When a Scot Loves a Lady fc-1

by Katharine Ashe

  “That is quite a tribute.” She chanced a glance at the Scot. “Have you earned it, my lord?”

  “Cubs weel speak sic nonsense whan aff their feed.” Now he did not look at her, and Kitty could not ignore her fluttering pulse. Lord Blackwood played cards almost as often as her mother, but Kitty had never played against him. She socialized with politicians and literary people, men and women more interested in conversation of substance than gossip—a rather different set than the Scottish earl enjoyed. She’d never seen him since that night at the masquerade three years ago. But when she arrived yesterday, he remembered her.

  “The gov’nor let me run his bitch, mum.” The boy flashed a jaw full of prominent square teeth.

  Kitty welcomed the intervention. “How far did she run in such weather, I wonder?”

  “To the river and back. Capital race. She’s a right quick goer.”

  “I have no doubt. Ned, where is your mistress?”

  “I’ll fetch her for you, mum.” He leaped up and went into the kitchen. The dog sighed and laid its muzzle on the floor. Kitty moved to the window. From her bedchamber, she had watched the snow begin falling again and met the sight with both hope and unease. The longer she remained away from London, the more opportunities Lord Chamberlayne would have to press his suit. And Emily’s absence from home might serve to frustrate her suitor. But Kitty could not like the situation entirely.

  “We shall be trapped here for days, and our servants stranded on the road who-knows-where,” she murmured.

  “They’ll hae found a farmer’s cot, lass. Nae tae worry.”

  How could her skin feel him looking at her?

  She glanced over her shoulder, purposefully arching a brow. “Perhaps I am merely concerned for my luggage. I have but this one gown.”

  His gaze slipped along her body, from the high neckline of her modest carriage dress to its hem.

  Mr. Yale bowed gracefully. “It is all charm on you, my lady.”

  “Thank you. Are your servants likewise separated from you?”

  “We haven’t any. We travel light this journey, on horseback.”

  Kitty could not help it. She must look at the earl again. She was drawn like a cat to milk.

  Not milk.

  No cat.

  Moth to flame.

  This could not continue. At five-and-twenty she had danced and dined and driven with men of rank and power. In society since her nineteenth year, unmarried all that time, she had rarely flirted, maintaining instead a cool, distant mode. A few persisted with sincere attentions, despite all, but she put them off smoothly. In the intimacy of familiarity lay danger, a lesson Kitty had learned at a tender age. She’d now had her moments of giddy curiosity, but they must cease. She would nip this in the bud.

  Dark eyes partially lowered, he was staring at her without any attempt at concealment.

  “Lord Blackwood, can you not manage to keep your eyes to yourself?”

  Like a big dog, he shook his head slowly, his gaze scanning her from brow to toe once more, this time lingering about her waist. Kitty’s breaths shortened. His brow creased, as though he were perplexed.

  She knew she oughtn’t to ask. “What is it? Have I a smudge on my gown? Why do you look at me in that manner?”

  His eyes shifted upward and a hint of a grin played about his lips.

  “Be there ony manner in which A might look at ye that ye woud approve, lass?”

  Mr. Yale chuckled.

  The earl’s gaze slipped downward again. “’Tis the dress.”

  “My gown?” The finest, thinnest woolen carriage dress she’d ever owned, sewn with tiny beads and embroidered about the collar and wrists, all in the loveliest shade of green imaginable. “What do you mean to say is wrong with this gown?”

  A single dark brow rose. “’Tis a wee bit snug, nae then?”

  Kitty’s cheeks went hot, her palms damp.

  “It fits remarkably well, in fact.” She should turn and walk away. She should not encourage this impertinence. She could not stop looking at his eyes. “What do you know of ladies’ gowns, my lord?”

  He shrugged, a rough, careless gesture.

  “Nothing,” she supplied, “of course.”

  “Maun be the girl in it, than.”

