A Scot to the Heart

by Caroline Linden

  “I never knew lovemaking could be so playful,” she gasped without thinking.

  He raised his head. “No?”

  She covered her eyes, mortified. “Forget I said that.”

  “I don’t think I can,” he said after a moment. “I think I shall reflect upon it with enormous pride and happiness. No man could be more flattered.”

  She swatted his shoulder, and his chest rumbled with laughter. Helplessly she smiled.

  “I gather Mr. Ramsay took a more prosaic approach to the matter?”

  She nodded. Malcolm had kept a mistress. She supposed he enjoyed making love to that woman more. “’Twas a duty, for an heir.”

  That sobered him. His hands stopped on her. “Ilsa . . . if there’s a child from this night—”

  “Oh!” She blushed. “I doubt it. I was married six years without conceiving.”

  “Unlikelier things have happened,” he said. “And if it did, I would do right by you and the bairn.”

  Ilsa went still. He was meant for someone else and she knew it. She didn’t believe a child would happen, but it touched her that he would promise that. “Would you?” she murmured, thinking that most men in his position wouldn’t. They would wait for the wealthy, well-born English bride.

  “Of course I would.” He kissed her and pulled her close. “Happily, I might add, for it would lead to more of this . . .” His fingers tickled down her ribs, making her twist and laugh again, the moment of dark thoughts fading away.

  That was the moment Ilsa realized what was happening to her. His company exhilarated her. His kisses made her burn. His lovemaking made her feel like that hawk, soaring free into the night sky, and for a moment she wished with every fiber in her being that she could be in his bed every night, making love to him every night, and she suspected he wanted the same thing . . .

  She was falling in love with him, and it looked to be a very hard fall. One that could leave her broken beyond repair.

  “Ilsa.” His voice was velvety soft and rough with concern at the same time. He had sensed the change in her even though she hadn’t moved. “Don’t be frightened.”

  She wasn’t—not of him. Of what he could do to her, if she lost her head and gave in to the yearning burning through her veins and muscles—through her very soul. Yes, she was right to be afraid of that.

  For once in her life she would be sensible and cautious for her own sake, not because someone else forced it on her. She would remember her promise to Agnes, and why she had made it.

  She made herself smile. “Afraid of you! ’Tis you who ought to be frightened of me, the notorious wild widow . . .”

  “Stop,” he said. “You’re not that.”

  “And here I’ve just seduced you like one.”

  He smiled, but it was thoughtful and focused now. “When we return to town—”

  “No.” She put her hand on his mouth. “I don’t want to talk about that. I want only to savor this. Tonight we are free like the hawks and the dolphins, able to go where we choose and frolic as we please. There will be time to talk about thornier subjects later, aye?”

  He was quiet for a moment. “You must know I care for you . . .”

  “And I care for you!” She managed a carefree smile. “Enough to wonder if you will make love to me once more before we must face the new day, and the long trip back to town.”

  “Once?” His brow rose. “Twice more at least, I think. ’Tis hours until dawn.”

  “When will we sleep?” she protested with a small laugh as he rolled over her.

  “Sleep?” He nuzzled her neck. “I’m accustomed to guard duty all night. I don’t need sleep, particularly not when there’s a wild, ravenous beauty in my bed.”

  “That would be . . . acceptable,” she gasped as she felt him, once again hard between her thighs.

  He laughed as she curled her legs around his hips. “I’ll make you scream that someday: ‘Acceptable! God almighty, that was so—bloody—acceptable!’”

  She was laughing as he pushed home, but then she stopped and lost herself to him.

  And when he murmured later, as she lay exhausted and replete in his arm, that he did mean to talk about it later, she didn’t argue.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The next day dawned like the beginning of a glorious new world.

  Despite getting very little sleep, Drew was up early, fairly bouncing on his feet as he oversaw preparations for the journey. Ilsa had stayed in his bed until the first pale glimmers of gray lightened the sky, before slipping away with one last lingering kiss.

