Stranded With The Scottish Earl (13 page)

“Here.” He extended his closed hand. She still couldn’t see what he held, but automatically she reached out to accept the offering.

“This had better not be a spider,” she said darkly.

He gave a short laugh. “You’re such a trusting wee lassie.”

Frowning, she stared down at the small leather case he’d passed her. To her surprise, it was familiar. “This is my father’s.”

“Aye.” Lyle’s voice lowered into seriousness. As ever when he was moved, the Scottish burr strengthened. As ever when he sounded so
intriguingly foreign, she shivered with sensual awareness.

“But when did he—”

“At our last meeting in London. When he told me I was the man to make his daughter happy.”

She blushed. “You know you did that tonight.”

His fingers brushed her cheek. “Look inside, Cinderella.”

Even though she knew what she’d find, she held her breath as she opened the exquisite little case with its gold chasing. Her father had commissioned
the miniature portrait of his daughter a couple of years ago as a companion piece to the picture he always carried of his late wife. A charged silence
crashed down.

Charlotte raised wondering eyes to Ewan’s face. “Tell me what this means.” She sucked in a shaky breath. “I don’t want to
misunderstand. It’s too important.”

Slowly Ewan reached out and curled his elegant hand around where she held the portrait. His voice remained grave. “It was a rainy night the first
time your father took me to dinner at his club. Because of the weather, we had the dining room to ourselves. We’d met by chance at the horse sale,
but as the evening progressed, we found that our immediate mutual liking showed promise of becoming genuine friendship. He’s a charming man, your
esteemed papa.”

“Yes,” she said in a faint voice. Her heart pounded so hard that she felt every beat like a blow. “He is.”

“We spoke of one another’s families, as you do when passing a few idle hours with a stranger.”

“And he told you that his daughter was at her last prayers and desperate for a husband?” she asked with a trace of bitterness. Despite the way
everything had turned out, it still hurt to think of her father foisting her off onto a man he hardly knew.

Ewan’s smile was gentle. “Not at all. You should know him better than that. He spoke in such flattering terms, in fact, that I was convinced he
saw you with the over-generous eyes of a doting father. Yet I must admit I was curious. The daughter he described sounded strong and vibrant and
clever—and interesting. Not to mention brave. It takes nerve to handle a Scotsman, I’ll have you know.”

Her eyes narrowed, although his explanation soothed her pique. “This Scotsman in particular. So he showed you my picture, and you set off on this
crazy quest.”

Lyle’s lips twitched. “Not that day. Or at our next meetings. But in a week or so, he took me to a chophouse, and after a couple of bottles of
claret, said that he wanted me to marry you.”

“That’s mad,” she said. “Even for Papa.”

“He admitted it was mad. And I laughed and dismissed the outlandish suggestion. Blamed it on the wine. I might be in London to find a wife, but I was
more than capable of making my own choice.”

“And you worried that my father had sought your friendship to set you up for the match.”

“Aye, there was that, too.” His smile was rueful. “Nobody likes to feel they’ve been led by the nose.”

“You must have wondered what on earth was wrong with me.”

“Don’t rush me,” he said with a smile, his hold tightening. “And I wondered what was wrong with you, that your father tried to
marry you off in such a bizarre fashion. I prepared to tell Sir John that he was barking up the wrong tree, and that he and his vibrant, clever, brave,
strong daughter could go straight to Hades.”

“That didn’t stop you setting out to see me.”

His rueful expression deepened. “Och, well, then your papa produced his big guns. He showed me your picture. I took one look, and I was lost.”

She tugged her hand free and opened the case again, staring down at her face. It didn’t seem so remarkable. “This was the reason you turned up
here spouting nonsense?”

He shrugged. “I looked at you and had the strangest feeling I saw my future.”

She swallowed, then swallowed again. She felt like she had a boulder stuck in her throat. Stupid to be so moved by this unlikely story, but another
embarrassing bout of tears threatened. “It’s only a painting. Pigment on ivory. It mightn’t even have been a good likeness. A lot of
portraits aren’t.”

“I told myself I was a fool. After all, no man falls in love with a picture.”

“Yet still you came.”

