Never Kiss a Scot

by Lauren Smith

  The memory of Brock’s mouth on hers, the mingling of their breath in the quiet darkness of the coach and feel of his large, strong hands touching her hips sent a swift, powerful flood of heat through her from head to toe. She wanted that, the wild fluttering excitement and the following heady, dizzying feeling of being in a man’s arms, but not just any man. She wanted Brock. She had to admit that to herself, even if nothing came of it. But could it? Had he truly been serious about proposing to her? Could she trust him, or had it been a ploy to woo her so he might bed her and look for another lady on the morrow to sate his lusts?

  No…she didn’t think so. There had been a note of honesty in his gaze that seemed to tell her the proposal had indeed been real, if perhaps unplanned.

  Two days. She had two days to decide what she wished to do.

  Joanna abandoned her quest for a book, knowing that she would never have a chance to read now. She would spend all night running through every possible decision she could make about her life and her future. She blew out her candle, watching the smoke curl up from the blackened wick in ghostly tendrils. Then she headed up to her bedchamber with thoughts of Brock in her mind and the touch of his lips over hers.

  She knew it was going to be a very long night.

  5

  Brock woke late, the sun pouring through the sash windows of his bedchamber. He rather liked the multipaned glass of the windows. They were commonplace in England, but not back home. He blinked, bleary-eyed, as he remembered he was not in Scotland. He was in England for Rosalind’s wedding. He winced as he remembered last night at the ball. Joanna. She’d slapped him, and then he’d tossed her into a coach and almost brought her here to this residence.

  If Rosalind ever found out what he had tried to do, she would toss him and his brothers out on their ears. She had helped him and their two younger brothers, Brodie and Aiden, secure this townhouse. She called it decent. He called it extravagant. It would indeed have been a fine place to bring Joanna last night, but alas, he’d decided against compromising her to get what he wanted—her as his wife.

  Brock lay still, staring up at the dark green brocade canopy of the expensive bed he’d slept in. The furnishings were new and fashionable, the house was well staffed, and the rooms were large and warm. It wasn’t what he was used to at all. Although Castle Kincade was vast, he only lived in a small portion of it, and what furniture they had left wasn’t in decent condition. The thought made him wince.

  Brock sat up, noticing he had foolishly dragged a handful of blankets to bed, expecting drafts, only to have kicked the blankets to the floor in the middle of the night when he’d gotten too hot. Last night had been positively stifling. Bloody English weather.

  This house on Finchley Street wasn’t home. It was more comfortable, cleaner, less crumbly, but it wasn’t home. Brock slipped out of bed and walked over to the washbasin on his dresser. He splashed cold water over his face and brushed his knuckles along his jaw, feeling how rough his beard was, or at least the scruff that had grown overnight. There was enough to scrape his skin. That wouldn’t do.

  He had every intention of trapping and kissing Joanna Lennox in some corner today, and he wanted his skin as smooth as a bairn’s bottom in case he had a chance to steal another kiss. If he didn’t shave, she’d have a redness about her cheeks that would give away the fact that he’d been kissing her. The last thing he needed was to get in another fight with Lennox before Rosalind’s wedding. His sister would never forgive him.

  He unfolded the leather wrap on the dresser, revealing his pot of shaving cream, brush, and razor. Then he set about the task of shaving. He was only two strokes in when his bedchamber door burst open and Brodie rushed inside, grinning.

  “Ach, good, you’re up, man. I feared you’d sleep the day away.”

  Brock, razor still frozen against his skin, was never more glad that being the eldest had trained him not to startle easily. He hadn’t cut himself.

  “Brodie, you know they make doors for a reason—so younger brothers knock. What if I hadna been alone?”

  His brother chuckled, his grayish-blue eyes glinting. “But you are alone. No doubt you were mooning over that wee Joanna all night.”

  “I dinna moon,” Brock growled, narrowing his eyes as his brother walked over to the bed and sat on the edge, looking far too smug for his own good.

  “Aye, you do.” Brodie crossed his arms over his chest. “Oooh, Joanna, sweet pretty Joanna,” he mocked in a silly, high-pitched voice.

