Never Tempt a Scot

by Lauren Smith

  “I was a fair bit younger, and he was strong. All of us felt his wrath at one point or another, but Aiden bore the worst. He was the smallest, aside from our sister, Rosalind. We all took as many beatings as we could to protect her. I managed to escape most days, but not Brock and Aiden. They wouldna leave Rosalind.” He looked down at his feet. “I was a coward.”

  “Surviving doesn’t make you a coward, Brodie.”

  Brodie dragged a hand through his hair and looked at her. “You called me Brodie.”

  “Yes, I shouldn’t have, Mr. Kin”

  “No,” he said, cutting her off. “You must call me Brodie. I insist.” He fixed her with a possessive stare.

  “Really, I cannot”

  “You can and will. You have shared my bed, and you belong to me. You will call me Brodie.” There was a warning in his tone that she was not foolish enough to ignore.

  “Very well . . . Brodie.”

  “Now, ’tis time to bathe. I’ll have them bring the bathwater up.” He left the bed, and Lydia covered her eyes. Well, she tried to. It was hard not to at least risk a peek at him. She parted her fingers and stared at his mostly naked body. His legs were thick and muscled, but also long enough with his great height to look perfectly proportioned.

  She knew some men would actually put sawdust or other fillers in their stockings to make their calves bigger. In fact, at a ball once she’d seen an older man who had stuffed his stockings in such a way. She only learned this because the sawdust had come loose onto the floor around him as he walked, and it had become obvious to everyone what he had done. Lydia had helped conceal his legs with her skirts while she escorted him to one of the withdrawing rooms, where he had a chance to fix his appearance. But the gentleman had been so embarrassed that he had decided to go home.

  Brodie interrupted her thoughts. “What are you thinking about?” He’d put on a pair of buckskin trousers and his dressing gown.

  “Oh, it’s nothing.”

  He raised a brow but didn’t demand any answers. He left the room, and she took a moment to search her own luggage for a dressing gown. Thankfully, Portia had thought of that—or more likely, her maid had.

  Poor Phyllis. She must be so afraid. Mr. Annis would have told the entire household what had happened by now. She couldn’t help but wonder what her father had done in response. Had he gone to the local magistrate? Had he pursued her himself? She hoped so, but what if he caught up to them and challenged Brodie to a duel? He might die. The thought made her sick, and she bent over, trying to quell the sudden unease of her stomach.

  The door to their room opened, and Brodie returned, followed by a pretty young maid, who set a tray down on the table in the center of the room. “A bit of breakfast, miss?”

  Lydia wasn’t exactly hungry now, but the buttered toast and muffins did look good. Brodie watched her take one and nibble on it. The maid soon returned with a fresh pot of tea, and after an admiring look at Brodie, she left them alone.

  Brodie nodded at the tray. “Eat.”

  “I am.” Lydia held up the half-eaten muffin.

  “Eat more. You’re too thin, lass. A man likes a bit to hold on to when he makes love.”

  Lydia frowned at him, then at the muffin she was just starting to enjoy. Her temper, which so rarely flared, now erupted. She threw the muffin straight at his head. Unlike her punches, she was a far better thrower, and he caught the muffin right in the face.

  “You shouldna do that, lass. I have a temper to match your own,” he warned as he wiped crumbs off his cheek.

  “Don’t say such things! You keep reminding me that I am some common woman for you to use.”

  Brodie’s eyes twinkled. “You’re wrong, lass. I wouldna treat a common woman this way.”

  “So you admit to treating me worse?”

  “No,” he said and stomped over to her. His bare chest was visible as his dressing gown was open.

  “Then what?” she demanded. “What am I to you?”

  “You asked to be treated like my mistress. Well, a man cares for his mistress. He treats her well, clothes her, feeds her, makes love to her when he bloody well wants to, and she doesna get upset when he teases her.”

  “If this is your idea of teasing, you are a cold and heartless monster.”

  Brodie’s eyes widened momentarily and then narrowed. “Cold and heartless, am I? You dinna know what you are saying. I am neither.”

