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The Scot
Lyn Stone


SHE WAS A WOMAN WITH IDEAS…AND THAT WAS TROUBLE!All the same, James Garrow found himself wildly attracted to Lady Susanna Childers. True, their wedded union arose from mutual need–with no mention of love. Yet the longer he knew his firebrand bride–the greater grew his desire…!She was deep in the Highlands, a long way from London Society. Still, Susanna Childers vowed to make the best of the bargain she had struck with the enigmatic laird who was now her husband. Besides, he had saved her life once and would again, if need be. So love didn't matter–or did it?







“What are you doing?”

Susanna yelped, jerking her head around so fast she slung a shower of water out of her long wet hair. She scrunched the thick toweling closer, hastily covering as much of her as possible. “Get out of here!”

Her husband leaned against the door frame, biting back a grin. It shone like devilment in his eyes as his gaze traveled the length of her. “Pardon the intrusion,” he said, so insincerely she wished she had something to throw at him.

Fortunately for him, she had nothing near enough but the bar of soap on the ledge. She was tempted. “Get out of here immediately!”

One shoulder shrugged. “You’ve seen me in the natural state. Turnabout’s fair, eh?” He paused while he looked his fill.

Susanna shivered. Her teeth chattered. She was not that cold at the moment. But she was furious…!


Praise for LYN STONE’s recent titles

The Highland Wife

“…laced with lovable characters, witty dialogue,

humor and poignancy, this is a tale to savor.”

—Romantic Times

Bride of Trouville

“I could not stop reading this one….

Don’t miss this winner!”

—Affaire de Coeur

The Knight’s Bride

“Stone has done herself proud with this

delightful story…a cast of endearing characters

and a fresh, innovative plot.”

—Publishers Weekly

#644 THE MIDWIFE’S SECRET

Kate Bridges

#645 FALCON’S DESIRE

Denise Lynn

#646 THE LAW AND KATE MALONE

Charlene Sands


The Scot

Lyn Stone






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Available from Harlequin Historicals and LYN STONE

The Wicked Truth #358

The Arrangement #389

The Wilder Wedding #413

The Knight’s Bride #445

Bride of Trouville #467

One Christmas Night #487

My Lady’s Choice #511

The Highland Wife #551

The Quest #588

Marrying Mischief #601

Gifts of the Season #631

“Christmas Charade”

The Scot #643

Other works include:

Silhouette Intimate Moments

Beauty and the Badge #952

Live-In Lover #1055

A Royal Murder #1172


This book is in memory of my father, Harlan Perkins, who allowed me to make my own decisions, congratulated me when they were right and never said, “I told you so” when they were wrong.




Contents


Chapter One (#u5760fc93-5191-5649-935f-492fd938f315)

Chapter Two (#u9938f431-6dc2-5901-8621-b2e561b22d77)

Chapter Three (#u76b479de-693c-5790-b523-ab0b535a6521)

Chapter Four (#u5f8ad92a-a944-531d-ba46-28de44acf84f)

Chapter Five (#u510ee534-0803-5fb9-8101-a2419dfe228f)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)




Chapter One


Edinburgh, 1856

James Garrow slowly rotated his second tankard of ale with a thumb and forefinger as he mentally tallied the British pounds he had accrued during the past fortnight. A mere fraction of what was needed to carry the remnant of his clan through until next summer, but still better than he had anticipated. Stonework didn’t pay much, but with all the new construction, it was steady. His hard-won degrees in the study of architecture were doing him precious little good.

He glanced around, grimacing ruefully at his surroundings. The Hog and Truffle Inn, despite its earthy name, did furnish clean sheets, fairly decent meals and passable ale. His private room here would have fit neatly into his garderobe back home, but the loneliness of the city not-withstanding, he’d rather have a small space than share one with a stranger. God, he’d be glad to return to the Highlands. Before the first snow, he promised himself.

His ears perked as he heard a name mentioned at the table behind him. Eastonby. The earl? James slouched back in his chair so that he was a few inches nearer and listened to the muted conversation with interest.

“His girl’s with him, I hear,” a rough voice whispered.

“So much the better,” another answered in kind, the accent soft and cultured.

“Cause an outcry the like of which you ain’t never heard,” the other warned. “Killin’ a man’s one thing, but—”

“You want the money?” came the silky question. “Then you do as I say. There’ll be the woman.” An enticement that drew a suggestive growl.

“We’ll take ’im on the road to York, then?”

A deep-throated chuckle, then the almost inaudible confirmation. “As soon as he clears the city. And no one survives. Is that clear?”

The same voice, the well-spoken one, then gave the exact location of what James understood as a planned assassination and continued to discuss the details of what needed to be done.

Were the men bloody drunk to bandy plans such as this in a public room? He noted the rest of the clientele who were few in number, deep in their cups and sitting far enough away they could not possibly have overheard. He was not that close by himself, but his own hearing was such that folk generally marveled at it.

Since he had yet to see their faces, James wondered how he could manage without getting up, walking halfway around their table and alerting them to the fact that he had heard what they said.

Instead, he quietly sat up, then leaned forward on the table and slid off to the floor in a heap, raking his tankard in a wide arc as he fell.

As he’d expected, the men who had been speaking jerked around to see what had caused the commotion. Cursing him and complaining loudly about the ale splash, they rose. James grinned up at them through half-closed eyes until he’d set their faces in his mind, then sighed loudly and feigned an unconscious stupor. The smaller of the two kicked him soundly in the leg, but he lay still. Then they stalked out of the pub, still bellyaching about being splattered.

He had recognized neither of them. When the door slammed behind them, James rolled to his side and made a show of struggling to his feet. Stumbling drunkenly out the back way as if to answer nature’s call, he dropped the guise once outside and managed to reach the front of the inn just as the men separated. He kept to the shadows and followed the toff. Eastonby should be warned.

The next morning, James arose quite early, dressed in his best suit and set out for the palace, hoping the earl had not yet left, if indeed that was where he was staying. A peer would likely have a standing invitation there, James thought.

As it happened, the earl was not a guest in the palace, but James was able to verify that the man was still in the city.

After a good deal of trouble and a long walk through the city, James found himself impatiently waiting to be granted an audience with Eastonby at the Royal Arms Hotel.

He reminded himself repeatedly why saving an English earl who starved his tenants and neglected his estate was a worthwhile endeavor. But there was also a female at risk, he recalled. James couldn’t leave without doing what he could to prevent her murder.

“This way,” ordered a liveried employee who had let him upstairs to the third floor and knocked on the door. When they were prompted to enter, James followed the man into a well-appointed sitting room where sat a distinguished gray-haired gentleman at a large writing desk blotting the signature on some sort of document. “Mr. Garrow, my lord,” said the footman as he backed out the room. The earl continued what he was doing.

Through the doorway to another chamber of the suite, James spied a red-haired lass curled in a chair reading a book.

At first he thought her but a half-grown bairn since he saw the chair in profile. She sat crossways, her back against the one arm and her legs draped over the other, facing him. All he could see was her bowed head, with its bonny mass of fiery ringlets over the top of the open book which rested on her knees. Swinging idly from the snowy mass of petticoats were slender ankles and small stockinged feet. She wiggled her toes.

That must be the girl the men meant to kill and worse. She looked up from her page and James smiled at her. She frowned back, immediately hopped up, strode to the door and firmly shut it. She was no bairn, he realized, but a woman indeed. A bonny one at that, of some twenty years more or less.

The man at the desk seemed hardly more eager to acknowledge a guest than the lass had been. Since James had no more time to waste here, he took the initiative. “Are you Lord Eastonby, then?” he asked.

The man turned, put aside his pen, took an impatient breath and confirmed his identity. “I am. State your business. Mr. Garrow, is it?”

“Aye, laird of Galioch, which is hard by your place in the North.”

“Drevers?” the earl asked.

“Aye, but that’s not why I’ve come. I chanced to o’erhear a threat to you last eve and took it upon myself to warn you.”

The earl’s mouth twisted in a wry expression. “And I am to reward you richly for this information, I suppose?”

James took a deep breath and tamped down his anger. Some people were born suspicious, he reckoned. He shouldn’t cast any stones since he was none too trusting himself. “Nay, I’ll not require coin for doing what I think’s right. There’s a plan to waylay you at Solly’s Copse outside the city and do away with you and whoever’s with you.” He glanced meaningfully toward the door the lass had closed. “They mentioned a woman.”

The earl’s eyes widened in surprise. He shoved back his chair and stood, approaching James, searching his face as if to discover a lie. “You are certain of this?”

“Aye. Two men conspired in it. One resides at Shipman’s Inn and goes by the name of Ensmore. Sounded educated to me, but the publican there didn’t know his rank. I could only follow the one, so I don’t know the other, but he’s a common man, rough speakin’. And prone to meanness,” James added, recalling the kick he had suffered. “Do what you will with the warning. Good day.”