  Brock met his brother’s gaze in the reflection in the mirror behind him as he continued to shave.

  “It is not wise to mock a man armed with a blade, brother.”

  Brodie chuckled, ignoring the threat. “Well? Did you catch up with her?”

  “Who?” Brock moved his razor to the other side of his face, the side that Joanna had slapped—quite hard, in fact. He rather liked that she was a strong lass, but he wanted to give her no cause to strike him a second time. Although he admitted he deserved it the first time.

  “Joanna!” Brodie exclaimed in exasperation. “Lord, are you even listening to me? I saw you run after her when she fled the ball. Everyone was talking about it. You danced with her too much, it seems. Apparently, the English think that’s scandalous.” Brodie smirked, and Brock knew that smile all too well. Whatever Brodie thought was scandalous would be disastrous for a normal man or woman.

  He hadn’t danced with her enough, but once they were married he would remedy that. He would dance with her every night if he had the chance.

  “So…did you catch her?” Brodie persisted.

  Brock finished shaving his throat and nodded. “Aye, we had a wee talk, but she is still upset about our first meeting.”

  His brother grinned again. “When you kissed her and left her trussed up? I can’t imagine any reason why a gentle lady would still be upset.” Brodie’s amused sarcasm made Brock’s temper flare.

  “What do you want, Brodie? If it’s to needle me all day, you must have better things to do.”

  “We have tea at Lennox’s house. You’d better dress and be ready in an hour.” Brodie got off the bed and left Brock alone to scowl as he wiped his face clean.

  Tea at Lennox’s house. T’would be heaven and hell as he tried to mend the tenuous trust he and Lennox had been building, and most importantly, it was an opportunity to see Joanna again. This brought a smile to his lips, then a frown. Lennox would be there, no doubt keeping an eye on him and making plans to keep Joanna far away. Brock had every intention of doing something about that.

  Brock finished dressing alone, much to the dismay of the valet his sister had provided for him. He’d grown used to existing with a small staff at Castle Kincade. They had only a cook, a steward, two footmen, one maid, a groom, and a coach driver. It was enough for a townhouse, but not an ancient castle. But once he married Joanna, if she was agreeable to it, he would like to hire more staff.

  He fetched his hat and coat and left his bedchamber. Brodie had gone ahead it seemed, but Aiden was waiting for him in the hall by the front door. Aiden was the youngest, and he was both quieter and less boisterous than Brodie. He had suffered most at the hands of their abusive father, and with the man only recently in his grave, Aiden was still quiet—not quite sullen, but more melancholic.

  Brock did his best to cheer his brother up when he could, but Aiden preferred to be left alone. Only the company of the wild animals he rescued drew his focus these days. Brock often wondered if Aiden’s obsession with the beasties was out of some belief that he could save creatures as no one had been able to save him. The thought left Brock with a dull ache in his chest. Once he had Joanna as his wife, he’d turn his attention to Aiden, and see if he couldn’t lift his brother’s spirits.

  “Ready for tea?” Brock asked.

  Aiden shrugged. “Tea is tea, isn’t it? But I will be happy to see our sister.”

  They climbed into the coach after giving the driver instructions to Lennox’s townhouse. When
they arrived, Brock was surprised to see dozens of other coaches lined up along the street and at least a dozen people walking toward Lennox’s front door.

  “Is the man having tea or holding court?” Brodie joked as he met them at the door, but no one laughed.

  Aiden shrank back, and Brock gently nudged him in the back.

  “It will be fine. You can go inside, greet Rosalind, and then go into the gardens. Fewer people are likely to be there.”

  Aiden squared his shoulders and nodded. They followed the crowd to the door and filed in behind several ladies in fine colorful tea gowns. Aiden blushed as one of the young ladies glanced back at him and smiled, then whispered something to her friends, and they broke out in barely hushed giggles.

  “Come on.” Brock ushered Aiden past the ladies who lingered in the entryway, still smiling at his little brother.

  “There are so many,” Aiden muttered. “Just like last night. They make me nervous.”

