Secrets to Seducing a Scot (8 page)

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Authors: Michelle Marcos

BOOK: Secrets to Seducing a Scot
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As a chaperone, Quinny was about as useful as a bucket with a hole in the bottom. But Serena had no intention of spending the day alone with the indomitable Malcolm Slayter, so she went to kidnap Zoe. Zoe refused because she was scheduled to have a lesson with her French language master, a man on whom she had a hopeless crush. Only after Serena promised to accompany Zoe to the Saint Swithin’s Day Festival the next day did Zoe agree.
The young girl was intrigued by the lover’s corridor in Serena’s room, so the two of them went back to her room to see it.
“Ooh!” exclaimed Zoe. “This is amazing! How on earth did you find it?”
Serena rolled her eyes, and pointed to Malcolm. “He found it.”
Zoe blinked her widened eyes at him. “I’ve lived here nearly my whole life and never knew about this hidden room. How did you know it was here?”
Serena interrupted. “Perhaps he has intimate knowledge of such concealments. Ask him how many ladies’ bedchambers he’s infiltrated through such places.”
Malcolm snickered. “Yer friend is as curious as a cat in a room full of mouse holes. But she’ll no’ get the gossip she seeks from me. Tell her that my affairs are none of hers.”
Zoe seemed oblivious to their tense exchange. “Can I see where it leads?”
“It’s rather dirty in there, miss. The servants are on the way up to muck it out.”
“I don’t mind,” she said, seizing a candle.
“I do, miss,” he said, gently taking the candle from her hand. “Besides, the passage is fair bursting with rubbish.”
Serena whirled around. “You’ll have to get used to being treated that way, Zoe. That is, unless you complain to your father about him. Maybe then he’ll be discharged for good.”
Zoe sat upon Serena’s bed. “Could you see if there’s a passageway like that into my bedroom?”
“I will. Tomorrow.”
Two footmen came to the bedroom. Malcolm held a candle aloft and showed them into the dark corridor. Serena sat at her escritoire and watched as the two footmen began to cart away the crates and broken chairs that cluttered the secret passageway.
Zoe sat next to her, whispering something about how she would swoon with delight if her handsome French master came into her bedroom through such an opening. Serena only heard half of what Zoe was saying. Because at that moment, Malcolm Slayter took off his coat.
Never mind that no self-respecting gentleman would ever remove his coat in front of a lady he wasn’t related to. Never mind that his shirtsleeves weren’t voluminous, and they didn’t even go all the way down to his wrists. The sleeves of his fitted shirt, made of coarse linen, ended at his elbows.
Serena stared at him over her embroidery hoop. The sight of his bare forearms sent a current of eroticism through her. Slightly furred and knotted with muscle, they fascinated her. She had never seen such a large man in semi-undress. He walked into the corridor and carried
out a wooden chest so heavy that it required two footmen to take it from his gloved hands. Serena couldn’t help but notice the swell of muscle at his shoulder and upper arms, stretching the rough-spun fabric. Definitely no London gentleman of her acquaintance looked like him. But then again, Malcolm Slayter was no gentleman. And they were far, far from London.
“You’re from the Highlands, are you not?” Serena asked.
His green eyes jumped to her face. “Aye.”
She bit her cheek. “I thought all Highlanders wore kilts.”
“Aye. That we do.”
“Why don’t you wear one then?”
He wiped his damp temple on his sleeve. “That, I’m afraid, is yer doing.”
“My doing?”
“Aye. I’m told that ladies … of the English persuasion … are too delicate to behold a man’s bare legs.”
“Who told you such a slanderous thing?”
He shrugged. “Common knowledge.”
Serena harrumphed. “Well, you needn’t put yourself out on my account. It takes a great deal more than a show of knees to offend someone like me.”
He nodded in appreciation. “Judging by our less-than-cordial meeting, I think I may have discovered everything that offends someone like ye.”
The words needled her. She didn’t want to be thought of as a harridan. Truth be told, Malcolm Slayter was the most interesting thing that had happened since she’d arrived in Scotland.
“Is there a Mrs. Slayter?”
“Aye.”
Her needle stilled. A sinking feeling went through her.
“That would have been my mum,” he continued.
She rolled her eyes, but the gesture was coupled by a feeling of hope.
“I meant, are you married?”
“I know what ye meant.”
But no explanation was forthcoming. There it was again, that impudence that challenged her authority over him. “Well?”
“That’s private.”
She laughed out loud. “You are standing in the middle of my bedroom in a state of undress intruding upon my every waking moment, and you’re bothered by an innocuous question like ‘Are you married?’” The irony of it made her laugh again.
He shook his head. “Yer father said ye don’t have to speak to me. Feel free to avail yerself of that freedom.”
Her laughs subsided to a chuckle. “Maybe I will.”
“Good.”
He turned to the last footman. “Please tell Mrs. Walker we’ve finished clearing this out.”
Zoe jumped off her chair. “Can I see where it leads now?”