James turned to leave, his honor satisfied. He had already missed two hours’ work and needed to get back to the building site.

“Wait!” the earl demanded.

“Hire a few outriders and arm yourself. You’ll be fine,” James assured him. “Good luck.”

“Stop! You cannot simply march in here with an announcement such as that and then leave!” Eastonby declared.

“I can and must, sir. There’s no call to detain me. I’ve said what I came to say.”

All of a sudden the earl became friendly, forced a smile and gestured to the chairs grouped near the fireplace. “Come now, I admit I was a trifle hasty to dismiss your information in such a fashion. Do forgive me if I insulted you. Allow me to offer you a drink at the very least, by way of thanks.”

“Too early for liquor and I canna stomach tea,” James declared, impatient to take his leave.

“I implore you,” the earl coaxed. “Stay a while. I need to hear more about this.”

Resigned to missing at least another hour wielding his chisel and files, James acceded to the earl’s wishes and took a seat in one of the fine brocade chairs the man had indicated. He succinctly related every word he had heard at the inn’s public room and what he had discovered about the man who made the plans.

The earl nodded, leaning forward and giving James his full and undivided attention. Again, but sincerely this time, he offered a reward. “Won’t you accept something for your trouble last evening? You did go out of your way and most likely have saved my life as well as my child’s. I truly owe you, Garrow.”

“Nay, I said I’ll take naught and I meant it.” James glanced down at his own scarred and callused hands when he noted his host staring at them.

“You work hard for a living, I see,” the man observed.

“True enough.”

“If you do not mind my asking, what is it that you do?”

Since he asked kindly and seemed genuinely interested, James saw no cause to avoid the answer. It was honorable work. “I’m a stone carver.”

“And also laird of this…Galioch, was it? You need the added income to maintain your estate?”

“Aye, I do that.” He could see the earl’s mind at work, wondering how to settle what he considered payment of a debt without offending. “You owe me nothing,” James insisted, “but there is another matter I might as well take up now the chance presents itself. I wouldn’t take it amiss if you saw to feeding your folk at Drevers. I confess this has been a wee drain on our resources at Galioch.”

“My folk?” The earl frowned. “What do you mean, feed them? Mr. Colin, my steward there provides for these people.”

James stood. “Aye, well, he collects their rents and the wool at shearing time, is all. Most of ’em have left the country, but there’s a few won’t give up what they’ve considered theirs for centuries. I canna let ’em starve. If you won’t see to ’em, then I must. They’re my neighbors, y’see. Many are good friends.”

The consternation on the earl’s face told James more than anything he could have said in his defense.

“I swear this is news to me, Garrow,” he said, shaking his head as he motioned for James to sit again. “I’ve not been to Drevers since I first inherited when I was twenty. What else should I know? You seem an honest man and you’ve done me a great favor already. Please, be frank, and do me another.”

“Well, your place is in sad repair. To be honest, mine’s worse, but I do all I can to see my people have what they need. Yours, as well, but a bit of food’s about the best I can manage these days.”

Eastonby sighed loud and long. For a good while he said nothing, but looked James straight in the eye. “You are obviously a man of honor and compassion. You have the title, I presume?”

“Baron, fourteenth of the name. Granted by King James. Named for him like all the eldest sons in my family.”

“Garrow, you say. My father was acquainted with your grandfather, I believe,” the earl commented. “Are you Catholic?”

James hesitated, shrugged, then admitted, “Not so’s you’d notice.”

Silence reigned for a moment. “Are you married?”

“Nay.” He refused to confess the why of that. Not many women would welcome a home at Galioch or a husband gone half the year, laboring like a peasant to fill the larders. “Why do you ask?”

The earl smiled. “Garrow, I think you and I can strike a bargain that will benefit us both. Are you game to give a listen?”

James nodded. He thought he knew what Eastonby would propose and it made good sense to him. Being awarded the stewardship of the earl’s estate in Colin’s stead would certainly be preferable to the six months James had to spend working in Edinburgh each year. No one would regret the departure of Frank Colin, either. As for asking his marital status, the earl must want a family man to run the place now that his bachelor steward had not worked out. “What do you have in mind, sir?”

“I will deed Drevers to you in its entirety, Garrow, if you will marry my daughter, Susanna,” the earl announced proudly as if he’d found the solution to peace in the world.

James asked the first thing that came to mind. “What’s wrong with her?”

In the room adjacent, Susanna Childers listened, her ear pressed shamelessly to the door. At her father’s words, she squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth until they ached. She moved away from the door then, unwilling to listen further and hear the accounting of what Father considered her misdeeds.

She knew she had only herself to blame for landing in Edinburgh, but Father had no right to marry her off to a Highlander. The scandal in London would blow over like the ill wind it was and she could go home again. Eventually. But not if she were wed and buried in the bleak hills to the north with that lot of wild savages. She’d heard tales of how those people lived!

For a moment, she considered storming into the room and protesting so vehemently, the Scot would run for his very life. But before her hand reached the doorhandle, Susanna reconsidered. Such a display would only prove her father’s accusations of impetuosity and arrogance. It would serve her much better if she approached him later and pleaded like a penitent, she supposed.

The very thought went against everything she stood for. Women should take an unyielding stand against men ruling their lives and treating them like possessions. Hadn’t she preached that to anyone who’d listen?

However, saying as much in public had gotten her into this predicament in the first place. And last evening’s game of cards hadn’t helped her cause at all. She should never have bet with her father, much less wagered her freedom to choose her own future. Now she would either have to throw herself on his mercy and beg him to recant his offer of her hand, or she must honor the wager, make good on her loss and marry that man in the next room.

No question. She would beg for all she was worth. If he would only change his mind about this particular choice of husbands, she would promise Father he could choose any man in England for her. She would swear to accept that man with grace and dignity and keep her unruly mouth shut. Anything would be better than living in a dirt-floored bothy and eating oats and mutton every meal. God only knew what those people expected of their women, but it could hardly be anything she’d be willing to provide.

The door opened and she all but fell into the sitting room.

“Susanna,” her father said, a note of censure in his voice, “join us if you will.”

The Scot was biting his lips together, stifling a grin. His green eyes were alight with merriment. She wanted to throw a vase at his head. Instead, she straightened, raised her chin and stared him down.

“May I present my daughter, Lady Susanna Childers. Susanna, this is Baron James Garrow, laird of Galioch,” her father intoned, aware she had listened at the door and already knew very well who the man was. The man knew it, too, and seemed to find it highly amusing.

“Charmed.” Susanna only inclined her head instead of a formal curtsy. Probably a mistake, given her father’s frown.

The Scot bowed gracefully. “Likewise.”

Apparently someone along the way had taught him a few manners, Susanna decided. Not enough, however, to employ her customary title or to dress properly for a call. Or to observe the accepted hours for calling, for that matter. True, he had done them a great service by warning them of possible attack, so she supposed he could be forgiven for that breach of etiquette.

“Entertain our guest for a few moments, Susanna. I will return shortly.”

“Father, wait!” She put out a hand to grasp his sleeve, but the look he gave her stopped the motion. She swallowed the urge to shout a refusal and stamp her foot, knowing how useless—not to mention humiliating—it would be to defy him publicly. That would seal her fate for certain. If she kept her wits, she might yet change his mind.

The door closed behind him. There was nothing for it but to play this out. She turned to the Scot. “So, are you enjoying your holiday in Edinburgh?”

“Holiday?” He smiled, a singularly bold expression that set her teeth on edge. Then he inclined his head and his gaze toward the bedroom door. “Is it your hearing that’s faulty, lass, or was the door too thick?”

She held on to her look of bland innocence. “I fear I do not take your meaning, sir.”

The man sighed, looking around the chamber and everywhere but at her. “Well, I’d wager my last groat you heard the whole conversation. Not that I’m blaming you for listening, mind. What I canna ken is why you havena thrown a fit about it.” Then he settled that curious green gaze on her. “Are you that desperate to marry, then?”

Susanna could scarcely draw breath she was so angry. It absolutely stuck in her throat preventing speech.

He ignored her silent glare and continued, “I admit I could use a wife.”

“You could use the estate my father offered you to take me off his hands!” she snapped. “Can you possibly understand how insulting this is? And how dangerous for me even to consider?”

“Dangerous?” His eyebrows flew up.

“Yes, dangerous! Do you think I’m not aware that when a woman marries, everything she owns or inherits or earns then belongs to her husband to do with as he alone decides? Why, he can even do with her person what he will! Why should I beggar myself and accept what amounts to enslavement?”

“Ah, Mrs. Wollstonecraft speaks, I see.”

Susanna’s gaze flew to his. “You have read her views?”