He spread his hands. “I couldn’t do anything else. I told myself that I couldn’t base the rest of my life on a pretty painting. Not to
mention a fellow who I was convinced was a wee bit unbalanced, however entertaining a companion he might be. But everywhere I looked, I saw your face. I
couldn’t sleep. I couldn’t eat. I couldn’t concentrate. All entertainments palled. I was useless to man and beast.”

She smiled faintly, as her heart settled into a steady, confident beat. “I like the idea of you struck down for love.”

He touched her cheek with a tenderness she felt to her toes. “Cruel besom.” He glanced at her lips and she knew he wanted to kiss her.

She raised an unsteady hand to keep him away. “Finish your story first.”

“After a week of moping around London like a sick dog, I decided that the only cure for my humiliating disease was to see you in the flesh and prove
that nothing uncanny had taken place when I saw that miniature.”

“And what happened?” she asked, praying for him to say he hadn’t been disappointed. He’d spoken lightly of falling in love, but he
was yet to say the words that every inch of her soul longed to hear.

He gave her that smile that always made her silly. “You know precisely what happened. Miss Flora opened the door, and my fate was sealed.”

“Oh,” she said, too stirred up to summon anything more meaningful.

“Straightaway I saw the qualities I’d observed in the picture, the qualities your father had described. They were all there in the lassie who
tried to leave me out in the rain.”

“So you thought you’d found the perfect wife.”

He burst out laughing and caught her hand. “My darling Charlotte, you’re bonny, but nobody in their right mind would call you a perfect
wife.”

“Is that so?” she asked in a dangerous voice. “I’ll have you know that—”

Her scolding ended in a gasp as he lunged forward and tumbled her back against the rumpled bedding. “Now, before you fly up into the boughs, let me
finish. You’re an impatient wee lass, my love.”

She regarded him with sulky displeasure, even as happiness flowed through her veins, turning the cold night to bright summer. The sheet separated their
bodies, but she could feel that, like her, he was becoming interested in more than conversation. However fascinating. “It had better be good.”

“It is.” He kissed her with a thoroughness that stole her breath. When he raised his head, they were both panting. “I don’t want
perfection, Charlotte. I want a wife who will stand up to me, and make me crazy with wanting her, and set me laughing with joy, and turn every day into an
adventure. I doubt we’ll lead a quiet life, but by God, it will be interesting and worthwhile, and purposeful and passionate.”

“And you saw all that in a tiny picture?” she asked drily, even as her heart performed somersaults.

He smiled down at her, rolling to his side and tugging the sheet lower. “I caught a wee hint in the picture, aye. But I needed to see the original to
get the full idea. And the painting did no justice to those interesting freckles.”

She caught the sheet before it slipped below her breasts. “So say it.”

“That’s my lassie. Implacable to the last.” His eyes were brilliant with admiration. “You still won’t take anything at face
value, will you?”

“I can’t say I feel very implacable, lying here in this bed.” She didn’t smile back. “I believe I told you I love you.”

“Aye, you did, at that. Although you could have sounded a wee bit happier about it.”

“Should I say it again?”

“Aye, I’d like to hear it.”

“Very well.” Her lips twitched, but she didn’t release the sheet. “I love you, Ewan Alexander Ardmore Macrae. I must be as mad as
my father, but you’ve carved a place in my heart that belongs to you alone.”

He nodded with satisfaction. “That’s better.”

She cast him a sidelong glance. Dear Lord, she’d caught herself an enviable specimen of a man, even if he was far too inclined to tease. “Your
turn, Lord Lyle.”

He heaved a theatrical sigh. “You won’t let me out of this, will you?”

“No.”

His hand crept to the edge of the sheet, until she slapped it away. “I’m gey eager to see what’s under there.”

“You know what you have to do first. Think of this as blackmail.”

“Och, you’ll make a braw countess, Charlotte Warren.”

“So?”

His smile faded, and he kissed her with a depth of emotion that caught her by surprise. She shivered under the wordless worship of his lips. There was
passion—as he’d said, passion was integral to their love—but there was also tenderness, and care, and something that felt like reverence.

By the time he raised his head, she was boneless with longing and radiant with happiness. After that kiss, he didn’t have to say the words. She knew
he loved her.