  “Women have a way of doing that, no matter where you are,” Brock said with a chuckle. He and Brodie were more used to women’s ways as they both spent much time in Edinburgh, but Aiden avoided society, preferring the rocks, hills, trees, and animals as his way to commune with nature.

  “Brock!” Rosalind came sweeping down the stairs, looking radiant in a bright-orange gown with a teal-blue sash that made her appear like a colorful songbird. He caught her up, swinging her around in his arms before he set her down so she could embrace Aiden. Her wide smile was full of joy, and Brock’s own heart was bursting at the sight of his little sister’s happiness. If Lennox made her feel this way, he couldn’t be that bad of a fellow. But that didn’t mean he completely trusted the man.

  “Aiden, the Duchess of Essex is in the garden with her foxhound, Penelope. Would you mind offering her some advice on training her dog?”

  “I’d be happy to.” Aiden’s open relief was obvious as he rushed off toward the back gardens. Rosalind watched him go and then turned back to Brock.

  “How is he?” she asked, her tone softening so as not to be overheard by any of the guests nearby.

  “No worse. No better,” Brock admitted. “Father left wounds on all of us—his are deeper than ours.”

  Rosalind bit her lip. The joy he had seen moments earlier began to wane.

  Brock scanned the crowd. “So, where’s Lennox?”

  “The dining room. We had so many guests we had to have the tea service set up there. His friends are already here.”

  Lennox’s friends? Brock wanted to groan. The papers called them the League of Rogues, and that they were. Bloody meddling Sassenachs. He’d met a few of them a few years back in a pub outside of Edinburgh. That encounter had cost both sides some coin to repair the broken furniture from the brawl. The memory brought a sudden, unexpected smile to his face. It had been a good fight.

  “If you break even one chair…” his sister warned.

  Brock raised his hands in mock surrender. “I swear to be on my best behavior.”

  “Speaking of behavior.” Rosalind’s gray-blue eyes sparked a fire. “What were you thinking last night? Joanna has been desperately trying to find a husband. After what you did, I worry that she has no hope.”

  “Good,” Brock said, and almost laughed at the look of incredulity on Rosalind’s face.

  “Good? Why pray tell is that good?” she hissed. “Joanna is a sweet woman and one of my dear friends. I don’t want you hurting her.”

  “’Tis good because I intend to marry the lass.” He grinned when his sister’s mouth opened but no words came out. She blinked several times, and then without warning, she punched him hard in the shoulder.

  “Ow!” he snapped, surprised that the blow actually stung.

  “Brock Angus Kincade, you had best be teasing me.”

  “I am not.” He sobered. “She’s everything I want in a wife, and ’tis time I married. What’s wrong with that?”

  “But…” Rosalind continued to stare at him. “Do you even know her? I mean, truly? Her favorite color, her favorite flower, what she likes to do for enjoyment?”

  He didn’t, and as he realized this, he frowned. He wanted to know all of those things.

  “I will find out,” he promised Rosalind.

  “You cannot go up to her and simply ask. You must let it flow naturally.”

  Brock scowled at his sister. “How about that woman you mentioned, the duchess? I heard her courtship was far from natural.”

  “Yes, well, that’s different.”

  “And I seem to recall that your courtship with Lennox did not flow naturally.”

  Rosalind’s cheeks turned a fiery red. “Yes, well, things were different with Ashton and me. We always had…” She struggled for a word. “A spark, a fire that burned hot between us. Learning about each other came after.”

  “’Tis the same for Joanna and me,” Brock said, thinking of how when he held the woman in his arms there was so much more than a simple spark between them. It was an uncontrollable blaze.

  “Brock.” Rosalind caught his arm, her face earnest, her brows drawn together. “You must take care, especially with Joanna. She is Ash’s youngest sister and my friend. I don’t want to see her hurt.”

  “You are my sister, and Lennox took you.”

  “Is that what this is? Revenge for marrying Ashton?”

  “Of course not.” He bristled like an irate badger. “I’m merely pointing out that Lennox has made you happy, and I’m willing to let him marry you. Why canna you do the same for me?”