“Nay, but I’ve heard of ’em. I had no hand in making the laws she spoke about,” he argued. “’Tis true enough, they are not fair, and I’m sorry for it, but—”

“How dare you pity me, you wretch!” she warned, her chest now rising and falling so rapidly, she thought she might faint. She fisted her hands in her gown to keep from flying at him in a rage.

“Well, I do, lass,” he admitted. “I’ve great sympathy for any woman saddled with the choice you’re facing.” He stopped for a moment to think, then seemed to come to some decision. “Runnin’ a place the size of Drevers is no small thing. If we marry, I’ll see to it your father puts the place in your name.”

Susanna scoffed. “A precious lot of good that would do. You know a wife cannot possess her own property.”

“But you will. I promise I’ll deed it back to you alone. I think it can be done. All I’m wantin’ is the stewardship and a fair wage for my trouble. I’ve people to feed and you’ll have the same responsibility if you agree to this.”

“Ha!” She threw up her hands. “What makes you think I would trust you? I do not even know you, sir!”

“Because I give you my word. Were I a slave to greed, I’d not be here, forfeiting this day’s pay. And I’d be demandin’ a reward, aye?”

Her skirts swished around her ankles as she began to pace. “You’re a madman! My father must be mad as well!”

The Scot laughed. “Neither of us as mad as you, judging by the fire in your eyes. Bonny eyes, too, despite the fury in ’em.”

She halted directly in front of him, hands on hips. “Why are you even considering marriage to me? Do you know what hell I could impose on your life, Garrow? Can you even imagine it?”

Gently, he answered, “I’ve had a fair warning. Tell me, do you gamble?”

She blinked. “Gamble?” After that last ill-fated game of cards with her father, she would never touch another deck of cards as long as she lived. Or perhaps the Scot was speaking of the risk she’d be taking to marry him. “Absolutely not! I leave nothing to chance,” she declared heatedly.

“Then we’ll suit,” he said with a succinct nod.

When she opened her mouth to speak, he grasped her shoulders and kissed her soundly. Shock held her still long enough to feel the heady warmth and taste the sweet, coffee flavor as his tongue touched hers. For some strange reason, she lacked the will to raise her fists and do him an injury. No one had ever kissed her in such a way. And he wasn’t stopping.

Quite stunned and cursing her overwhelmed senses, Susanna pulled back. He released her immediately.

Instead of the self-satisfied, lecherous grin she expected to see, he wore a look of what appeared to be humility. “Marry me, Susanna Childers. I promise on my honor I will do all I can to provide you the freedom you wish. That any lass with your braw spirit deserves.”

Freedom. So he had divined what she wanted most.

Suddenly, she understood why he was offering the thing she most desired. “It is you,” she whispered, eyes narrowed as she observed him keenly. “You are the one who is desperate!”

“Aye,” he admitted softly, his smile wry. “’Tis true enough I am that.” Then, on a practical note, he added, “You canna go back to London and your da won’t be leaving you here alone. Did you hear? He says you’ve the choice of me or your cousin in York with all those bairns for you to mind. There, I much doubt you’ll have any say in what you do. With me, there’ll be none to answer to, save myself.”

“York? No, I missed that part.” She backed up to a chair and sat down to mull it over. “Botheration!” He was right about Cousin Matilda. She was a martinet and her four children were absolute hellions. Susanna looked up at the Scot again. But how could she live in the Highlands with nothing but strangers around her? How could she live with a man who could steal her senses with a simple kiss?

She exhaled in despair. But she really misliked those children of Matilda’s and her cousin’s husband was a leering old fool who chased the maids around like a randy schoolboy. She hardly fancied his probable attentions.

The Highlander just stood there, his hands clasped behind him, patiently awaiting her decision. “We would have a marriage in name only, of course,” she informed him succinctly.

He slowly shook his head. “Nay, lass. I am not quite that desperate.”

She swallowed hard, imagining what would be required of her. Though not precisely sure of the exact details, she knew it would not be pleasant. She had heard whispers. “But you would give me time…time to adjust. Time to know you?” She hated the pleading note in her voice.

“All the time you need,” he promised, then qualified it, “within reason. I will be needin’ heirs sooner or later, and so will you. Who’ll take the earldom after your father if not your son? He told me you’re nearin’ twenty-five and I’m close on to thirty myself. Won’t do to wait years, but there’s no powerful rush to it.”

She rose from the chair, feeling at a disadvantage having to look up at him. Yet when she stood, she still had to do that. He was incredibly tall. And well made, she noticed, trying to assess him in rather the same way she would a horse to be purchased.

His features were pleasing, especially the dark-fringed green eyes and mobile mouth that seemed to smile quite readily. And kiss exquisitely, she recalled with reluctance. Someone had broken his nose, giving it a hawk like character. Yes, she had to admit that the Scot was handsome in a rough-cut sort of way.

His dark wavy hair could stand a trim. For certain, he needed someone to guide him in the purchase of clothing. That suit was atrocious, his tie crooked and his collar wrinkled.

He did not strike her as terribly intelligent. What man with any sense would risk marrying a woman whose father had listed her numerous shortcomings so willingly and seemed so eager to be rid of her? Well, at any rate, he appeared to be one male she could easily outwit. That was something in his favor, she supposed.

It was a well-known fact among women that children usually inherited intelligence from the mother and physical appearance from the father, so she needn’t fear she’d bear ugly imbeciles when the time came. If it ever did. She would stall for as long as possible, of course.

Aside from that consideration, Susanna knew it was highly unlikely she would find a better bargain down the road in York. There was nothing for it but to take her chances. And pray.

“Very well, I accept your offer of marriage,” she announced in her most businesslike voice. “However, there are conditions.”

“Aye, there will be those,” he agreed. “You go first with yours.”

So surprised that he would allow this, Susanna had to think quickly. “Uh…well, I would require the time we mentioned before. You know, before we…” Her hands were fluttering. She clasped them together in front of her.

He nodded. “Already granted. Have you aught else, then?” he asked politely.

She bit her lips together. “Never impose your will upon me. Freedom to come and go as I please, no questions asked.”

“Come and go where? There’s not much traffic about the Highlands, lass. We’ll be coming down here or to Glasgow once or twice each year, I suppose. Not wise to strike out on your own.”

“Hmm. I am beginning to see why my father thinks this will be beneficial. What are your requirements of me?” she asked.

“No gambling. Loyalty to my people and yours. Faith-fulness,” he said seriously. “And that you be just in your decisions.”

She waited a moment. When he did not add anything, she asked, “Is that all?”

“That’s a fair bit when you think of it, lass.”

“No more than I would have given without your listing. But I have one more thing I require, Lord Garrow.”

“’Tis James,” he informed her, then held out a hand, gesturing for her to make her further demand.

She did, fully expecting him to argue. “You must allow me to speak my mind in all matters to anyone, as I will, without censure, even if you do not agree.”

His teasing smile took her off guard. “Censure? That means punishment, aye?”

“Aye, lad, it does that,” she replied, returning his smile as she shamelessly mimicked his speech.

He shook his head and laughed, a merry sound that made her join him. It felt wonderful to laugh. It felt even better to know she would not have to beg her father for anything, or worry about his criticism, or bow to any man’s wishes, ever again. This one, she could wrap around her finger and do as she pleased. She knew it. At last, she would be free of all the constrictions women had labored beneath for centuries and so, could encourage others.

Her father returned at that moment, sweeping into the room as if prepared to calm the hell broken loose in his absence. He stopped short, obviously puzzled by their gaiety. “What—what have you decided?” he demanded.

“Why, Father, was yer ear not to the door? Or has yer hearin’ gone bad? Jamie and me are betrothed, doncha ken?”

The Scot laughed even harder as he slid one strong arm about her waist, drew her close and soundly planted a kiss on her temple. Susanna permitted it without protest. It wasn’t so bad.

Even if greed for Drevers, desperation for employment, or simple lack of good sense were his motivation, Susanna reveled in the unusual feeling of being wanted. She boldly slipped her arm around him and hugged him back. She meant it for show at first, to taunt her father, but found it felt good to have an ally, even if the Scot was an unwitting one.

Yes, she could manage him with no trouble at all. Within a year, she would have him convinced they should live in London where she could resume her crusade. Her father would have no right to cut it short the next time, and her husband would not gainsay her once she plied her wiles upon him. She did have wiles, she was fairly certain of it.

Who would have thought her luck would reverse itself in such a strange and rapid fashion? There was solid proof her cause was righteous.




Chapter Two


James usually resisted change, but there was little to be said for the status quo in regard to his current situation.

Taking a wife seemed, on the one hand, a reckless thing to do. He could barely support the souls in his care already. However, he doubted Eastonby would grant him the stewardship of Drevers unless he wed the lass.

