Stranded With The Scottish Earl (10 page)

“You helped with that, too.”

That tender smile reappeared to set her heart dancing. “Och, I’m quite the useful laddie. I can save a sinking calf from the mire, or cook a
braw piece of toast, or fix a broken heart.”

She considered his words. “You know, I’m not sure I ever had a broken heart.”

“No, bonny lassie, I don’t think you did.” He brushed his lips across hers in a kiss like a whisper. Even so, Charlotte felt every atom
of the contact. And admitted that she’d waited for it all day.

When he pulled back after a mere second, she released an involuntary sigh of protest. Her shaking hand rose to cover her mouth, before she said something
that really got her into trouble.

“Don’t get your hopes up.” When she’d regained her balance, she lowered her hand. “Just because I’ve come to terms with
my engagement doesn’t mean I want to marry you.”

She’d intended the words to be a reprimand, but instead she sounded cursed unsure.

He kissed her lightly again. With just the same devastating effect. “Whisht, lassie. It’s time to catch some sheep, not make decisions about
the rest of your life.”

Lyle lifted the fruitcake, broke it in two, and offered her the larger piece. She shook her head. “You have it.”

Charlotte knew he meant his words to reassure, but the threat of a life-changing conversation in the near future spoiled her appetite.

“She’s stuck,” Charlotte said, staring through the rain at the ewe struggling in a dip in the field that the weather had turned into a
deadly quagmire.

 Lyle turned from where he’d pushed the sheep’s three companions to higher ground. He was covered in stinking mud. After hours saving wet
sheep from the consequences of their stupidity, he wanted to consign the entire breed to eternal damnation. He was wet, tired, and sore with the strain of
carrying the brainless beasts. Flailing hooves hadn't been kind either.

Charlotte wasn’t in much better case. Her hair was a tangle. Her filthy clothes would make any self-respecting debutante shriek in horror. Dirt
streaked her piquant face. And still he thought she was utterly irresistible. He was in a bad way indeed.

Several times, he’d suggested that she return to the house, but she’d insisted on staying. Hers was a gallant soul.

He looked past his bedraggled beloved to where the last sheep sank deeper as she fought to free herself. “Damn ewe,” he muttered.

“No need to be rude,” Charlotte said, and he caught a glimmer of amusement in her tired face.

“Let me,” he said, when she bent to try and haul the sheep free. The sodden winter fleece weighed a ton.

“We’ll both have to lift her,” Charlotte said breathlessly.

Fifteen grim minutes later, he gave one last heave and the animal scrambled onto firmer ground. Charlotte, kneeling in a puddle, extended a gloved hand.

“I think she’s about to give birth,” Charlotte said, accepting his help.

Dismayed, Lyle brushed dripping hair from his eyes and studied the sheep. Charlotte was right. “Blast.”

“She’s before term. She won’t make it back to the barn. We’ll have to get her into the byre.”

“Let’s go,” he said wearily.

“Do you know what to do?” Charlotte asked after they’d caviled the bleating, confused animal up the slope to shelter. Luckily it
wasn’t far.

“I’m hoping nature will take its course.”

He shooed the byre’s other occupants into a corner. The pregnant ewe was starting to make ominous sounds and circle the dirty straw on the floor,
lying down, then lumbering to her feet.

“Can we do anything to help her?” Charlotte asked, watching the ewe’s increasingly urgent movements with concern.

“Not at this stage. It’s all going as usual so far.” He climbed the short ladder to the raised platform at the back of the byre and
heaved a bale of hay to the edge. “Watch out.”

Ignoring his protesting muscles, he pushed the hay to the ground. He muffled a groan, but Charlotte heard him. “Are you all right?”

He mustered a smile. “I’ve been living in London too long. A Scotsman should laugh off what we’ve done today.”

“I need to meet more Scotsmen. They’re an impressive tribe.”

“We are at that,” he said, tossing over another bale, then descending to the ground.

Charlotte broke up the hay and spread it for the other sheep. Lyle helped her. The pregnant ewe was bleating and leaning down on folded front legs.

“Is this the last paddock?” He felt like he’d quartered the county today, instead of just walked a few sodden fields.

“Yes. We can’t check on the tenants until the water goes down.”