  Kitty got warm—deep and central. He called her a girl. No one had called her a girl in years. She was Katherine Savege, redoubtable spinster, and gossips remarked on it regularly, in parlors and in the columns. They wondered why her brother, the Earl of Savege, had not wed her to one of the few suitors who dared pursue her despite her stained character, no doubt for the dowry attached to her marriage. They questioned why her mother had not insisted on it. And endlessly they speculated: she flouted convention merely to fortify her vanity; she preferred salons and political meetings to the joys of the nursery; she was secret mistress to a great man.

  Only some accusations bit. A nursery was never to be her joy, not according to the doctor Lambert had taken her to see after so many months when she did not conceive, just before he pointed out to her in the park the daughter he had fathered upon a former lover.

  And no married man would ever call her mistress. Watching her mother suffer the indignity of taking second place in her husband’s life after his mistress had assured that.

  She peered at the earl, apparently lazy yet not in fact when one looked carefully. Instead, unnervingly still. Far too still for a man of his supposed habits and character.

  He was wrong. She was not a girl. A woman who had sent a man into exile could not be so called.

  A woman who had used her body for revenge and who had lied—over and over again—to effect that revenge had nothing left of innocence in her.

  “Here she is, mum,” Ned chirped.

  Mrs. Milch set a tray of food on the table. “I found some cheese.” The gray pouches beneath her eyes seemed to lengthen her narrow face when she spoke. “And we’ve got a keg of ale and turnip soup.

  It’s not what the Quality expects.”

  “I am certain it will suit. Mrs. Milch, an uninvited guest has visited my bedchamber. A very small one.”

  “It’s them mice again.” Ned shook his head, snags of hair sticking out at angles. “The cat’s fixing to drop a litter. She’s run off and the snow’s kept her gone. Probably snug and warm at the smithy’s cuddling with half a dozen tiny mites this minute.”

  “Fetch the broom, boy.”

  “Yes, mum.”

  “Gi’ the lad a rest.” Lord Blackwood came to his feet. “He’s dane a loud o’ wirk already the day.

  The dugs’ll rout the vermin.” He gestured and the wolfhounds unfolded themselves from the floor and followed him to the stair.

  “I shoveled a path to the road, mum, and another to the stable,” Ned said. “The gov’nor helped.”

  He looked wistfully at the dogs padding behind Lord Blackwood up the stairs.

  On the landing the earl paused and gestured to Kitty, much as he had to his pets. She had no choice but to follow.

  Four doors let off the corridor, and another smaller door to the attic. She went to hers.

  “Did you really help Ned shovel snow this morning, my lord?”

  “Aye.” He was right behind her, closer than he ought to be. “A man’s got tae busy his hauns whan there’s naught else tae dae.” He was very tall, and were she to allow it he could trap her between him and the door with little effort. Then he might busy his hands quite usefully.

  Good heavens. Errant thoughts run amok.

  “You could have played cards with Mr. Yale.”

  “Nae wi’ a brassic whelp, I wadna.”

  “Brassic?”

  “Pockets tae let.”

  “Ah. I shall remember that if I succumb to his entreaties to play.” Her fingers around the doorknob were slippery. She imagined she could feel the heat of his body along her back.

  “Weel ye open the door, lass,” he said quietly at her shoulder, “or dae ye prefer tae wait on the wee one tae come f
rae beneath it?”

  She sucked in breath and pushed the panel wide. “I suspect the mouse is long gone now.”

  The dogs entered around his legs. The larger one, as high as Kitty’s waist, moved to the hearth, sniffed about in the ashes, and sneezed. The other padded toward the window and set its nose to the ground. Lord Blackwood folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the doorjamb.

  Subtly wiping her damp hands on her skirt, Kitty forced herself to look at him. His attention was fixed on the floor before her feet, his jaw oddly tight.

  He lifted his gaze.

  “I am not afraid of mice.” Her words came too quickly.

  A lengthy silence ensued during which they stared at each other as though gentlemen and ladies who were barely acquainted frequently stared at one another without note.

  “Whit be ye afeared o than, maleddy?”

  “Very little.” Rather, the staccato rhythm of her heart, a condition caused by the proximity of a large, handsome man to her bed. A titled gentleman who spoke like a barbarian and helped little boys shovel snow. A man of such staunch Scottish loyalty that all of society knew him to be still mourning the horrible loss of his beloved bride years ago, engaging in flirtations for brief amusement only, never sincerely.