Working that close to home, without the necessity of leaving for half the year, would surely benefit both himself and the clan. The people of Drevers would certainly be better off for it. He could not afford to question his own preferences when this would affect so many lives beyond his own.

To be honest, he had to admit the idea of the marriage did not exactly put him off. Something about Susanna Childers sparked a sense of anticipation and excitement James had thought dead and buried along with his boyhood. The lass would prove to be an adventure, that was for certain.

He was suddenly aware of his life having been driven by little more than an almost desperate need to meet his responsibilities. What was a wife but one more of those? And yet…

She’d be a handful to tame, this one, he thought with a grin. A glorious handful.

Other than his mother, women had never given him problems. There had been quite a few, admittedly more in his youth than recently, due to the constraints of time and funds to spend on pleasure. Even the most temperamental females he had encountered had usually responded to even-handed reason or, barring that, ready affection.

No cause to believe a wife would react any differently than the rest. He liked women and they seemed to realize that. He also knew better than to love them. He’d made sure they understood that, too.

He had loved his mother, of course. Yet he had remarked what love had done to him and to his father. That man had suffered like the damned in his efforts to please a wife who gauged success by possessions and how many people she could impress by showing them off. Ten years after their deaths, James and the entire clan were still reaping the results of his mother’s love of wagering and her extravagant spending. And his, as well, he admitted.

The last four years of their lives, James himself had made a remarkable dent in the family fortune, gaining his useless education and traveling to acquire the polish of a worldly young noble like the ones his mother admired. He had foolishly believed that improving himself in such a way might gain him her approval, if not her love. Maybe she would point to him with pride one day, he’d thought at the time.

The guilt over that conceit and the cost of it ate at him constantly, even though he hadn’t known at the time how dire the state of the family finances. Well, this marriage and his new position could go a long way in making up for that bit of foolishness.

“Are you an optimist?” Eastonby asked him as if reading his mind.

James rolled his eyes at the thought. “Hardly.”

“Neither am I. But I do think you and Susanna will suit one another or I would not have suggested this. She needs a firm hand, but not a cruel one, Garrow. Most important, I want her out of the way of those trouble-makers in London. That Bodichon woman has nearly ruined our good name, using Susanna to spout all that nonsense about freeing women from their bondage or some such. The papers actually printed my daughter’s name, can you feature that? One knows a proper female is never mentioned in print other than at her marriage and her death! Her mother would have been scandalized.”

“Embarrassed you, did she?” James asked, feeling faintly angry at Eastonby and rather defensive of Susanna’s courage in taking a firm stand, be it right or wrong. She didn’t strike him as being one who was easily led. Susanna was a woman of conviction and he thought that spoke well of her.

“Not so much embarrassed as perplexed. And I have to admit, frightened for her. There are those in power who greatly resent a woman speaking out so publicly. Susanna is passionate when she takes up a cause, but she’s also a bit naive.”

In his opinion, James thought the lass should be commended. It was not every woman who would dare speak out against injustice no matter what consequences she might face. But he remained silent. Now was not the time to engage in any debates on the evils of society.

The earl’s expression looked grim as he splashed another dollop of liquor into a fine crystal goblet. “More?”

James nodded and held out his glass. They were drinking brandy to seal their bargain while the lady rifled through her wardrobe in the next room to find something appropriate for a hasty wedding.

It was to take place that very afternoon, accomplished without banns or fanfare, by a Presbyterian minister who owed Eastonby a favor. Apparently, the earl also knew one of the magistrates who would backdate a license. That had been sent for, as had a ring from one of the city’s well-known jewelers. Amazing what an exalted title could accomplish, not to mention wealth and the comradeship of former Oxford chums.

“I must remain in Edinburgh for at least another week,” James told Eastonby. “I’ve a commitment to finish the portal of the building we’re close to completing. Then I’ll be free to take on your estate.”

“Your estate now, my friend,” the earl reminded him. “As for your stone carving, I must say that pride in your work is to be commended.”

James huffed. “Pride, indeed. I’ll not be paid for what I’ve done of that bas relief unless I finish it.”

Eastonby smiled and raised his glass in salute. “Then do so. Before you know it, you will be bringing your children to Edinburgh so they may marvel at your handiwork.”

The man was wrong, James thought. He was definitely an optimist if he was expecting grandchildren any time soon. Then again, life did have a way of springing surprises and the winters in Scotland were damned cold for sleeping alone.

James took his time as he sipped the smooth French brandy, fully appreciating the way it slid down his throat like liquid fire. Tamer than his whisky, even when aged to perfection, but the taste was just as fine. “You’ll be leaving directly after the ceremony?” he asked.

The earl nodded. “Yes. I regret I cannot stay longer and join you for a wedding supper. You and Susanna are welcome to stay here in these apartments until you leave Edinburgh, of course.”

“I’ll be coming with you far as Solly’s Copse,” James announced, then polished off the brandy and set down the glass with a thunk.

Eastonby looked surprised. “Thank you for the thought, but that should not be necessary. I can handle matters.”

“You’re family,” James said simply, “or you will be by tonight. I’ll ride along.” When the earl would have protested again, James continued. “I’ve been thinking, if you hire a number of guards to ride with you, this assassin will stay his hand until he catches you unawares later on. If I go, concealed in your carriage, he and his man will carry through with their plan. We’ll have ’em, then and there.”

“By jove, you’re right! I never thought of that. But what of Susanna? She won’t take kindly to her new husband haring off on guard duty while she languishes at the wedding supper alone.”

“Nonsense!” the lady in question piped up as she reentered the room. “Pour me a jot of that, would you?” she instructed her father. “This beloved of mine must do what he feels is necessary to save your skin, Father. Will this dress do?” She twirled around.

“Don’t be impertinent, Suz,” the earl growled, deliberately and firmly stoppering the brandy decanter.

“Me?” Her wide-eyed look of innocence tickled James. She was a sly minx. “Why, I am the very soul of pertinence. Tell him, darling.”

Susanna had been peppering every address to him with endearments, likely trying to stoke her father’s guilt for giving her away. One could hardly blame her for it. “She’s right, sir,” James said dutifully. “Pertinent in this instance anyway. I must go with you. Otherwise, we’d both be wonderin’ for weeks whether you’d made it home to London alive.” He turned his attention to her. “And that blue gown is right becomin’ to you, Suz. Matches your bonny blue eyes.”

“Do not call me Suz,” she hissed with a brief glare at her father, probably for making James aware of the nickname. “I despise it.” With a jerk, she straightened a sleeve that didn’t need it, then tugged up her gloves.

He just smiled. Suz suited her to the letter, short, sweet and soft. Her lips as she said it, pursed just right as if beckoning his kiss. He might never call her anything else.

Reason was not the thing to put this woman to rights, he decided. Nay, he would need to use affection. No doubt with the right words in the right places, he could turn her up sweet within a fortnight, just in time for their homecoming.

Susanna wished for her mother. In the three years since Anya Childers had died, Susanna had harbored an anger that very nearly obliterated all of the happy memories she had of her. Today’s events had forced them out of hiding.

Now, at the moment of pledging her future to a stranger, Susanna imagined her mother beaming happily about it. Strange, when the vicissitudes of marriage had been the very thing that caused her death. Repeated attempts to produce a son in order to please her husband had drained the life right out of her. Two miscarriages and a stillbirth. She might have survived that had it not been for all of the other obligations forced upon her as countess of Eastonby.

A woman’s lot, her mother would have said in that soft voice of hers, smiling even then as if she accepted and didn’t mind what fate had decreed for her. Susanna had promised herself at the funeral that such a destiny would never be hers. And yet, here she was, bound to answer I will before a clergyman who might be the one to speak over her own dead body in a few years.

One thing for certain, wherever she went, Susanna meant to continue her crusade to encourage women to speak up and be heard, to take care of themselves and take charge of their lives. She was not giving in, not giving up. This marriage could be used to her benefit. No woman worth her salt sat around waiting for things to happen to her. She made them happen.

“…love, honor and obey…”

The minister’s words broke through her thoughts like a sharp stick thrust into a beehive. She gritted her teeth to keep her fury from flying out and stinging everyone there. They were all men, of course—her father, the Scot, the reverend and another stranger who just happened to be present when a witness was needed—and would shoo away her attacks as merely bothersome.

A large hand encased her own and she allowed it. His was exceedingly warm and hers felt cold in the absence of her gloves. If men could use women for comfort, why not the other way around? Susanna knew the justification made no sense in this instance, but the whole day seemed to have taken on a strangeness that defied logic anyway.

The remainder of the ceremony passed in a blur—even the placing of the ring on her finger.

“I now pronounce you man and wife. What God has joined together, let no man put asunder….” The voice droned on.

Asunder? God, she felt asunder at the moment. Her heart nearly stopped, then thudded so fast she thought she might faint when two large, very warm hands rose to grasp her neck. For an instant, she feared he would choke her for her rebellious thoughts.