“Then let’s go upstairs and leave this lassie in peace.” He climbed a couple of rungs of the ladder and offered his hand.
Charlotte’s ready acceptance made his heart swell. They settled on the edge of the platform, legs dangling into space. It was surprisingly cozy under
the low roof, listening to the rain’s gentle patter.

When Charlotte shivered, he took off his oilskin and draped it around them like a blanket. “Is that better?”

“Yes, thank you.” She nestled closer without invitation.

“This is a dickens of a way to court a lassie.” He dropped an arm around her shoulders.

To his surprise, she laid her head on his shoulder. The pungent scents of wet sheep and dirty straw tinged the air, but even through all that, he caught a
faint and alluring hint of Charlotte. Flowers. Rain. Female. He closed his eyes, happy, despite the weather and his aches and pains. Below them, the ewe
lay panting on her side.

“How long will she be like this?”

“And you call yourself a countrywoman,” he said in gentle mockery.

She gave a soft huff of amusement. “Papa pays shepherds to do the muckier parts of animal husbandry.”

“I suspect those shepherds are all curled up somewhere snug right now.”

“Lucky shepherds,” she said. “You’ve done this before, though, haven’t you?”

“Aye. Often. She’ll be an hour. Two. If all goes well.”

“I’d like to stay here, in case.”

“Of course.”

“After today, I wouldn’t blame you if you took to your heels and didn’t stop until you reached Inverness.” Weariness deepened her
voice to a contralto murmur.

“Not a chance in hell,” he said softly. But she’d collapsed against him in boneless exhaustion.

He muffled a wry laugh and arranged the oilskin more securely. When he’d imagined sleeping with Charlotte, this wasn’t what he’d had in
mind. He tightened his grip on her shoulders and stared contented out into the gloomy day.

“Wake up, bonny lassie.”

The soft voice emerged from Charlotte’s dreams; confused, upsetting dreams where Lord Lyle held her in his arms and kissed her until she forgot her
name. And then he walked away.

When she stirred to alertness, she discovered at least part of her dream was true. She snuggled up to Ewan Macrae, her cheek resting on his chest and his
powerful arm holding her near. His heart beat hard and steady beneath her ear, and she was warmer than she’d been since she’d left the manor
that morning.

“What is it?” she asked groggily. “Was I asleep for long?”

Her dreams had been disturbing. While she mightn’t remember details, her body was heavy with arousal.

“Only an hour or so, by my reckoning.”

Clumsy, still half-asleep, she sat up and shoved the heavy fall of damp hair back from her face. She curled cold toes in her boots to restore circulation.
What she’d give for a good fire and a dry gown. “How’s the ewe?”

He tilted his chin toward the ground. “See for yourself.”

“Oh,” she said.

“She seems to be managing.”

“Yes, she does.”

Ewan unwound his arms from her with a reluctance she couldn’t mistake and jumped down. “I’ll just make sure everything is fine.”

Fascinated, Charlotte watched as the lamb emerged from its mother and dropped to the straw. Then when silent seconds followed, she became afraid.
“It’s not moving.”

Lyle edged the exhausted mother aside, so he could reach the lamb. “There’s a trick.”

With the air of unruffled competency that invested everything he did, he took off his gloves and picked up a few strands of straw. He tickled the
motionless lamb’s nose and spoke encouragement in what she assumed was Gaelic.

“It hasn’t worked.” Charlotte scrambled to her feet and was halfway down the ladder when she saw Lyle lift the lamb by its back legs and
swing it carefully side to side.

Hot tears sprang to her eyes. Every season, they lost lambs. It was the reality of farming. And this little one had arrived premature and noticeably small,
and on a foul day more like winter than spring.

But Charlotte couldn’t bear to think of that tiny, fragile life ending before it began. Her gaze fixed on Lyle, who continued the gentle swinging.

Suddenly the lamb coughed and kicked against its captor. Relief flooded Charlotte, lodged in her throat.

“There,” Lyle said in satisfaction, but his touch as he laid the squirming bundle near its frantic mother was tender. His final blessing to the
wriggling lamb sounded like music. She shivered at the sheer beauty of his voice, the way she’d shivered the first time she’d heard him
speaking Gaelic to Saraband. “Go to Mamma.”