  But his tragic story had no relevance to Kitty.

  Except one night three years ago, it had. That night when he had looked into her as though he could see her soul and, without a word, seemed to tell her that weakness must no longer rule her, that she was worthy of better. On that night she had finally left her anger at Lambert Poole behind. She had broken free from wicked games.

  She tore her gaze away. “Your dog seems to have found something.” The animal snuffled at the rear of an old wooden chest.

  The earl crossed the chamber and crouched, setting his hand on the beast’s neck. The other dog pressed its head into the space between him and the box. Gently he nudged it aside. His back was wide, shoulder blades pronounced. Pale light slanted over his thighs revealing fine muscle starkly defined by his breeches. Kitty’s breaths shortened. She felt hot. Hot.

  She should flee. This could not be happening to her, this foolishness. This preoccupation. It was irrational when directed at such a man, for every conceivable reason. But his body, his sheer masculine presence…

  As though drawn by a pulley, she moved forward. His coat tugged across his shoulders as he pushed the heavy box at an angle away from the wall. She leaned in closer.

  “Aye. Thar’s the hole.” He stood abruptly, coming toe-to-toe with her. He looked down at her.

  “Best tae shore it up,” he added as though her brow weren’t two inches from his chin.

  She swallowed against the hard pulse in her throat. “I shall ask Mr. Milch for appropriate stuffing.

  Thank you, my lord.” She backed toward the door.

  He moved to her in two strides, took the door in his hand, and pulled it to. Retreat cut off, she backed up against the post. He loomed over her, broad and dark-eyed and staring quite intently. But he said nothing.

  “What are you looking at, my lord?”

  “A’m looking at ye, lass.” His chest was so close that her breasts prickled as though they were aware of the nearness of solid man.

  “Well, you must look from farther away.”

  “Ye told me A may nae.”

  Her throat felt like a desert, her belly quite as fevered but not in the least bit dry. She was honey inside.

  Could this be happening?

  “Clearly you have not taken that to heart.”

  His gaze dipped to her mouth. “Yer looking tae, lass.”

  “I am not.”

  “That’s a wheen o blethers.”

  “I haven’t the foggiest idea what you have just said.”

  “Thin A’ll be showing ye.” His hand came up and around her cheek, warm and strong. Kitty’s breath petered to a wisp. His fingertips slipped into her hair at the base of her head, his palm shaping to her skin. Slowly, so slowly, the pad of his thumb caressed her lower lip.

  She sighed. Nothing could halt it, nor the catch in her throat as he bent his head. She tilted hers back.

  “I shall find this quite easy to resist.” Her voice was nearly even despite the careening of her heart and the liquid state of her knees. She had repulsed men in similar circumstances before. Many times.

  She knew how to do this, even so far removed from civilization in the wild abandonment of a country snowstorm. The wild abandonment of her scruples proved another sort of challenge.

  “Will ye?” He spoke just over her mouth, his breath warm like his touch. She sensed no expensive cologne of a gentleman but snow and fresh pine and leather.

  “I daresay.” Her lashes fluttered, every nerve in her body focused on the sweet, slow stroking of his thumb. She fought not to turn her mouth into his palm, to feel his skin fully across her lips. “But I suppose you are not accustomed to that—ladies resisting your rustic charms?”

  His mouth curved. “Nae aften.” His rich eyes were alight. “Ye were looking.”

  “You—” The word came forth as a rasp. She cleared her throat. “You would like to believe that, wouldn’t you?”

  His gaze scanned her face, then her neck and hair. She felt the caress of that perusal and the touch of his hand to the soles of her feet. He looked into her eyes again. His grin faded.

  “Aye.” His voice was low. “A woud.”

  “Then I beg your pardon for the disappointment.” She must not allow her words to tremble as her insides did. She would not betray her foolishness. She was Lady Katherine Savege, coolheaded spinster and ruiner of titled men. She could not be moved, although quite obviously that was a wheen o blethers. “Now, my lord, your task here is finished and you may go away.”