  He grabbed her roughly and hauled her to him, slanting his mouth over hers, possessive and angry as he claimed what was his.

  “I am a man who treats his woman with respect and affection,” he said silkily in that rich Scottish brogue. “He kisses away her anger and reminds her that he cares for her and her pleasure.”

  Somehow when he said this, it held less of a threat and more of a gentle promise that made her heart race. As much as she hated him for kidnapping her, she didn’t want to fight him. And as much as she hated herself for admitting it, she enjoyed these moments of heated passion. She was beginning to wonder if she had tried to anger him just to make him do this.

  He carried Lydia to the nearest chair and sat her down upon his lap so he could continue to kiss her at his own leisurely pace. Brodie lifted a hand to her face, gently pressing at the corners of her mouth, and she opened her lips at his gentle but firm demand. The sinful, wicked way that his tongue plunged in between her lips and the way he played with her body left her breathless and excited.

  He stroked his fingertips along her neck and rested his forehead against hers as they caught their breath. Lydia put a hand to his chest beneath the dressing gown, not to push him away but to simply touch him. His skin was warm and hard, yet smooth to the touch. Brodie Kincade was a hot-blooded specimen of a man. As terrible as her situation was, she had to admit that she was glad she would learn the pleasures of the bedroom with this man and not someone she wasn’t attracted to.

  “Better now, lass?” he asked in a soft, intimate tone.

  “Yes.” She couldn’t leave, not when she could feel his heart beating so steady and firm beneath her palm. “I do wish you would just ask to kiss me,” she mumbled. Although she was, against her own good sense, starting to like when he stole kisses from her like this.

  “Good.” He let her up off his lap.

  She was still recovering herself when there was a knock at the door. Brodie called for whoever it was to enter. A trio of boys came in, each with big wooden buckets of steaming water. They poured them into the copper tub in one corner of the room. After two more trips the tub was full enough, and Brodie nodded at her.

  He sat down at the table to eat with his back to her. “Time to bathe.”

  “I don’t suppose it’s worth asking you to afford me some small measure of privacy?”

  “No. I will keep my back turned. That’s all you get, Lydia.” He caressed her name in a way that sounded far too scandalous.

  She stood there a full minute before he spoke again. “Better hurry or the water will go cold,” he warned.

  Stripping out of her dressing gown and chemise, she climbed into the tub and sighed as the hot water enveloped her. She wanted to stay longer, but Brodie’s presence made her far too self-conscious to do more than the essentials. She washed her hair using a bit of rosewater and then stepped out and wrapped herself in a large clean cloth. She then searched her luggage for a fresh chemise and thankfully found one. Only when she was safely in her dressing gown again did she face Brodie. He still had his back to her.

  “Finished?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good, ’Tis my turn now.” He stood and removed his dressing gown. Before she realized what was happening, he had removed his smallclothes and was striding toward the tub completely naked.

  “Mr. Kincade!” she gasped.

  “I respected your modesty, but I never claimed to have any of my own to be concerned about.”

  She knew she had to turn away but was still too stunned to do so, seeing first his front and then
his backside.

  “Paint a picture, lass, if you wish to gaze upon me longer,” he chuckled. “Or you can join me. The tub is large enough.”

  Lydia turned away, aroused in a way that only added to her mortification. “No, I think not.”

  She kept her back turned and listened to him splashing about. Even that was enough to give her plenty of fantasies, however. She busied herself, or at least tried to, by focusing on what she would wear. Without a lady’s maid to assist her, it was rather difficult to decide. Perhaps she could have one of the maids who worked at the inn to assist her. She would need some help, at any rate, especially with her hair.

  She heard the water splash again as Brodie exited the bathtub, but she didn’t dare risk turning around. “Better ring for a maid,” he advised. “And have my valet come and attend me as soon as you are dressed.”

  Lydia shuffled over to the cord with her back to Brodie at all times and pulled it. A nice young woman answered the call. It was the girl who’d brought them breakfast.

  “Yes, miss?”

  “Would you mind helping me dress?” she asked, thinking quickly. “My maid has been delayed on another coach.”