He flicked a smile at the girl. “Aye.” His gaze swung over to Serena, challenge blazing in his eyes. “Ye can come, too. If ye dare.”
Serena was not about to let him call her a coward. She set down her embroidery hoop and stood up. But first, she grabbed a shawl and threw it over her head. Spiders …
She followed closely behind him as he held the candle aloft. The flame flickered across the walls, blinking light upon what was essentially a drafty, unplastered corridor. Exposed planks and white mortar lined the walls, and a faint musty smell pervaded the passageway. She couldn’t see herself sitting in this room for
any length of time, let alone sleeping in it. He must be a brave soul indeed if he didn’t mind bedding here.
Involuntarily, she clutched the back of his shirt. It was warm with him, and it gave off a scent that was very pleasing to her … like skin warmed by sunshine. Her fingers bounced upon the hardness of his back, and the intimacy of it was intensely pleasurable.
At the opening, the corridor took an immediate left turn, and they followed it for a distance. Here, the spiderwebs were plentiful, and they formed a canopy over her head. She squeezed in closer to him, using him as a shield.
Finally, the corridor ended at a spot where light shone through a door-shaped crack in the moldy beams. A sweep of his candle revealed a hook. He put a finger through it and pulled.
Light burst in upon them from the opposite side. They now stood behind six shelves aching with books, and they could see over them into the room.
“It’s the library!” she breathed. “But I’ve never seen this doorway before.” She picked up one of the books and turned it over in her hands. “How does one get through these shelves?”
He looked all around. “There has to be a hinge …” He pushed against the frame of the bookshelf, and it swung forward. The three of them stepped through the opening and found themselves standing in Lord Askey’s library.
He swung into place the hinged door that doubled as the back panel of the oak bookshelves. Then he swung the hinged bookcase onto it. The doorway disappeared, leaving only what appeared to be a static bookshelf.
“Ingenious,” he muttered, lifting the real books off the shelf. “No one would have suspected a thing.”
“I wonder if Papa knows about this?” asked Zoe,
pulling open the bookshelf-door. “Oh, I can’t wait to tell my friend Rebecca!”
“I must ask ye not to tell anyone outside this household about this hidden passageway,” said Malcolm gently. “I myself will show it to yer father and the ambassador. The fewer people that know, the safer Miss Marsh will be.”
Zoe smiled at him, her brown eyes turning their full allure his way. “If you insist.”
Malcolm wagged a warning finger at Serena. “And don’t ye be telling the world about it, either.”
Serena bristled at the change in his demeanor with her. It was bad enough that there was no one in the whole of Scotland she held in any confidence. Now she was forced into an adversarial relationship with a man she didn’t want to like … but did.
She adjusted her shawl around her shoulders and walked to the real door out of the library. “Get accustomed to stepping through that bookshelf to reach your bedchamber, for you won’t be going through my bedroom door.”
The clock downstairs chimed nine, reverberating through the empty house.
Serena put down the hairbrush. Gazing out of the window that was behind her mirrored dressing table, she sighed audibly. Light still filled the sky even though practically the entire household had gone to bed. This was what the Scots called “the gloaming”—the twilight time between sunset and dark. Outside, the sky had no moon and no stars—none of the beauty that night brings—but the sun had long since departed. It was a strange purgatory. All was suspended as day had given up, but nightfall refused to come.
Suspended.
That was how she felt, too. Gone was the familiar life she had so enjoyed and reveled in, and still to come was … she knew not what.
A hollow knock startled her. It came from the wall at the foot of her bed, where her wardrobe had once been. On the other side of the larkspur wallpaper was the place Malcolm had made his bedchamber.
“Come in,” she said on instinct, even though she was only in her dressing gown.
The secret door opened, and there stood Malcolm holding a candlestick aloft. “I’ve come to check ye’re all right.”
Despite their tense exchanges, she found herself glad
to see him. “Quite well, thank you.” She said it before she could stop herself: “Would you care to come in?”
“Aye.”
He had to dip his head to be able to walk through the six-foot doorway. But once he was inside, the candlelight from her bedside table brought a completely new look to his face. His weathered features softened, and his black hair came alive in shades of blue. He had on a cream-colored linen shirt and black trousers, but there was no cravat or coat on him. Also gone were his gloves. But more interesting were his eyes, which danced down her peignoir before riveting themselves to the floor. “I’ll just check on the door. To make sure it’s been locked properly.”
His timidity beguiled her. “I assure you I’ve done so. But you may put your own mind at ease.”
He went to the doorknob and tried it. Absently, he tucked the back of his shirt into his trousers.
“Do ye have everything ye need for the night?” he asked.
Not
everything.
“I believe so. And you? Are you comfortable behind the wall? It seems awfully cramped inside that little passageway.”
“I’ve slept in worse places.”
“Oh?”
“Hmm,” he assented. “I once had to make bed inside four feet of snow just to stay out of the frigid Highland wind.”