The Scot’s long fingers invaded the curls at her nape. His palms covered the pulsing veins at the sides of her neck. His thumbs caressed her chin. And his mouth drew nearer and nearer.

Susanna blinked her eyes shut just as his lips fastened on hers. Her mouth must have been open. She should have closed it. This was highly improper, his open mouth upon hers, his tongue touching hers. Good heavens, she could taste him! And he was tasting her, as if she were a comfit he wished to savor and not eat up too quickly.

Horrified at how her curiosity prompted her to linger over such a thing, Susanna pushed away, staring up at him to see if he would insist on a resumption of the kiss. She didn’t wish he would. She didn’t!

Obviously, he didn’t either, she noted as he released her and dropped his hands to his sides. “Well then, wife, we’ve been wed and blessed. You look right fashed.”

“Fashed?” she mumbled, unable to get her mind around the word.

Her father quickly embraced her, eliminating the need for her to reply to the Scot. “So, my little girl is married! I wish you all that is happy, sweetheart. I am certain you shall have it.”

Susanna managed to thank him, if not sincerely, at least politely. She had made up her mind earlier not to give him the satisfaction of knowing he had upset her by throwing her to the wolves. The leader of a pack of them, in fact.

She could deal with the Scotsman, she reminded herself. Hadn’t she been quite confident of that after he had made his promises to her? This was her choice. He was her choice.

When Susanna looked at him around her father’s shoulder, she fully expected to see gloating superiority or some evidence of expression that he had tricked her into agreeing to this. Instead, he appeared almost deferential, as if pleasing her was his one goal in life.

She was not fool enough to believe that was so, but bit by bit, her courage and confidence returned. It only seemed to flag when the Scot touched her. Or pinned her with that steady gaze of his. “I will become used to it,” she told herself aloud.

“Of course you will!” her father assured her. “I fear you haven’t had too much in the way of happiness these past few years, but now—”

“That’s not what I meant,” she declared, pulling out of his arms and turning away. But she dared not explain what she did mean. “Are we going back to the hotel immediately? I’m famished.”

“Of course,” the Scot said, taking her by the arm, encouraging her to lean on him. She surrendered to it for now. Her knees were not functioning nearly as well as she would have liked.

Collapsing in the aisle of the church would hardly signify her ability to stand on her own two feet. As for that inability, Susanna was certain it was only a momentary lapse.

“I am hungry,” she muttered, more or less to reassure herself. Surely that accounted for the temporary weakness she was feeling.

“Your slightest wish is my command,” the man declared gently as he patted the hand she had locked on his forearm. “Today and always,” he added, sounding quite sincere.

His words and the tone behind them reinforced his benevolent expression and shored her up as nothing else could have. She drew in a huge breath and released it with a sigh of relief. Yes, he would be putty in her hands.

That fact reestablished, Susanna decided she might as well start them off on the right foot. “That kiss was highly inappropriate,” she whispered. “From now on, you should refrain from shocking everyone with such displays.”

He seemed to take the criticism well, though she noted his lips working to suppress any expression. Then he nodded and acquiesced quite admirably. “My apologies, wife. Seems I was carried clean away by your beauty and the moment.”

A blatant lie, but Susanna gave him points for attempting good manners. She might make a gentleman of him one of these days.

“Forgiven. Just see that it does not happen again,” she told him firmly.

“Aye. Public kissin’ might set people to talking behind their fans and we wouldna be wantin’ that, now would we?”

Had that been a reference to her difficulties in London? Was this—this buffoon making sport of her troubles?

Before she could summon up a scathing reply, they had reached the coach that had brought them to the church. Later, she promised herself, later she would take him to task for that insolence. If he had meant it that way. Had he? Surely he would not dare.

Susanna let him hand her into the coach. The inside lanterns were lit, casting a warm glow over the interior.

The Scot’s wide shoulders filled the space beside her, his left one pressed against her right. Though his suit seemed a trifle snug and could have stood a pressing, she noted now that it was of the finest wool and had obviously been tailored for him. Most men with his height would find that necessary, she supposed.

There was no hint of macassar oil in his hair or any of the parfums gentlemen usually wore to disguise unpleasant odors. Yet he had none of those. Rather, he smelled of fresh air, a unique heathery essence that reminded her of her childhood summers, when she had played upon the meadows in the Cotswolds. His scent intrigued her.

This close, she could see the pores of his fine-grained skin. Its color seemed a bit sun-darkened and partially shadowed now by the need for an evening shave.

Susanna was still contemplating his firm jaw and chin when her father entered the coach. He took the seat opposite, rocking the conveyance with his weight, appearing terribly pleased with himself for arranging all this. She turned her full attention on him and forced a smile. After all, wedding the Scot would probably turn out to be the best thing that could have happened to her, considering the options available.

And she had made this her choice, the first of many choices that would lead to her success. She planned to be the very first totally independent wife in Britain. She would set a fine example for others.

What better place to begin her work than in the outer provinces where she could more easily prove her theory on a small scale? Once those women in the Highlands realized their power to order their own lives, others would notice. Yes, it should progress as a word-of-mouth campaign. Much more effective than trying to convey her message to hundreds at once in some meeting hall.

She looked up at her new husband, the man who would provide her with the opportunity. Amazing how unmalleable he looked at the moment, but looks could be so deceiving. No doubt she was the very picture of wifely submission in his eyes.

He leaned forward and quickly brushed his lips across her brow before she had a chance to avoid it. “Thank you,” he said simply.

Susanna smiled in spite of herself. “You’re quite welcome,” she responded automatically. One did have to observe the amenities on these occasions and he had been rather sweet and agreeable about the whole affair.

She settled back to enjoy the brief ride back to the hotel, satisfied that she had acquitted herself quite well, neatly avoided disaster and secured a way to live life to the fullest as she saw fit. This gentle bear of a man and the ring he had put on her finger would provide the validity a single woman would never possess when encouraging women to struggle against universal male domination.

I wish you could have stood your ground, too, Mother. You were simply born too soon to be a part of this. Susanna sent the silent message heavenward where she imagined Anya Childers looking down on her with pride.

James watched the play of emotions on his wife’s face with interest. Her thoughts must be skittering hither and yon like a handful of birdshot dropped on the floor.

He wished he could get inside that head of hers. Just as well he couldn’t, he supposed. Some of those thoughts might not be so flattering to himself. He’d have to fix that in due time, but not tonight.

“We shall see you to the Royal Arms, Suz, then James and I must leave,” her father was saying as if he’d read James’s mind. “It is almost dark now and we should take to the road as scheduled.”

“Aye,” James agreed. Though he would like to stay and sup with Susanna, he had to fulfill his obligation to help Eastonby. The man was his father by marriage now and James’s responsibility as surely as were the wife beside him and the good folk of Galioch and Drevers.

Susanna’s soft, slender fingers grasped his arm, pulling the wool fabric of his sleeve taut. She looked from the earl to him and back again. “Why can’t you simply take a ship, or go by train?”

“Because I have business inland on the way home. And thwarting these fellows would only delay the inevitable.”

“Please, both of you, I want you to promise—”

“Be calm, lass.” James assured her, patting the small cold hand that wore the wedding ring. “We’ll be going armed to the teeth and I confess I’m a fair shot.”

“As am I,” Eastonby bragged, his chest expanding beneath his satin striped waistcoat.

The earl fished a fancy gold watch from one of the pockets, snapped open the front and glanced down at it. “Just now half past six, my dear. Your husband should be returning to you well before nine.”

James noted the instant of panic that flashed in her eyes. “When—when will you be back in Scotland?” she asked her father. Did she know how very like a brave, wee bairn she sounded? The poor lass feared abandonment to a stranger in a place strange to her.

“He’ll be returnin’ soon, aye, sir?” James asked.

“In a month or less, I expect,” the earl said with a smile. “But I shall wait until spring to visit you in the Highlands.”

Susanna’s face fell, but James noted with pride how rapidly she managed to recover and hide her disappointment and apprehension.

“Well, then. We shall be happy to welcome you whenever you find the time,” she said politely.

“Dinna worry, lass,” James told her gently, wishing he could alleviate her fears. “We’ll keep you so busy, there’ll be no time to greet for home.”

She blinked and stared up at him as if he were Auld Clootie in disguise.

James sighed. He’d have to convince her she hadn’t wound up with the devil himself and was headed for hell. Considering his eagerness to have her and the state of the properties where they’d be going to live, he might have a wee bit of a struggle with that.




Chapter Three


Susanna wished she could beg her father not to return to London this evening. They’d had their differences, of course. Well, that was an understatement of gigantic proportions, she admitted. They’d had confrontations that stopped just short of violence, if the truth were known. But she loved him and would feel like dying herself if anything tragic happened to him. Pride stood in the way of her cautioning him fervently, however. His pride as well as her own.