  “Of course.” The girl came into the room but froze.

  Unable to contain her curiosity any longer, Lydia turned and saw Brodie seated in the chair wearing only his dressing gown. His dark hair was wet and curling at the ends, which only made Lydia’s heart race.

  “Please, don’t mind him,” she told the girl. “He’s only my”

  “Husband,” Brodie replied. “Forgive us if we are enjoying our honeymoon a bit too much.”

  Lydia couldn’t believe him. Why had he said they were married? Did he actually care about her reputation, despite all his statements to the contrary?

  “Oh, never, sir. You make a lovely couple. I’m sure your children will be beautiful,” the girl said, her cheeks a dark red as she assisted Lydia into a bright bishop’s-blue day gown. The hem of the skirt and her bodice had been embroidered with red swallows. It was not a fancy gown, but it made her hair and skin shine more. After she took a moment to style Lydia’s hair, the maid quickly curtsied and left.

  “Why did you do it?” Lydia demanded as she whirled to face Brodie.

  “Do what?”

  “Call yourself my husband?”

  Brodie sauntered up to her, placing his palms on her shoulders and peering down at her. “I suppose that’s a fair question.” He tilted his head to one side. “Maybe I don’t wish for the innkeeper to think you are a lightskirt and toss us both out. It is better to appear as though all is proper between us, you ken.”

  Lydia couldn’t deny his words had a ring of truth to them.

  “Well . . . That does make sense,” she agreed.

  “And ’tis easy enough to say we are married when we aren’t,” he added with a wink. “Now, you do look bonnie, lass. Will you run and fetch Alan for me?”

  “But”

  “Go on, he’s only three doors down to the left. I would go, but I think I might cause a scandal.” He waved at his obvious state of dishabille.

  “I thought you said you had no modesty to worry about.”

  “I don’t. I’m only concerned about yours.”

  Lydia smiled. “Very well.” She left the room and walked down the hall. She froze at the sounds of a man grunting and a woman gasping coming from a few doors down. As soon as it registered what must be going on inside, she blushed. It was the middle of the morning. She’d always thought such things were to be done only at night under darkness and with the protection of bedclothes. At least, that’s what she’d been told by Cornelia when she’d gone out for her first season. She could still hear the woman’s lecture now.

  “You must never be alone with a man, even one who seems kind. You must never go walking with a man . . . riding with a man . . .”

  Essentially, Cornelia’s advice was to do nothing with a man until she was married. And after she was married: “Never lie with a man without your nightdress on, or let him take you to bed before nightfall. And you must never let him see you bare-skinned.”

  The list had been almost endless. Portia had tittered at all this, but Lydia had wanted to believe her aunt. She was starting to wonder if Aunt Cornelia might know far less about men—and even women—than she claimed she did. Lydia reached the door Brodie had indicated and knocked.

  Alan, Brodie’s valet, answered the door. The young man looked startled as he realized who had disturbed him and Rafe’s valet in the midst of polishing boots for their masters.

  “Good morning, Alan. Mr. Kincade has need of you, when you have a moment.”

  Alan nodded. “Of course, miss. Thank you.” He closed the door behind him and headed for his master’s room. Lydia lingered outside the door to give Brodie the privacy he had denied her. The energetic sounds from the other room had stopped, and Lydia wondered what was going on now. The door suddenly opened, and she leapt back. The young maid who had helped her dress that morning exited the room, fixing her hair and skirts.

  “Oh, pardon me, miss.” She blushed as Lydia stared at her. The girl muttered something about tea before she rushed away, leaving the door wide open. Rafe Lennox lounged in a chair by a small table in the middle of the room, grinning at Lydia.

  “Morning, kitten. Did the mean old Scot toss you out?” He rose from the chair and waved for her to come inside.

  “I don’t think I should,” Lydia said. If he had just made love to that maid, he might want another to take her place, and she certainly did not want that.

  “I won’t bite, kitten. I’ve had enough pleasure for a few hours. I promise on what little honor I have left that I won’t touch you.”

  Lydia was still hesitant when she entered the room, so she left the door open.

