously. “You’re very adamant.”

  “Yes, I am.” To her chagrin, not as adamant as she’d been before opening her door to a certain Mr. Smith.

  “Why?”

  “My lord…” she said in a quelling tone.

  His hand curved around her shoulder. “I’m just trying to understand.”

  “You’re also…touching me,” she said, feeling absurd.

  “A mere friendly gesture, my dear Miss Warren.” Even through her woolen dress, the contact set her skin tingling. She told herself to move, stand up, go upstairs to bed, but the commands had no power, and she remained where she was. To preserve her pride, she gave a little wriggle to prove she wasn’t completely under his spell. She hoped he found her attempt more convincing than she did.

  He trailed a finger down her neck, making her shiver. She’d had no idea that was such a sensitive area until he’d kissed her there. “Now, don’t go all missish on me.”

  “As long as you don’t go all rakish on me,” she retorted.

  “If you keep squirming, you’ll upset Bill. Not to mention you’re giving me indigestion. Which seems a sad end to a lovely evening.”

  “Oh, you’re impossible,” she sighed, even as she leaned her head back on his powerful forearm. Warmth surrounded her, delicious, alluring, subtly threatening to the woman she’d always believed herself to be. She tried to blame the wine, but the fault lay in Lord Lyle’s compelling company, rather than in mere liquor.

  “That’s better,” he said with a rumble of satisfaction, stretching his long legs out toward the hearth.

  Charlotte waited for him to press his advantage, but he closed his eyes and rested his head back. Never had she seen a man look so contented. She stole the opportunity to study him without having to fend off that bright, interested gaze.

  When he’d turned up out of the pouring rain, she’d thought him handsome. No woman with eyes in her head would disagree. These hours in his company had only confirmed his physical appeal. Perhaps because she now knew the taste of that expressive mouth and how readily his lips could curve into a smile. Her fingers clenched into her skirts, much as they’d clenched into the cool silk of his black hair, hair with an endearing propensity to fall over his high forehead.

  Her fascinated inspection traced the hard, spare lines of his cheekbones and jaw. Even in a newspaper sketch, his striking good looks had been apparent.

  Now she saw so much more. Intelligence. Kindness. Humor.

  The thick black lashes shadowing his cheeks lifted, and he turned his head toward her. When she met that dark blue gaze, the world stopped, and an odd, echoing silence surrounded her.

  “Seen enough?” he asked softly.

  She flushed. Heavens, she’d blushed more since meeting Ewan Macrae than she had in the last year. It was an effort to speak. It was even more of an effort to keep her voice steady. “Best to know your enemy.”

  Every time he smiled, her pulses leaped in the most extraordinary way. This time was no different. “Daft lass, I’m not your enemy.”

  “Opponent, then,” she conceded.

  “Better,” he whispered and leaned forward to brush his lips across hers.

  For a dazzling instant, she tasted port and
sweet breath, sinfully familiar after his earlier kisses. Except this was different. The kiss was undemanding and tender, as if he stroked a finger across a budded rose to test the petals’ softness.

  Like that rose, she opened to him.

  Instead of deepening the kiss—mortifying how keenly she longed for his passion—he lifted his head. “Lover would be even better.”

  She stared at him, while her sluggish brain struggled to make sense of what was happening to her. She should be offended. Or frightened. But instead female curiosity kept her silent.

  Then Bill gave a yip of canine reproach at all the wriggling and jumped to the Turkey carpet before the fire.

  Lyle joined her laughter. “Our chaperone has spoken.”

  “I shouldn’t kiss you.” Charlotte slipped free of the sensual net and sat up, smoothing her chignon. “It’s not fair, when I won’t be your wife, and I can’t risk becoming anything else.”

  Lyle didn’t have to say a word. She knew he heard and noted that she never denied wanting to be his lover.

  His kisses were the most powerful experience of her life. Even in her innocence, she knew he’d give her pleasure beyond her wildest imaginings. But she was a virtuous woman and a virgin, and she cringed at the thought of conceiving a child out of wedlock.

  Sometimes she hated being sensible.

  “Tell me why you’re so set against marriage, Miss Warren.” He frowned. “Be damned if I’ll call a woman I’ve kissed Miss Warren. Let me call you Charlotte.”

  She shook her head. “Formalities are safer.”

  His smile told her he thought she was crackbrained. Given her ardent response to his caresses, she had to agree. “Even if I’ve had you half out of your dress?”

  Could her cheeks get any hotter? “A gentleman wouldn’t mention that.”

  “Perhaps not. But I dare any man, however well-bred, to forget that glorious moment.”

  The awful truth was that the moment had been glorious for her, too. She’d never felt so alive. Or so beautiful. Or so powerful, even as she’d surrendered to the astonishing sensations.

  He drew her closer and she, to her shame, curled into him. She was just as mutton-headed as Bill, who sat on the carpet and gazed adoringly up at his new god. “So, marriage, Miss Warren?”