  Three times they had made love, teasing, gently, focused, and hard and fast, that last time, trying to make the most of each stolen second together. She came apart under him with an expression of such rapture, he didn’t know how he would ever do without her.

  “You’re too bloody cheerful this morning,” was Duncan’s greeting as he came out, still pulling on his coat.

  Drew grinned. “Why not? ’Tis a fine day for travel. We should make good time.”

  “Aye,” said Duncan sourly. “And a long day of travel never fails to put a spring in a man’s step.”

  “Did you not sleep well?” asked Drew in exaggerated concern. “You’re right peevish this morning.”

  Duncan gave him a dark glance. “You might guess why, you daft specter.” He paused. “Speaking of ghostly figures, I saw another one, early this morning. Flitted right down the corridor past my door in a flowing white gown.”

  That made Drew pause. Duncan’s room was near his. If people had seen Ilsa leaving his bedroom . . . “I told you the place was haunted,” he said bracingly. “Whole regiments of ghosts drifting through, no doubt.”

  Now his friend was smirking. “Fortunate me to have seen one! She was very fetching, too, and blessedly silent.”

  The doors opened and his mother walked out, tugging at her gloves and calling over her shoulder to her daughters. Drew lowered his voice. “Aye, fortunate you. I’m sure ’twas a very gentle ghost, and not interesting to anyone else.”

  Duncan snickered. “For your sake, St. James, I hope she wasn’t entirely gentle. But no, I’m sure no one else would be interested in the story.” He walked off, whistling toward the horses being led out by the grooms.

  After that Drew did his best to be cautious, and did not sweep Ilsa into his arms for a morning kiss the way he wanted to do when she finally appeared, looking remarkably fresh and beautiful even though she’d had as little sleep as he had. She came out with Winnie and Bella, carrying a large hatbox whose lid seemed to bounce upward every few seconds, and the three of them were absorbed in conversation. Only as they passed him did she glance up with a tiny, intimate smile that set his mood soaring again.

  It was an easy trip back, and they reached Edinburgh before dark the next day. During the ride, Drew endured his friends’ complaints about the ghost prank and teasing about his partner in crime with good grace; in truth he barely listened to them as they rode, preferring instead to steal peeks inside the carriage where Ilsa sat, sometimes talking to his sisters, sometimes leaning against the side with her eyes closed, sometimes sending him arch glances that almost caused him to ride into the ditch.

  After the serenity of Stormont, the Edinburgh streets felt crowded, full of workmen hurrying to their dinners, carriages taking people to the theater, shops closing up, windows lighting with candles. The smells felt sharper and more noxious the closer they got, reminding everyone why the city was called Auld Reekie. After they crossed the bridge toward High Street, Monteith and Kincaid doffed their hats and called a farewell to the ladies before turning away toward their own lodgings.

  Annag came out on the steps when they reached the neat little house off the High Street, fluttering her hands in happy welcome. The ladies climbed down, stretching and exclaiming at the long ride, and Louisa asked Drew to see that the luggage was carried in.

  “And then I suppose you’d better escort Mrs. Ramsay home,” she said with a perfectly straight face.


  Behind him Duncan coughed and wore a wicked grin until Drew thumped him vigorously on the back. “Aye, Mother,” he said. “Duncan, take up a trunk and be useful.” Conscious of Ilsa’s gaze on him, he heaved Bella’s trunk onto his shoulder and jogged up the stairs.

  When he came back down, his mother was talking to Ilsa. He checked his step, then slowly came near, wondering what they were saying.

  “We were delighted to have you, my dear.” Louisa clasped Ilsa’s hand in hers. “I’m pleased we were able to become better acquainted. I know my children are very fond of you.”

  Drew stood like a statue, wishing he hadn’t approached.

  But Ilsa smiled. “Thank you, ma’am. It was entirely my pleasure.”

  His mother patted her hand and released her. “Perhaps you will dine with us tomorrow evening.”

  He caught the flicker of surprise in her face before Ilsa smiled again, wider this time, and accepted.

  When his mother turned away, he told her he and Duncan would see Agnes and Ilsa back to her home. Then he lowered his voice, as he bent down to collect Agnes’s trunk. “Do you remember what you asked me, that day you took tea in the study?”