  “By all means, leave yourself an escape route. I will not stop you. Besides, Brodie seems quite possessive of you. We’ve shared women before, but he won’t share you.”

  Lydia wasn’t sure what shocked her more, his mention of sharing women or hearing that Brodie would refuse to do so with her.

  “He won’t even let me ride in the coach that often, and certainly not alone with you. You honestly think I want to stay on horseback for hours at a time or ride on that bloody top seat with the servants? Christ.” He grinned. “And then I miss all the fun of him raging at you when he won’t see the truth sitting in front of his face.”

  Lydia’s heart sped up as she wondered what he was talking about. “What truth?”

  “Who you are, of course. You see, I was not nearly so foxed as he was the night of the ball. I remember the little chit who introduced herself, and it certainly wasn’t you. You are not Portia Hunt, but Lydia—friend to my sister, Joanna.” He was chuckling now. “Kincade kidnapped the wrong sister. How bloody marvelous.”

  11

  Brodie paused with his hand inches from Rafe’s door. He heard voices inside. Moments ago, he’d finished dressing and had gone looking for his wayward abductee, but having seen his friend’s door ajar, he’d wanted to see what the man was doing. Then he recognized Lydia’s voice inside. For a moment he was stirred to panic and even rage. Was his friend trying to seduce Lydia? Or was Lydia in fact the seducer? Either scenario seemed possible.

  He’d already come to the conclusion that his little beauty, his secret dancer, was not all that she seemed, but what had made her seek Rafe out rather than Brodie? Perhaps she intended to manipulate Rafe now that she realized her tricks did not work on Brodie.

  He scowled as he fought to contain his temper, the temper that haunted him like a curse. But it wasn’t only anger that churned within his gut. He felt . . . betrayed. Betrayed by both his friend and Lydia.

  Brodie took a deep breath, trying to rationalize his overreactions, as Brock had always tried to teach him to do. He wasn’t a brute, no matter how much Lydia insisted he was. Yes, his temper could be a fierce thing, but he would never direct it at her in a physical manner.

  Rafe, howev
er, was another matter. Damned if he didn’t want to throttle Rafe at this moment. He took a step closer, leaning in to better hear their voices and to figure out just what he’d stumbled upon. If he didn’t like what he heard, he’d barge into the room and deal with it.

  “And then I miss all the fun of him raging at you when he can’t see the truth sitting in front of his face.” Rafe laughed.

  “What truth?” Lydia asked in an angry voice. That made Brodie almost pleased. His little captive certainly wasn’t happy with Rafe.

  “Who you are, of course. You see, I was not nearly so foxed as he was the night of the ball. I remember who the chit was who introduced herself, and it certainly wasn’t you. You are not Portia Hunt, but Lydia—friend to my sister, Joanna.” Another laugh escaped Rafe. “Kincade kidnapped the wrong sister. How bloody marvelous.”

  Brodie’s heart stopped. That couldn’t be true. If it was, it made him a blackguard of the worst kind. It meant he’d kidnapped an innocent woman and held a knife to her throat, and . . . she’d been telling the truth all along. All of his actions toward Lydia had hinged upon his belief in her guilt, and now he was the guilty one. He was a monster. He was no better than his father.

  “I tried to tell him that, but he won’t listen.” She sounded frustrated, almost to the point of shouting—or perhaps crying with rage.

  “Of course not, kitten. He’s a Scot. Stubborn and tempestuous is their nature. It cannot be helped.” Rafe’s tone was conciliatory, as if he completely understood Lydia’s anger and frustration.

  “Why didn’t you tell him?” Lydia pleaded. “He would listen if you were to tell him the truth. I tried to free him, and he has ruined me forever. Please, convince him to send me home.”

  Brodie winced as the truth sank in like a pugilist’s left hook to his head. She had been telling the truth. She was Lydia, and Lydia was the elder sister, innocent of the other sister’s acts. She had been trying to save him from the start, and all he’d done was abduct her at knifepoint, abuse her tender sensibilities with his temper, and force his attentions on her more than once.