  His hand slipped from her face and he backed off and Kitty found herself draped against a doorframe, loose-jointed and breathless, like a woman aching to be kissed.

  He swung the door open. Emily stood in the aperture.

  “I have come to borrow that tract on eastern trade, Kitty. Ned told me about the mouse. Have you found it?” She looked between them at the wolfhounds.

  Kitty untangled her tongue with some difficulty. “Lord Blackwood’s dog discovered a hole in the floor, which shall be mended shortly.” She smoothed her palms over her skirt. “Thank you for your assistance, my lord.”

  “Maleddy.” He nodded and moved into the corridor toward the stair. The two great beasts lumbered after.

  “Kitty?” Emily looked after the earl. “What were you and Lord Blackwood doing in here with the door nearly closed?”

  “Nothing at all.” And yet not one iota of her pounding blood and quivering insides believed that.

  Leam scrubbed a palm over his face, considering the snow and the great good it might do him poured into his breeches. Her skin was soft as silk, her eyes lustrous, her generous mouth a pure fantasy. A man need only catch a glimpse of her pink tongue to imagine a great deal he oughtn’t to be imagining about a woman of her caliber. Imagining what her tongue could do to him and precisely where.

  He hefted the shovel, an unhandy tool intended for manure, but it must do.

  The moment he had touched her skin, and her eyes shaded with longing, he realized his mistake again. Je reconnus Vénus et ses feux redoutables . He recognized Venus and her dangerous fire. Very well indeed.

  He had gone to her chamber to touch her. For no other reason than that.

  She was not afraid of mice. Not afraid of mice. Not afraid of anything, Lady Katherine Savege.

  Very little, she had said.

  Then fear the madman who must ply the shovel through thigh-high snow to drive the sensation of a woman’s skin from his hands.

  On the other side of the stable Hermes let out a yowl, echoed by the donkey inside. The snow fell lightly now and Bella’s shadowy shape came into view around the corner of the building. Haunches bunched, head high, she barked.

  Setting the shovel aside, Lea
m moved toward her. The drifts grabbed at his legs but he trudged the distance swiftly. He needed activity and Bella never alerted him lightly. She waited for him, then flanked him around the corner of the building. Her pup, already larger by a stone, leaped about a depression in the snow.

  Leam slipped the knife from his sleeve.

  The trough was roughly the size of a man’s prone body, half-filled and covered by several inches of new snow, with foot holes moving from it and a hoofmarks as well. He cast a glance at the scrubby trees flanking the Tern, sparse, gray with white sleeves, shifting forlornly in the wind. Nowhere to hide in there, but the tracks were lost in any case.

  He slid the knife back into place. Bella nudged his arm. In thanks he ran his hand around her ears, but she bumped her long muzzle against his chin.

  “What is it?”

  She pawed at the edge of the depression. Leam pushed the snow aside, his breath frosting in damp clouds. Buried beneath was a brown clump of fabric. He shook it out. A man’s muffler made of fine cashmere.

  Cashmere did not come cheap. If this was the man who pursued Leam he was not, it seemed, a hired sniper, unless he was exceptionally good at his trade and demanded much for his services. But the fellow had had plenty of opportunities to attack, if not in London, then on the road from Bristol and even this morning.

  Beneath the muffler, tucked in the snow, were a handful of coins and a broken chain of thick gold links. The man had dropped them, apparently when he’d fallen, perhaps off his horse, or perhaps simply due to the driving wind and blinding snow. But he hadn’t come to the inn only a few yards away.

  He plucked the objects out of the packed ice and pocketed them, then straightened and pushed through the snow to the stable door. Inside all was crisply cool and scented of straw and horse. Hermes went straight to the Welshman lying on his back across a bench, a bottle propped in one hand.

  Passing the somnolent carriage horses and squat ass, Leam moved toward his horse’s stall.

  “Knitting the ravelled sleeve of care?”

  “I’ve no care. However, I do have whiskey.” Yale’s voice was heavy. “Care for a drop?”

  “I am being followed.”

  Yale squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. “How do you know it isn’t I who is followed?”