Stranded With The Scottish Earl (7 page)

And his kisses had come close to demolishing every scrap of her resistance.

“How is it you’ve never been to London?” Lyle asked idly.

Despite Charlotte’s intention to keep her distance, she found herself sharing the couch in front of the fire with Lord Lyle. She finished the last of
the wine while he enjoyed a glass of her father’s best port. The earl wasn’t touching her. He’d been a perfect gentleman all night,
something that shouldn’t rankle. But she was far too conscious of his arm stretched along the back of the chair behind her.

“I’ve run the estate since I was fifteen.” She set her glass on a side table without shifting away from Lyle. “I’m busy
enough here without going anywhere else.”

“Still, a bonny lassie like you must have wanted a season, to show off in the latest fashions, and dance all night, and dazzle society’s
laddies. When they were younger, my sisters never shut up about it.”

She shrugged and rested her hand on Bill’s head. He snoozed between them, not much of a chaperone. Bill was usually wary of strangers. But given how
fast Lyle had won her over, she could forgive her dog’s capitulation. “What would be the point? I don’t want to marry.”

Lyle eyed her curiously. “You’re very adamant.”

“Yes, I am.” To her chagrin, not as adamant as she’d been before opening her door to a certain Mr. Smith.

“Why?”

“My lord…” she said in a quelling tone.

His hand curved around her shoulder. “I’m just trying to understand.”

“You’re also…touching me,” she said, feeling absurd.

“A mere friendly gesture, my dear Miss Warren.” Even through her woolen dress, the contact set her skin tingling. She told herself to move,
stand up, go upstairs to bed, but the commands had no power, and she remained where she was. To preserve her pride, she gave a little wriggle to prove she
wasn’t completely under his spell. She hoped he found her attempt more convincing than she did.

He trailed a finger down her neck, making her shiver. She’d had no idea that was such a sensitive area until he’d kissed her there. “Now,
don’t go all missish on me.”

“As long as you don’t go all rakish on me,” she retorted.

“If you keep squirming, you’ll upset Bill. Not to mention you’re giving me indigestion. Which seems a sad end to a lovely evening.”

“Oh, you’re impossible,” she sighed, even as she leaned her head back on his powerful forearm. Warmth surrounded her, delicious,
alluring, subtly threatening to the woman she’d always believed herself to be. She tried to blame the wine, but the fault lay in Lord Lyle’s
compelling company, rather than in mere liquor.

“That’s better,” he said with a rumble of satisfaction, stretching his long legs out toward the hearth.

Charlotte waited for him to press his advantage, but he closed his eyes and rested his head back. Never had she seen a man look so contented. She stole the
opportunity to study him without having to fend off that bright, interested gaze.

When he’d turned up out of the pouring rain, she’d thought him handsome. No woman with eyes in her head would disagree. These hours in his
company had only confirmed his physical appeal. Perhaps because she now knew the taste of that expressive mouth and how readily his lips could curve into a
smile. Her fingers clenched into her skirts, much as they’d clenched into the cool silk of his black hair, hair with an endearing propensity to fall
over his high forehead.

Her fascinated inspection traced the hard, spare lines of his cheekbones and jaw. Even in a newspaper sketch, his striking good looks had been apparent.

Now she saw so much more. Intelligence. Kindness. Humor.

The thick black lashes shadowing his cheeks lifted, and he turned his head toward her. When she met that dark blue gaze, the world stopped, and an odd,
echoing silence surrounded her.

“Seen enough?” he asked softly.

She flushed. Heavens, she’d blushed more since meeting Ewan Macrae than she had in the last year. It was an effort to speak. It was even more of an
effort to keep her voice steady. “Best to know your enemy.”

Every time he smiled, her pulses leaped in the most extraordinary way. This time was no different. “Daft lass, I’m not your enemy.”

“Opponent, then,” she conceded.

“Better,” he whispered and leaned forward to brush his lips across hers.

For a dazzling instant, she tasted port and sweet breath, sinfully familiar after his earlier kisses. Except this was different. The kiss was undemanding
and tender, as if he stroked a finger across a budded rose to test the petals’ softness.

Like that rose, she opened to him.

Instead of deepening the kiss—mortifying how keenly she longed for his passion—he lifted his head. “Lover would be even better.”