Nevertheless, she couldn’t quite allow him to go, knowing the danger involved, and say nothing. The carriage had stopped in front of their hotel and the Scot had climbed out to help her down. Before leaving her seat, she cleared her throat and spoke to her father. “You will take care on your journey, I trust.”

He smiled brightly. “Of course. And your husband will ensure nothing untoward happens, so you mustn’t worry.”

She searched his face in the light of the coach lamp, hoping for something besides the surface expression he wore. Some softening in his noble, imposing manner. Some sincere wish that she survive this marriage and some small indication that he would miss her. When she didn’t find that, she sighed impatiently and busied herself with arranging her skirts for a decorous exit.

The Scot—Garrow or James, she must remember to call him one or the other—stood waiting, his large hand offered to assist her. She took it, placed her foot upon the steps he’d let down and alighted.

“Suz, darling, we are in rather a rush to be off,” her father called, having slid over to the nearest side of the coach, his head out the window. “Won’t you be taking sweet leave of your husband before we go?”

Sweet leave? She shot him a glare over her shoulder. He wanted sweet leave did he? She experienced the wicked urge to shock her father to the marrow of his bones. Well, thanks to the Scot, she now knew how. A kiss to seal a union in a church was appropriate and perfectly acceptable, however…

She turned abruptly to face her new spouse, grasped his wrinkled cravat in one hand, stood on her toes and pulled his face down to meet hers. With her other hand, she clutched the back of his neck and planted her mouth on his.

As forcefully as she could, she ground her lips against his, opening her own, insinuating her tongue into his mouth as he had done to her. Yes, this should do it, a wild and passionate kiss under the bright street lamps directly in front of the Royal Arms Hotel. Scandalizing enough, surely!

Suddenly the Scot’s arms clasped her to him so firmly her feet left the street. Before she knew it, he’d wrested away every jot of power she exerted and took complete control of the kiss. Angling his head, he all but devoured her whole, stealing breath and thought and freedom of movement. She didn’t care. Oh, my.

On and on it went, her body plastered so tightly against his, the stays of her corset bit into her ribs and her breasts ached from the pressure of his stone-hewn chest. She breathed through her nose and the wild heathery scent of his skin filled her. His groan of pleasure vibrated through her body as if it had come from her. She returned it without thinking. Her head swam in dizzying circles, lights flashed behind her eyes. Fainting had never felt this good before.

Then his lips were parting from hers. No, she wanted to cry. Not yet. She wasn’t finished. Still holding to his neckcloth after his grip on her loosened, Susanna drew him back, kissing him more gently this time, testing, tasting, playing tongue to tongue, subtly changing position the better to feel, to gather in the sensations she craved like air.

Where his hands gripped her sides, her stays dug into her like steel rods, that pain the only thing saving her from total immersion into mind-drugging euphoria. It was then she began to notice the almost desperate flexing of those strong agile fingers, the almost audible thunder of his heartbeat against her hand that was buried in his shirt-front. A heady thrill of power overtook her. She did this to him, obviously affecting his composure as much or more than he did hers. What a marvelous revelation of newfound capabilities. What a wonder!

Susanna smiled against his mouth, abruptly let him go and pushed away. When she lifted her lashes to look up at him, he appeared quite stunned. His hands unclenched from her waist and retreated. Her own body pulsed with feeling, sang with desire, but she tamped it down as best she could.

She took a deep breath, then tossed the gaping earl a triumphant nod. “There. All done. Do have a pleasant trip, Father.”

Again she glanced up at the Scot and quickly smoothed out the fabric she’d so recently clutched in her fist. “And you, dear heart, may ride as far south as you care to. Farewell, then.”

Swinging the beaded reticule that hung from her wrist, Susanna lifted her skirts daintily with her free hand and marched briskly inside the hotel past the slack-jawed doorman.

James watched a groom bring a saddled mount for the return trip to the city and attach its long lead rope to the back of the coach. The delay proved fortunate since James had to wait a wee while before he could comfortably climb back into the coach.

He ought to turn that cheeky lassie over his knee and give her bonny backside a sound drubbing at the first opportunity. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the uppermost wish in his heart at the moment.

There wasn’t the slightest hope that she’d give any encore performances of that kiss in private. If he thought there was a chance at all, he’d not be riding out with her da right now. The assassins down the road would have to bloody well wait a while.

She’d be a willful handful, that one, James thought, his eyes now trained on the third floor window where he hoped she would appear. Exasperated with himself for mooning like an untried lad with the first steelie beneath his kilt, James shook his head, scoffed and tore his gaze from the hotel back to the coach.

When he did manage to reenter the conveyance, he immediately noticed the earl’s consternation. It might be politic to ease the father’s mind about the daughter’s future welfare after the shocking display the lass had provided out there in the street, but James wasn’t inclined to discuss it now. Not in his present condition. That aside, he wasn’t altogether sure he could promise anything with regard to Susanna.

“You won’t beat her, will you?” the earl asked. “Even when you think she deserves it?”

James hesitated. He’d given her his word on that already and he doubted it would make a difference anyway. “Nay, I’ll not and that’s the end of it.”

But he thought to himself she could have used a swat or two when she was a bairn. Might have made life easier for her later on. And for him now that she was his. His. Well, he wouldn’t be dwelling on that until he could do something about it.

He changed the subject. “We’d best be making some sort of plan. The weapons? I have none, save a blade.” He patted the scabbard strapped just above his ankle. No self-respecting Scot felt dressed without his sghian dhub, though the knife was of little use against a firearm.

The earl fumbled around beneath the seat, opening a compartment with a small hinged door. He withdrew two pistols and handed one, butt first, to James. “Here. These should do. Webley revolvers. Five shots each. Coachman’s loaded them for us. You say you can shoot?”

James examined the newfangled gun, unlike any he’d ever seen or used. “I’ve a good eye and my aim’s true enough, but you must show me how to work the thing.”

They spent the next quarter hour discussing the assembly and operation of the repeating percussion revolver. Fascinated, James wished they had time to stop and get in a few practice shots before he was required to defend the earl’s life with this. The only pistol he’d ever fired was his father’s old brass flintlock, which he had not even thought to bring with him.

“You will keep one of these as a gift, of course,” the earl told him. “When you oust that steward of mine from Drevers, you might have need of it.”

James agreed, cocking and releasing the hammer, getting used to the feel of the weapon and sighting out the window, though he could see little for a target other than the silhouettes of trees in the distance. The moon was on the rise, full and soon to be bright enough to cast shadows, he figured.

Several miles before they reached Solly’s Copse where they expected the attack to occur, James doused the inside lamps. “So our eyes will adjust,” he explained. “No use in making ourselves lighted targets, eh?”

“Quite right. I should have considered that. It’s been some time since my army days, though even then the danger lay right in front of you, out in the open. No need for this sort of thing.”

The earl wasn’t the only one who’d never faced trouble such as this, James thought. Oh, he’d tangled in fistfights more times than he could count, got caught up in a few where blades came into it, but he’d never been obliged to dodge a ball or a bullet. “First time for everything,” he muttered.

They fell silent as they reached the short stretch of road that led through a section of fairly dense woods. The trees had been cut back enough to allow two coaches to pass one another if need be, but many of the towering oaks had spread their branches in a canopy that blocked out much of the moonlight. The coachman slowed the team to a near walk because of the lack of visibility.

James felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise with a prickling sensation. He could smell the danger closing in, feel it in his bones. Ears attuned to every sound, he cursed the noise made by sixteen clopping hooves on the road. If only he could have ridden up top, but there was no room to hide there among the baggage. Two men in the driver’s box would signal they were expecting trouble.

The only advantage he and Eastonby had tonight would be surprise when the attackers realized they had two armed men well prepared to defend themselves inside the coach rather than a complacent, unarmed noble and his defenseless daughter.

A shout to halt rang out. One of the horses screamed and the coach stopped, rocking with the motion of the restless, stamping team. Someone had grabbed the leaders. If there were only the two men, at least one was busy.

“Now!” James rasped. He flung open the door and leaped out, rolling directly into the cover of the trees as a shot zinged past his ear.

He glanced up and saw that the coachman had ducked down out of sight below the seat as instructed. The earl was at the back of the coach, attempting to get around to the far side.

Suddenly the night erupted with the sound, smell and flashes of rapid gunfire. A figure dashed for the door to the coach and yanked it open. James aimed and fired. The man yelled, cursed and grabbed his right shoulder, even as he whirled and shot repeatedly into the trees where James crouched. One bullet whizzed by his head and thunked into a tree trunk just behind him. Another dinged against his boot.