  Rosalind’s eyes brightened. “Do you love her? She needs love, Brock. She’s like me—she wants to be loved, madly, wildly. I remembered that you always said you would never love, because love would make you vulnerable. But Father is dead. He cannot reach us from the grave. You must be able to love her.”

  Brock’s throat tightened. He didn’t want to lie to Rosalind, didn’t want to say he would love Joanna. He would care for her—he already did, in his own way—but love? He could not promise that because he did not know if he was capable of it anymore. Certainly not the kind of love Joanna no doubt read of in her Gothic novels. Love was not something that made you swoon and sigh. Love destroyed a person. It burned away at them inside until disappointments robbed them of their last gasping breath. Just as it had killed his mother.

  I won’t let that happen to me. I will never allow myself to love anyone like that.

  “I will care for her, Rosalind.” It was all he could say. His sister frowned in a way that reminded him with a stab of pain of their beloved mother. She’d always been able to sense when he wasn’t being truthful, and she would make exactly that same expression Rosalind was making now.

  “Brock…” she said again, worry in her tone. Before she could speak further, Regina Lennox called Rosalind’s name, waving her over to a twittering crowd of ladies who were gathered around Brodie.

  He was grinning devilishly, no doubt regaling the ladies with some scandalous tale or another. Brodie had never met a woman he didn’t like. While Aiden preferred animals to people, and Brock had a stone wall around his heart, Brodie’s way of dealing with their abusive father had left him hungry to be loved by all without truly loving anyone in return. If Brodie wasn’t careful, he’d find himself at the end of a dueling pistol before long.

  The moment Rosalind left him alone, Brock skirted around the groups of guests, his eyes seeking only one face within the crowd. He chanced running into Lennox and his friends by opening the door to the dining room. Several gentlemen, Lennox included, milled about a sideboard table, filling teacups. Brock stifled a snort. The small blue-and-white patterned cups in their hands looked ridiculous. Tea was fine enough, but Brock wouldn’t be caught drinking from so dainty a cup, at least not here. He began to withdraw from the room after failing to spot Joanna, but someone called his name.

  “Ah, Kincade,” the Earl of Lonsdale said, humor glinting in the man’s gray eyes. “If you feel the urge to smash some furniture, try to use the ch
airs in the kitchen. Lennox doesn’t like them, and you’d be doing him a favor, old boy.” The men all chuckled. Lonsdale crossed his arms over his chest, smirking in open challenge.

  Poor bastard thinks he can rile me in front of the guests.

  “As I recall, it was you who broke a chair…over my back, and it didna do much to stop me. In fact, I thought a barmaid had swatted me with a wet cloth until I turned around and saw it was you. I didna think the English were so weak, but…alas…” He trailed off, leaving the mild insult to fester in the air.

  Lonsdale’s grin faltered, and he glanced at his friends as though hoping one of them would defend him.

  “Well, given what I’ve seen of barmaids in Scotland, that’s a compliment, Charles. Some of those wenches look strong enough to toss a caber.” The Duke of Essex snorted into his teacup.

  Completely unperturbed, Brock chuckled. “Aye, our women have to be in order to serve us. I dinna have a problem with a strong lass. ’Tis your dainty English lassies I canna make sense of.” If that didn’t put any man off the scent of his plans for Joanna, he would be shocked.

  “Kincade, come join us,” Lennox offered, putting the barbed comments to an end. He nodded toward a teacup that had yet to be claimed on the sideboard.

  “I thank you, but I’m afraid I’m looking for someone.” Lennox’s eyes narrowed, and Brock was hasty to add, “Aiden, my brother.” Brock had no compunction about lying to Lennox.

  “Ah…” Lennox’s hawkish expression lightened. “He’s outside in the gardens.”

  “Thank you.” Brock left Lennox and the others to their tea and slipped back in the corridor again. He feared he would have to search the entire house to find Joanna. Just then, he saw a flutter of green fabric disappear into a room at the end of the corridor. He pursued the flash of color, opening the door a few moments later.