She stared at him, while her sluggish brain struggled to make sense of what was happening to her. She should be offended. Or frightened. But instead female
curiosity kept her silent.

Then Bill gave a yip of canine reproach at all the wriggling and jumped to the Turkey carpet before the fire.

Lyle joined her laughter. “Our chaperone has spoken.”

“I shouldn’t kiss you.” Charlotte slipped free of the sensual net and sat up, smoothing her chignon. “It’s not fair, when I
won’t be your wife, and I can’t risk becoming anything else.”

Lyle didn’t have to say a word. She knew he heard and noted that she never denied wanting to be his lover.

His kisses were the most powerful experience of her life. Even in her innocence, she knew he’d give her pleasure beyond her wildest imaginings. But
she was a virtuous woman and a virgin, and she cringed at the thought of conceiving a child out of wedlock.

Sometimes she hated being sensible.

“Tell me why you’re so set against marriage, Miss Warren.” He frowned. “Be damned if I’ll call a woman I’ve kissed Miss
Warren. Let me call you Charlotte.”

She shook her head. “Formalities are safer.”

His smile told her he thought she was crackbrained. Given her ardent response to his caresses, she had to agree. “Even if I’ve had you half out
of your dress?”

Could her cheeks get any hotter? “A gentleman wouldn’t mention that.”

“Perhaps not. But I dare any man, however well-bred, to forget that glorious moment.”

The awful truth was that the moment had been glorious for her, too. She’d never felt so alive. Or so beautiful. Or so powerful, even as she’d
surrendered to the astonishing sensations.

He drew her closer and she, to her shame, curled into him. She was just as mutton-headed as Bill, who sat on the carpet and gazed adoringly up at his new
god. “So, marriage, Miss Warren?”

The suspicion that her expression was as vapid as her brainless hound’s sparked a revival of spirit. “Is that a proposal?”

He laughed comfortably and tucked her closer. The delicious scent of clean male enveloped her. “No.”

“Good.”

“When I propose, you’ll be in no doubt of my intentions.”

Even through her contentment—how pleasant on a cold night to nestle in a man’s strong arms—that stirred a prickle of alarm.
“I’ll say no.”

“That is your right.”

“Why on earth should I marry?” Charlotte asked, then rushed on before Lyle reminded her that if they married, he could kiss her every day.
Right now, in his embrace, that argument had a power she’d never have credited this morning. “I’m in charge of my own destiny. I answer
to no man but my father, and he lets me have my way in most things. I have money, and rewarding work, and a place in the world. A husband would never
permit such freedom.”

“So fear of a husband curtailing your independence keeps you lonely.”

She winced. “Lonely is such a prejudicial word. I’d rather be lonely than a slave.”

To her chagrin, he laughed. “You underestimate my sex, Miss Warren.”

“Do I? Most men want a conformable wife.”

“I can well imagine a lily-livered coward shying away from taking you on. But don’t try to tell me that you haven’t had your chances. I
refuse to believe that every man in Hampshire is blind and stupid. Unless thin English blood is to blame.”

“You forget I’ve got thin English blood.”

He smiled. “There’s nothing thin about your blood, lassie. Perhaps that’s why it takes a proud Scot to see your true worth. I don’t
want a milk-and-water miss at my side. I want a woman of strength and fire. A woman like you.”

Shocked, she struggled to sit up. He’d started out with the familiar teasing, but purpose had resonated through that declaration.
“Nobody’s ever said anything like that to me before.”

“I want a wife to share my joys and troubles.” His Scottish burr deepened with every word. “I want a wife who meets a challenge with a
sparkle in her eyes. I want a wife who gives me a run for my money.”

Inside her, something cold and cramped unfurled. “Words are cheap,” she said, as much to quash her yearning, as to dampen the urgency that
turned his blue eyes to sapphire.

“Mine aren’t.”

“I don’t want to marry,” she said almost frantically, pushing away and struggling to her feet. “You can’t make me.”

“You mistake me, Charlotte.” He didn’t try to catch her, and his smile was gentle. She had a humiliating feeling that he saw through her
belligerence to the confused and frightened girl beneath. “You’re not a woman to be bullied, even if I could stomach playing the
autocrat.”