Flat on the ground now, James aimed again, this time for the man’s leg. If they could take him alive, they might find out who was behind this. Just as he pulled the trigger, something stung his hand. He watched the man grasp his chest and crumple to the ground. “Damn.” Something had fouled his aim. He flexed his hand.

Then he scrambled up, left his cover and raced around the coach to find the earl. He was on one knee beside the rear wheel drawing a bead on a shadow tearing off through the trees. The shot obviously missed the mark. James threw up his pistol and simply pointed it, firing three times in rapid succession. The body crashed into the brush and lay still.

Suddenly a horse broke through the trees behind them, the rider twisted in the saddle, shooting as he rode away. James braced his gun hand with the other, took steady aim and fired, only to hear an empty click.

The earl was busy reloading, cursing the dark and his own clumsiness while the rider disappeared in the distance. Hoofbeats faded and the night fell still.

“’Tis over now, sir,” James told him and handed the earl his pistol. “But you might as well take your time and reload ’em both.”

He felt curiously light-headed and needed to sit down, but he didn’t think he could make it back inside the coach. Suddenly his legs buckled beneath him and he had no choice in the matter.

“James? What’s wrong, son?”

He lay on his back in the dirt, resting. The earl’s voice sounded far away, which was odd, he thought. Only a moment ago, he’d been nearby. And the moon was gone now. Dark as pitch, the sky.

His hands and face felt wet. Warm as it was, a bit of rain would be good. Clear the air of stench and smoke. Then pain hit from all directions at once. Not rain, he realized suddenly. It was blood. His. Blood in his eyes and on his hands.

“I’m shot!” he exclaimed with a short laugh of utter disbelief. “Th’ bloody bastards got me.”




Chapter Four


Susanna snuggled deep beneath the downy soft covers and reveled in the touch of the man who held her. His hand was pale and graceful, skimming over her body like a whisper-thin scarf, leaving pleasure in its path. “Mmm,” she crooned and arched into his gentle caresses.

She frowned when he suddenly grasped her shoulder too firmly and shook it relentlessly.

“Please, wake, my lady! I’m sent to fetch you! Hurry!”

Susanna’s eyes flew open and she bolted upright in the bed, staring in surprise at a young, unfamiliar, red-faced maid instead of the fashionably pale lover of her dream.

“It—it’s the earl come back,” the maid stammered. “He—he says tell you come quick!”

Father had returned? Something must have gone horribly wrong. Susanna threw back the covers, slipped out of bed and raced into the sitting room. But he wasn’t there.

The maid rushed past her, pointing to the other bedroom. “In there, my lady. He’s been shot! Twice!”

“Mercy, no!” Susanna cried and broke into a run. Just inside his doorway, she ran smack into him. He appeared whole and unbloodied as far as she could tell. She ran her hands over his chest. “Oh, Father! Thank goodness! The girl told me—”

He held her by the shoulders and shook her gently. “Suz, James is wounded. He saved my life. Now we must do all we can to save his.”

She jerked her gaze from her father to the huge tester bed with its ornately carved posts and snowy linens. On it lay the Scot, hands clasped on his chest, stretched out like a corpse.

The back of one hand bore a small bloody gouge. Dark red stained his trousers well above his knee and a copious amount of blood, now dried, marred his high wide brow and the left side of his face. His eyes were closed and he lay motionless except for the almost imperceptible rise and fall of his chest.

Susanna crept around her father and went to the bedside. Tentatively, she lifted the unruly waves off his forehead and saw the deep ugly furrow that still seeped. “Oh, Father, it looks awful!”

“That’s not too serious, I think,” he said, now beside her as they observed. “That leg wound could be, however. The doctor’s on his way. We should get the boy undressed and wash away some of this blood.”

Susanna nodded once as she backed away. “I’ll send in someone with a basin of water and cloths. Shall I call up a footman to assist?”

Her father turned and frowned at her. “He’s your husband, Suz. Won’t you help look after him?”

“But I’ve never…I’m really not…” Helpless to continue, she held out her hands and shrugged.

“Stuff and nonsense, Suz. You’re a grown woman and married now, not some miss-ish little do-nothing. Besides,you preach strength and independence for women, so get yourself over here and help me get his clothes off.”

He shouted over his shoulder to the gawking maid. “You, girl! Bring me that ewer of water and the towel, then go wait by the door to show the doctor in when he comes!”

Susanna stood wringing her hands, uncertain what to do.

“Here, Suz,” her father ordered, “you get his shirt off. I’ll take care of the trousers.”

A bit relieved she’d been offered the upper half instead of the lower, Susanna began with trembling fingers to unbutton the wrinkled linen shirt as far as she could. There was no way to remove it other than over his head. Once committed to the task, she had to figure a way. With all the strength she could muster, she grasped the sides of the open placket and ripped the garment straight down the front.

When she parted it to pull it off his arms, she saw that he wore no under vest. Her father wore those. She remembered hemming them for him when she was learning to sew. Perhaps Scots did not fancy them, or else this man could not afford to have them made or buy one.

She tried not to notice the wide expanse of his bare chest, the mat of dark-brown hair that curled between his…well, whatever the male equivalent of those things were called. She had never before seen a man without a shirt.

Exasperated with herself, Susanna scoffed at her misplaced fascination. Gamely, she tugged the sleeves off his massive arms, trying not to dwell on the power that lay within those muscles. There. She had done it.

Gingerly, she reached out to touch him in the place where his heart must be.

Her father issued a sound of dismay and without thinking, Susanna swiveled to see what he’d found.

“Good heavens!” she gasped, her hands flying to her mouth.

“Yes, it’s worse than I feared.”

“Worse?” Susanna croaked, wide-eyed.

“The bullet’s still in there.”

“Oh. The wound.” She shook her head to clear it of the shocking sight that had captured her attention. Blinking several times, she trained her gaze on the ragged red bullet hole halfway between the knee and the…other place.

“Check his pulse,” her father ordered.

Susanna gladly turned to their patient’s neck. For a long moment, she was uncertain whether the pounding pulse at her fingertips was his or her own. She had discovered his, she decided, feeling the regularly spaced thumping. Hers was racing much faster and at a much more irregular rate. “Steady,” she managed to say.

“Good. Ah, I hear someone. Must be the doctor.”

A tall, thin man entered carrying a black case in one hand. “Well now, what have we here? Stand away and let me see.”

“He’s been shot twice,” her father told the physician. “Once in the head and once in the leg. The bullet’s still lodged in the thigh, I believe.”

The doctor looked up from the patient. “Two pounds sterling whether he survives this or not. Agreed?”

“He will survive or you’ll have no use for two pounds,” the earl said with a quiet, threatening tone Susanna had never heard him use. “What is your name, sir?”

“McNally,” the skinny physician croaked. His black eyes had widened and his face had paled. “I’m no surgeon,” he explained. “I cannot guarantee—”

“Then take your damned leeches and get the hell out of here,” the earl snapped.

The man left so quickly, Susanna barely had time to wonder what they would do now.

Her father took hold of her elbow, bared as it was by her billowing short-sleeved nightrail. “Suz, I can do this, but I’ll need your assistance. Go ahead and cast up your accounts now if your stomach feels weak. And if you faint once we start in on him, I’ll beat you when you come ’round.”

“Father!” she exclaimed, unable to recognize the man she had known all her years.

“Hush and listen to me,” he commanded, pulling out the pocketknife he always carried and examining it. “You send that maid down to the kitchens for boiling water and a large bottle of whisky. Also fetch me your curling iron.”

“My what?”

“Do as I say while I build up the fire.”

“I could call a footman to—”

“Hang the footmen. This is up to us, girl. By the time we get a surgeon awake, into his clothes and up here, this poor fellow could die. His leg’s still bleeding and I daren’t stop that until we get out the bullet. Now go!” He gave her a gentle shove.

A quarter hour later, Susanna joined her father at the bedside again, having done all the tasks he’d set for her. She’d also rushed into a shirtwaist and skirt, cinching her middle with a soft leather belt since she had no time to don her corset. Her face flamed every time she thought how she had darted around in her nightclothes for anyone to see. What must Father think of her?

She watched as he poured whisky over her curling tongs and set the business end of them in the coals. His strange set of surgery tools lay in a pan of hot water, awaiting their baptism in blood. There was the trusty pocketknife he had used long ago to whittle wooden toy animals for her amusement. Also, he had commandeered her sewing scissors, needles and a spool of black thread. Probably the most useful were the small tongs from the kitchen.

“Clean the wound, please,” he instructed her.

Susanna took a soft cloth, dipped it into the hot water and bathed the portion of exposed limb. That’s how she would think of it. Not the Scot’s leg, but a disembodied limb. Not part a living, feeling human being. Thank heavens he was insensate.

But would he stay that way once her father began?

“What might he do when you start to probe?”

“Hmm. You’re right, Suz. We should tie him. We could call some of the staff to hold him down, but the fewer people in here, the better. Besides, I doubt they could keep him subdued, as large as he is.”