  His mother looked startled. “Yes, I think so . . .”

  Drew glanced at Ilsa. She wore a short pink jacket over her dark blue dress, and the new hat—a straw bonnet with white flowers and a bright red ribbon. As he watched she laughed at something Agnes said, and an answering smile bloomed unconsciously on his own face. “The answer is yes,” he murmured to his mother, and walked on, calling for Duncan to bring the other baggage.

  “We could hail a porter,” said Agnes as they walked, Duncan behind him and the ladies bringing up the rear.

  “No need,” Drew told her. “Unless it’s too much for Duncan?”

  His friend growled something rude under his breath.

  “’Tis very kind of you, gentlemen,” said Ilsa.

  And just the sound of the warm appreciation in her voice made him feel taller, stronger, and able to carry this trunk another mile straight up the hill.

  Mam, I think I’m already in love with her.

  At her door the butler let them in. The pony came trotting out to receive a flurry of affection from both Ilsa and Agnes, and graciously let Drew scratch his nose. Ilsa invited them to come up to the drawing room, and Drew went without waiting for Duncan’s response.

  Ilsa led the way but paused in the doorway. Her shoulders fell slightly, and then she took a breath and walked in.

  Drew realized why when he followed. The walls and ceiling had been repainted a muted green, no more hints of Calton Hill. New draperies hung in front of the tall windows, closed against the twilight. The stern and forbidding painting still hung opposite the hearth.

  Ilsa said nothing. Agnes was not so restrained. “Oh no,” she exclaimed, halting just inside the room.

  “Respectable and elegant once more,” said Ilsa with a forced smile.

  “Indeed it is!” said Miss Fletcher from the doorway, a complacent smile on her face. “The new drapes are much lighter, as you wished.”

  Ilsa touched the heavy cream fabric. “Yes. Much lighter.”

  Her aunt went to embrace her. “I am so glad you approve. I wanted to surprise you.”

  “You did,” Ilsa murmured. “Aunt, I hope you remember Captain St. James. Allow me to present Mr. Felix Duncan, who accompanied us to Stormont Palace. Mr. Duncan, my aunt, Miss Fletcher.”

  “Enchanté, madam.” Mr. Duncan swept a grand bow, and Miss Fletcher bobbed a curtsy, her face alive with interest.

  “You are both welcome, Captain, Mr. Duncan. I trust you had a good journey?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Drew bowed in turn. “Very fine weather for travel.”

  “And now you must all be hungry.” Miss Fletcher rang the bell. “I shall send for a light supper—”

  “That is most kind, Miss Fletcher,” put in Drew, “but you mustn’t trouble yourself. Mr. Duncan and I shall stop at a tavern.” He glanced at his sister. “Perhaps you and Mrs. Ramsay would like to accompany us, Agnes. It would be unkind to put out the housekeeper, feeding so many on short notice.”

  Ilsa’s face brightened. Agnes gave him an incredulous look. “I—I suppose, if Mrs. Ramsay wishes to . . .”

  “Of course.” Ilsa smiled directly at Drew, as if she knew exactly where he meant to take them. “I would be delighted.”

  He and Duncan made idle conversation with Miss Fletcher while the ladies went to change their clothes. Ilsa’s aunt kept casting him contemplative glances, but said nothing exceptional. Still, Drew was relieved when his sister and Ilsa returned.

  “Where are we going?” demanded Agnes as soon as they were outside.

  “I’ve longed for a plate of oysters since we left town,” said Drew without looking at Ilsa. “What say you, Agnes?”

  His sister looked like she couldn’t believe her ears. “I—I may go to an oyster cellar?”

  “Is that a good idea?” blurted Duncan, which earned him a poisonous glare from Agnes.

  “As your brother and guardian, I see nothing wrong with it, and I shall be there to provide any assistance necessary. Don’t you wish to come?”

  For a moment Drew thought his sister might embrace him in the public street. “Yes!”