Mamma butted Lyle out of the way and began to lick her baby. Lyle lifted his head, a smile lighting his dark face to brilliance. “That’s what I
call a happy ending.”

A happy ending for the ewe and her lamb, true. A happy ending for Charlotte Warren? She wasn’t so sure. But as she stared down transfixed at this man
who had teased her and kissed her and battled the elements with her, at last she recognized that there was no escaping her fate.

Curse her father for being right. The only man she’d ever consider marrying was Ewan Macrae, Earl of Lyle.

They waited in the byre until the lamb was feeding, his tiny tail making frantic circles as he sucked greedily at his mother. Smiling, Lyle went outside
and used the rain to wash. To his surprise, that wasn’t quite as easy as it would have been an hour ago.

“It’s stopping.” Charlotte stepped up beside him, her hood shielding her lovely face.

He wiped his hands down his sides, although given his sodden state, that didn’t accomplish much. “It’s lighter to the west. I predict a
spectacular sunset in an hour or so.” He paused, almost not wanting to know. Although he couldn’t remain in glorious isolation with his lady
love for the rest of his life. More was the pity. “How much time have we got?”

She passed him his oilskin and started walking back toward the house, now visible across the fields. Another sign of improving weather. “The bridge
should be clear some time tomorrow. The path through the woods behind the house will be usable early in the morning.”

Lyle struggled to interpret her tone, but all he heard was the cheerful practicality that had made her such a staunch companion through the day’s
vicissitudes. Damn it, he wanted her to sound sorry that he had to go. He wanted her to sound bloody heartbroken.

As he observed the jaunty sway of her hips and her confident step across the saturated grass, he faced the grim possibility that this unconventional wooing
might have failed. She’d been more relaxed with him today, and he’d basked in the trust developing between them. But did that mean she wanted
him in her life?

His longer legs made catching up easy. A line of light lay along the horizon, and the rain had softened to a sprinkle. “I’ll go at dawn,”
he said glumly.

“That would be best.” Her glance was too fleeting for him to read her expression, but much as he tried, he couldn’t hear any regret in
her voice.

Back at the house, Lyle’s odd valedictory mood persisted. He’d give half his fortune for a long, hot bath. He couldn’t remember feeling
this tired. Or this sore. The riding and fencing that formed his usual exercise paled to insignificance, compared to maneuvering livestock through mud. Now
the thought of lugging overflowing canisters through the house didn’t appeal, so he heated some water over the fire and made do with the washstand in
his dressing room.

There was something to be said for being clean and changing into fresh clothing. As he shaved, he considered his reflection in the dressing room mirror. In
his rumpled state, he might lack London polish, but he looked presentable enough for a country evening.

How odd, not to hear the rain. He’d become accustomed to its incessant pitter-patter in the last two days. The rain had dictated the progress of his
wooing. It had given him these glorious hours alone with Charlotte. Now that it had stopped, he had to leave.

So how should he play these last hours? Charming? Seductive? Romantic?

He wanted her. He loved her. He had no idea where he stood with her. The thought of riding away tomorrow felt like someone scraped out his liver with a
blunt knife.

Lyle bit back a sigh and leaned over the basin to rinse off the shaving soap. At least if she meant to break his heart, he’d hear the news looking
like a gentleman.

He slid his dark blue coat over his shoulders. There were a couple of clean neck cloths in his bag, but he decided to leave his shirt open.

Not such a gentleman after all, it seemed.

He slipped the small leather case that had started all the trouble into his coat pocket, ran a comb through his thick black hair, and stared into the blue
Macrae eyes. He wasn’t used to seeing uncertainty there, but he saw it tonight.

“Come on, laddie. Time to face up to your future and find out if she’ll have you.”

The blood of warrior chieftains flowed through his veins, yet he quailed at the idea that this woman, this unexpected, perfect, passionate treasure of a
woman, might refuse him.

Squaring his shoulders, he wished the man in the mirror good luck. Then he went through to his room and slammed to a stop on the threshold.

An unfamiliar object lay on the four-poster bed’s red and blue counterpane.

“Well, paint me pink and call me an Englishman,” he whispered aloud, triumphant joy sweeping away his doubts.