“What were you doing out in the wilds overnight?”
He cocked his head. “I have not always enjoyed the pleasure of a warm home.”
“You mean you were a vagrant?”
He chuckled. “Ye make it sound as if it were a profession. I’m no Gypsy, if that’s what’s in yer head. My father owned a vast tract of land, with many tenant farmers.
But after he was … that is, I left home, I found myself a vagrant, as ye put it, for a short time.”
Interesting,
she thought.
This Mr. Slayter hails from a family of landowners.
“Why did you leave home?”
He was silent a few moments. “Circumstances.”
“I see,” she said, though she really did not. “Well, are you certain you wouldn’t feel more comfortable in the bedchamber next door?”
“Sure I am that I would. But it would delay me coming to yer rescue. An intruder could always blockade yer door against me. Besides, as I said before, if an intruder did come in, the last thing he’d expect is someone coming through the wall. Surprise is key to victory.”
Her eyes traveled down his long, lean legs. “And what’s to keep you from surprising
me
during the night?” She found the idea shot a secret thrill through her.
He shook his head, spilling a lock of black hair down his forehead. A sidewise smile dimpled one cheek. “More sense than ye just showed in suggesting it.”
An embarrassed flush heated her cheeks. She almost threw the hairbrush at him. “I-I only meant that I must rely on your honor to keep that door fully closed in the night. Because if I so much as catch you peeping into my rooms—”
His palms faced her in a defensive posture. “Sacred, I assure ye.”
She should have been relieved to hear it, but she wasn’t. In fact, it made her quite cross. She raked the hairbrush through her hair.
“I shall want an outing,” she stated archly. “The Saint Swithin’s Day Festival in Invergarry is tomorrow. Zoe and I will be attending. Make your preparations early, or we shall leave without you.”
“I shall be ready. But make bet, ye’ll no’ be leaving without me.” He turned on his heel and opened the secret door.
His high-handedness galled her. She was not about to let him leave with the last word, let alone the last command.
“You may take your leave now. But first, fetch me the milk.”
It stopped him in his tracks. “Eh?”
She didn’t even look at him, instead peering into the mirror. “The tray on the table beside the bed. Fetch it to me.”
Out of the corner of her eye, she sensed him go to the night table and collect the pot of warm cocoa. Dutifully, he placed it on the dressing table.
But he didn’t move.
After a few tense seconds, she couldn’t stand it anymore. She looked up into his face. Amusement danced in his eyes.
“Shall I pour it, too, milady?”
This was worse. Now he was laughing at her expense. She should have slapped the mischievous grin off his face. But truth be told, she was mesmerized by the handsomeness of his features when something pleased him.
“You may.”
His eyes became mere slits as he studied her, and she grew uncomfortable under his penetrating gaze. His hips were mere inches from her head. But he did as she asked. He righted the overturned teacup, and placed it in the saucer. Her gaze feathered down his arm as he picked up the teapot. It looked like a toy in his large hand. Briefly she wondered what such a large hand would feel against her cheek, her shoulder, her breast. Her own hand would be swallowed up in one of his. As
the cocoa filled the cup, twin tendrils of steam swirled upward, like two people waltzing. What a treat it would be to dance with a man as large as this. She gazed at his heavily muscled forearm. How heavenly it would feel against her back!
As her gaze drew downward, she saw something shocking.
The skin on the back of his hand was hideously distorted.
Impulsively, she grasped him by the wrist, making him spill the cocoa onto the saucer. “What’s happened to your hand?”
He jerked it away and set down the teapot. “It is nothing.”
“Show it to me at once!”
His lips thinned. He flattened his hand on the table before her.
She leaned the candle closer. Sliced across his hand was a most horrible scar. It covered the whole of the back of his right hand, the skin lifting whitely in the shape of what appeared to be an
S.
“Is this why you never appear before us without gloves?”
“Aye. I don’t allow anyone to see my burn.”
“That’s no burn. It’s a—a
brand.
”
His jaw tensed. He could not meet her eyes. For the first time since she’d met him, he registered something she’d never seen before. Shame.
Her forehead twisted. “Who did that to you?”
“No one. It was a long time ago. Leave it be.”
“Did you do something wrong?”
“I said leave it be, woman!” He seized his candlestick, nearly extinguishing the small flame, and ducked through the opening into the passageway.
The air fairly pulsed with the fury of his departure.
She hadn’t just touched upon a sensitive nerve … she had stomped all over it.
She expelled a heavy sigh. There was so much Malcolm wouldn’t speak of, so much she wanted to know. But his lips were a vault, and he himself a fortress. Perhaps a softer touch was needed.
She lay her head upon the pillow, wondering what horrible chain of events had led to that scar upon his hand. What did the
S
stand for?
Slaughterer
?
Slave
?
Sexual Deviant
?
As she considered the array of crimes that her protector might have been guilty of, she realized that life in Scotland had just become a lot more fascinating.

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