Dazzled she stared up at him, lost in cobalt eyes. While she was distracted, he’d swept the sheet aside, and she lay naked to his view. She
didn’t mind. With such trust between them, there was no room for shame. She basked in the searing sweep of his gaze. Her nipples tightened, and that
now familiar heaviness weighted her belly.

She waited in trembling anticipation for him to pounce. But his hand cupped one breast with the same reverence he’d betrayed in his kiss, and his
expression was somber as he stared into her eyes. “I love you, Charlotte. I’ll love you forever.”

She’d asked for the declaration. Yet still it had the power to punch her hard in the heart. She blinked away stinging tears and spoke in a choked
voice. “Show me.”

Charlotte stopped at the ancient stone bridge that crossed the brook flowing down the hill behind the house. The narrow structure was covered in weed and
slime after recent submersion, but to her regret, passable.

“I’d hoped it might still be underwater,” she said sadly, tightening her grip on Ewan’s hand. Bill who had bounded in their wake
all the way, wandered off to snuffle through last autumn’s rotting leaves.

“It’s only for a day,
mo chridhe
,” Ewan said, and she heard that he, too, struggled to accept their parting, however short.

He led the bay mare. She was loaded with the initialed leather luggage that had doomed his halfhearted attempt to play plain Mr. Smith. Around them, the
world was fresh and fragrant and newly washed. The sun crept above the horizon, thickening the light under the trees. The air was cold, but smelled of
spring.

“You never told me what that means,” she said, knowing he should go, yet not ready to say goodbye.

The tenderness in his smile squished her heart into a ball of sentimental goo. “Aye, I did.”

“When?” She was sure she’d remember if he had. She intended to remember every detail of the last two days until her dying breath.

The faint glint in his eyes, visible even through the gloom, hinted at teasing. “I’m devastated that you’ve forgotten so fast,
lassie.”

“Tell me,” she said, fighting the urge to fling herself against him and beg him not to go, scandal be hanged.

“Why, it means ‘my heart,’ and you already know that’s true.”

“Oh.” Tears misted her vision. She’d become disgustingly weepy since she’d met Lord Lyle.

“I’ll have to teach you the Gaelic, if you’re going to be a proper Scotswoman.”

She strove to match his lightness. “I’m not sure how useful it will be. I can’t run around calling your crofters my heart.”

“It will be devilish useful when you talk to the laird, my darling.”

She tried to smile, but her face crumpled. “I wish you didn’t have to leave.”

Compassion softened his features, and he released the reins to tug her against his chest. “I wish I didn’t, too. But for the sake of your good
name, I must.”

“How can it be so hard to let you go when we only just met?” Charlotte choked out against the steady thump of his heart, twining her arms
around his waist and pressing close as if nearness might make him stay. Saraband’s bit clinked as the horse began to nose at the muddy grass.

“Och, it’s a glorious mystery,” he murmured. “Now, kiss me goodbye, before I forget all sense and rush you down this hill and back
to bed.”

Their kiss was long and poignant, but vivid with the joy of love found and returned. It held echoes of the splendors of the night just passed.

Charlotte felt Ewan’s regret as he raised his head. “Until tomorrow, bonny lassie.”

“I love you.”

“And I love you.”

He bent for another kiss, then swung himself onto Saraband’s back. The horse, restless after two days in the stable, danced under his weight, but
settled after Ewan’s Gaelic command.

He caught up the reins. “Prepare yourself for a quick wedding, my sweet Charlotte.”

“I will.” She came up to the horse and he leaned down to kiss her again. Deeply, and with all the longing that vibrated between them.

He caught her face in one hand and angled it toward him. “Go, or I won’t be responsible for the consequences.”

“Travel safely,” she whispered, placing her hand over his. Even through the fine leather of his gloves, she felt the warmth of the contact.

“When I come back, we’ll never be parted again.”

He straightened in the saddle and set his jaw. She knew he had to go. Better by far if the gossiping world didn’t know they’d been together
during the flood.

But dear heaven, how she hated to see him ride away when she’d only just found him. She’d been right to say love made you cry. Tears trickled
down her cheeks as she stood in the woods long after Saraband’s hoof beats faded to nothing.