“But you
are
bullying me,” she said, knowing she was unfair. She backed away on unsteady legs, stretching a shaking hand toward the
sideboard behind her.

He shook his dark head. “No,
mo chridhe
. You mistake me. I’m courting you.”

“I don’t want to be courted.” For pity’s sake, could she sound any more panicked?

“Try it. You might like it.”

She’d like it far too much. “I don’t know you.”

He kept smiling. “That’s the purpose of courtship, my love.”

Oh, he was a devil. A cunning, conniving,
Scottish
devil. He must know how that soft endearment rippled through her, demolishing all defenses.

“You’re wasting your time.” She wanted to sound resolute, but her declaration emerged as a whimper.

“It’s my time.” He studied her as he stood up. “And I’d hardly say it’s wasted. I can’t remember enjoying
anyone’s company as much as I have yours.”

“You must lead a very dull life, then,” she snapped, grateful to sound more like her forthright self.

“Hardly, but today has been exceptional. We’ve had natural disasters and revelations and kisses and laughter and arguments and a shared meal,
delightful for both fare and conversation. I feel like we’ve already shared a lifetime, yet it’s only midnight on our first day. I’m agog
to discover what tomorrow holds.”

“With luck, the rain will stop and I can send you back where you came from.”

He didn’t take her seriously. She couldn’t blame him. “Och, but you’re a stalwart lassie.”

“No, I’m a tired lassie,” she retorted. “It’s late and I’m going to bed.”

“Sleep well,” he said and reached for her.

She jumped like a frightened rabbit. “What are you doing?”

He collected a candle from the sideboard behind her. “I’ll light you back to your room.”

“How…polite,” she said, wanting to insist she could manage. But when she met his urbane expression, the churlish response shriveled to
nothing. She turned to bank down the fire, cursing the weather, stranded Scottish earls, and her own weakness.

“Miss Warren?” He gestured toward the door when she’d finished.

He’d called her Charlotte. Once. Without her permission. That soft Scots lilt turned her name into music. Despite everything, she couldn’t help
regretting the decorous “Miss Warren.”

They crossed the cavernous hall, Bill’s nails clicking on the ancient tiles, then climbed the imposing stairs. Silence and shadows loomed about them.
Not threatening. She’d lived in this house all her life. Any ghosts at Bassington Grange were friendly. But the air vibrated with a strange
expectation, as if with every breath, something significant inched closer.

When they reached her room, Lyle waited as she brought out a candle for him to light from his.

“Good night, Miss Warren.”

Was that it?

“Good night, my lord,” she whispered. Of course she wouldn’t succumb to seduction, but it was lowering to realize that there was no
seduction to resist.

Breathless, surprised, humiliatingly frustrated, she lingered outside her room and watched him disappear down the endless hallway, the light of his candle
melting into the darkness.

For very good reasons, she’d placed him in the bedroom farthest from hers. How perverse now to feel forlorn that he was so far away. “Lord
Lyle?”

He glanced back. Did she imagine his sudden alertness? “Aye, Miss Warren?”

“I want to ask you something.” This delay was risky, but she wasn’t quite ready to let him go.

“Anything.”

She struggled to think of a question that wouldn’t end with her flat on her back with him on top of her. “What does the A.A. stand for?”

“What?”

“In your monogram.”

An attractive note of self-mockery deepened his laugh. “Oh.”

“Well?”

“Alexander Ardmore.”

“Grand names,” she said softly, meaning it.

“Aye, names to set a mere lassie atremble,” he said, and even across the distance, she felt the warmth in his flashing smile. She clutched the
doorknob to stop herself running after him and begging for a kiss.

For a long moment, he stared back. She had the uncanny feeling that he guessed how she wavered between prudence and recklessness. Then he turned away.

Once Lyle was out of sight, Bill trotted back to her. “You’re an easy mark, my fine fellow. At least one of us has some backbone.”

The terrier’s expression indicated skepticism. Maybe he wasn’t quite as brainless as she thought.

Charlotte awoke to darkness. She had no idea of the time, but the fire had burned down to a dull glow. Wind rattled the windows. Perhaps that had disturbed
her, but she didn’t think so. When she rolled over, she made out Bill’s white shape in front of the closed door. Even through the gloom, she
noted his watchfulness.