  They went to Hunter’s tavern again, finding a place at a long table in the cellar. Drew ordered punch for the ladies, porter for him and Duncan, and oysters and other food for everyone.

  Agnes, sitting beside him, gazed around with wide eyes. “Mama won’t be pleased you brought me here,” she told him in a low but happy tone.

  “She won’t say anything about it.”

  She looked at him in disbelief. “She won’t mind you being here!”

  “Then she can’t mind you being here with me,” he returned. “I’m a proper chaperone, ain’t I?”

  “No!”

  He shrugged and gave her a wink. “Just don’t cause a scandal, and all will be well. Everyone deserves a bit of fun now and then, aye?”

  Reluctantly she smiled. “Yes. Thank you, Drew.”

  He pretended to choke on his porter. “God bless me! A kind word from Agnes St. James! Glory be . . .”

  She was still laughing at him when the food arrived, deposited by fast-moving servants with large trays, swooping in to slide platters across the table and then spin away into the crowded room. Everyone ate with relish, until—as Drew had expected—someone pushed aside a table and a man with a fiddle leapt atop it.

  This time there was no mistaking it: he danced with Ilsa. Other women took his hands and he swung them around, but his eyes stayed on her.

  And when the night was over, it was Ilsa to whom he offered his arm for the walk home, leaving Duncan to make the most of Agnes’s good temper. He had never felt such—such lightness, as if everything were right in the world and he was equal to any challenge. They parted on her doorstep with a kiss on her hand and a husky “Good night” from her that made him wish he didn’t have to go home with Duncan.

  “You’re in a pathetic state,” Duncan remarked as they strolled toward Burnet’s Close. “Pretending you wanted to give your sister a night out and bribing us with oysters, all for the sake of getting Ilsa Ramsay to dance with you.”

  Drew grinned. “Envy, is what that is. What did you do to make my sister hate you, by the by?”

  Duncan cursed him the rest of the way home, and Drew enjoyed it immensely.

  Ilsa fairly floated down the stairs to breakfast the next morning. She had slept extremely well, blissfully tired from her last few days of making love to Drew and dancing with him. If this is ruin, I shall never be respectable again, she thought as she went into the dining room to find her aunt poring over the latest gossip sheets. “Good morning,” she all but sang.

  Jean looked up, her lips tight. “Did you know this?”

  And thus ended the happiest fortnight of her life, with a breathless account splashed across the front page of the Edinburgh Ta
ttler of Captain Andrew St. James, future Duke of Carlyle, roving through town unrecognized and unnoticed. The author of the piece mused at some length on his intentions and plans, as well as how very eligible this young, handsome, and single heir must be considered.

  “Oh,” she said quietly. “Yes, I did know.”

  Jean’s face grew dark with disapproval. “My dear! Why didn’t you tell me? I must speak to your father at once.”

  “What?” Ilsa demanded, shocked. “Papa? Why?”

  Jean held up one hand and Ilsa fell silent out of long habit. “He’s been very suspicious about this man who’s been chasing after you, even before you went on holiday with him—”

  “With his sisters,” Ilsa protested. “Who have been my friends for many months!”

  Her aunt ignored her. “When did you learn of his expectation? How could you not tell me?”

  “The family asked me not to.”

  That made Jean turn deep purple. “And your loyalty is to them over your own family?”

  Ilsa began breathing deeply. This was degenerating into one of their confrontations of old, where Jean scolded her for an hour and then sent her to her room.

  She was not a child any longer, though. This was her house now, where she was undisputed mistress, and she had promised herself that she would never sit and suffer an underserved rebuke again.

  “I chose my own conscience,” she said, clearly and deliberately. “I was asked to keep a confidence, and I did.”

  Jean did not like that. “This is the thanks I’m to have—”

  Ilsa glanced up with fire in her eyes. “I do not owe you their secrets! I am not sorry, Aunt, and I will not apologize.” Her aunt’s mouth formed a tight line, an expression Ilsa knew too well. “When you came to stay with me, we made an agreement.”

  Jean gasped. “Are you accusing me of breaking it?”