Suddenly the Scot shifted, straightening the injured leg and holding it stiff. “Gi’ me a dram and get on with it,” he commanded in a tight voice.

“Oh, my God, he’s awake!” Susanna cried. “Father, he’s awake!”

The Scot eyed her, his deep green eyes flashing with pain and impatience. “And he has a thirst, lass. D’ye mind?”

Susanna looked to her father for permission.

“Go ahead. He’ll bloody well need it.”

Quickly, spilling the liquor over the edge of the glass, she hurried to offer him whisky. Sliding her free arm beneath his neck, she lifted his head enough for him to drink. He gulped down three good-size swallows and clamped his lips shut.

“More,” she coaxed. “Drink until you fall asleep.”

“Nay,” he argued, turning his head away from her effort to force it on him. “Trust me, you dinna want me drunk. I might hurt one of you. This much’ll take the edge off.”

“Hold my hand, then,” she pleaded.

He grunted a short laugh. “And break your fingers? Find somethin’ leather to bite on, aye?”

“Aye!” she gasped, her gaze darting around, unable to find a thing.

He calmly reached out and tugged at her belt until it came free. With morbid fascination, she watched as he laid it beside him, folded it one-handed and put it between his strong white teeth. Then he stretched out his powerful arms, gripped both edges of the mattress, looked at her father and nodded.

“Come lie across his feet to steady him,” her father suggested.

Then she looked at the Scot for his permission. He smiled behind the folded belt and winked as if to reassure her he wouldn’t kick.

“You’ll be fine,” she assured him, her voice breathless with the need to give him what comfort she could. “Father’s done this countless times, I’m certain. Why, in no time you will—”

“Suz! Get to the foot of the bed, would you? And cease the prattle. He knows damn well I’ll do all I can.”

She jumped at the reprimand, then scampered up on the bed. As tightly as possible, she gripped the Scot’s ankles in her hands and lay over them to anchor him firmly to the mattress.

In any other circumstance, she would have protested, but there was nothing she could do but excuse him when he wriggled the toes of his right foot against her breast. After all, the man was half-foxed and in terrible pain.

Just how terrible, she could only imagine in those next few moments as his legs stiffened. She heard the intermittent clink of the makeshift instruments as her father dropped them back into the metal pan. There were several grunts that might have come from either man. She had turned her face away, unable to watch what was happening.

Her father left the bedside for a moment. She heard his footsteps. Shortly thereafter came a sizzling sound, the scent of burned flesh and a groan. The hard muscles locked in her grip and those lying beneath her relaxed.

“He’s out. You can get up now, Suz,” her father said, his voice little more than a whisper.

She collapsed for a minute, only then realizing that she had been as fraught with tension as the patient himself. Her stomach roiled.

“Get up, Suz. You’ll need to sew that head wound before he wakes again.”

She couldn’t. She simply could not.

“But I have to,” she muttered to herself. If the Scot could bear up under what he had without complaint, then who was she to cavil at such a simple ordeal? Bracing herself and calling up her fortitude, Susanna slipped off the bed backward, landed on her stockinged feet and went to thread her needle.

Surprisingly, she managed quite well and was feeling rather smug when her father led her into the sitting room and offered her a bracing bit of brandy.

“I have to leave, Suz. You’ll be on your own to look after him.”

She choked, coughed and fought for breath while he patted her soundly on the back. “Wh-why must you?” she sputtered.

He crouched on the floor beside where she was sitting and took her hands in his. “Because someone wants me dead and if I stay, that could put you and James in danger.”

“No! Suppose they follow you and—”

“You mustn’t worry.” He was shaking his head and smiling at her. “You see, I’m sailing after all. They’ll know I’ve gone, but not how. Once I reach London, I’ll hire the protection I need and a Bow Street man to find out who is responsible for this.”

“Father, I am so afraid for you after tonight’s shooting.”

“Two of the men are dead. The one who escaped will need time to hire more help and find out where I’ve gone.”

He squeezed her hands. “And you, my sweet girl, will be safer without me around. Still, I want you to promise me that you will head for the Highlands as soon as James is able to travel by coach. No one can touch you here at the Royal, so stay inside until you go. When you are ready to leave, do so with as little fanfare as possible. James will know how to arrange that. I’m leaving him well armed. Trust me, there’s none better to protect you.”

She sniffed. “He does seem rather proficient at stopping bullets.”

The earl chuckled. “He’s a large target, I grant you, but he’s also a bang-up shot. I am leaving you in the best of hands.”

Susanna knew she couldn’t dissuade him. “Go then and Godspeed.”

He released her hands and stood. “I shall wire you the minute I arrive.”

“Assuming they have the telegraph where I’m going.”

“Yes, assuming that. If not, I will get a message to you. Return one to me to let me know how James is getting on. Mind you keep an eye on him. Expect some fever, but I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

“You have done that before, haven’t you?” she asked, inclining her head toward the bedroom where he had just performed surgery.

“A time or two in the wars,” he admitted, “long before you were born.”

Susanna jumped up then and threw her arms around him. “Please, please take great care. I no longer care that you gave me away to him. I still love you, Father.”

He dropped a long kiss on top of her tousled hair. “And I love you, Suz. I promise you’ll see the wisdom in this one day.”

She doubted there was any wisdom in it at all, but that was the least of her worries right now. She had a husband in the next room who might die if she proved a poor nurse. And a father who might die if he made a misstep and trusted the wrong person.

James woke with a start. Rain pounded against the windows as incessantly as pain lashed his leg and head. His throat felt so dry, he knew he’d have trouble speaking. “Water,” he groaned, wishing he could throw himself out that window.

No one answered. He turned his head on the pillow, not an easy feat. It felt as if it might roll right off onto the floor. His lass was curled in a very uncomfortable-looking chair not three feet from the bed.

“Suz,” he croaked. Still she didn’t move. She was asleep. For some reason that made him angry. The least she could do was wake up and watch him die.

He called to her again, louder this time. “Susanna!”

Her eyes flew open as she scrambled up from the chair, the act lacking her usual grace. “Hm? Oh!” she cried. Without pause, she reached for the basin on the table beside the bed.

James watched her hands plunge into the water and frantically wring out a large cloth. She slapped it on his bare chest and moved it side to side.

“Damn me!” he cried while icy tendrils streaked out from the site of impact. “I’m not a floor that needs scrubbin’!”

She backed off, leaving the rag where it was. Tears leaked from her reddened eyes and her fisted hands covered her mouth. “You are awake,” she mumbled, adding a sniff.

“And freezing, thanks be to you!” He shivered, grabbing with one hand at the covers which lay twisted round his waist and flinging the cold soggy cloth off himself with the other. It landed on the floor with a plop. “Where’s your da?”

“Gone,” she said, releasing a deep shuddery breath and running a trembling hand through her hair. She looked a fright.

James narrowed his eyes and observed her a bit more carefully. Her simple skirt and shirtwaist were splotched with dark spots and looked as if they’d been wadded up somewhere for days before she donned them. The pale translucence of her skin troubled him. He’d seen statues with more color. “Poor lass, what’s happened to you then?” He reached out one hand to her.

She stared at it, but moved no closer. “You…I thought you might die,” she whispered, her gaze darting to the lower end of the bed.

James smiled up at her. “Ah. You’ve been worried.”

Her nod was jerky and she wavered a bit, unsteady on her feet.

“Well, my head’s fair screaming and the leg’s paining me some, but I’ll live. Help me up?”

“No! Wait!” she cried, rushing to the bedside again, bending over him and pressing both palms against his shoulders.

Not much need since he’d already discovered the agony of trying to rise. And the impossibility of it. His breath rushed in and out. He held it for an instant, trying to still his panic. He felt incredibly sick.

“I…I canna move my legs,” he rasped, determined not to scream the words. Susanna had thrown herself across his body to hold him down and he couldn’t see whether his legs were even there under the covers. Had a surgeon amputated? He had read once that pain could be felt long after limbs had been taken off.

Susanna raised herself a bit from her restraining position and looked him in the eye. “Be calm. Please be calm. If you thrash about you might hurt yourself worse than you already are.”

He bit his lips, feeling the dryness. Everywhere she touched him prickled with pain, his skin overly sensitized by the fever. “I won’t be thrashin’, lass. My legs…” He searched her eyes, praying he could take the news with courage.

“Oh. I forgot. You could not get up even if you tried.” She brushed a hand over his forehead. She seemed a bit steadier now and even offered him a saucy smile.

“Good God, woman, are you heartless? Where’s your pity?”

She got up, pushing off him with a purpose. “Oh, spare me the dramatics, will you? I shall untie your ankles if you promise not to—”

“You tied me to the bloody bed?” he shouted, his arms flailing as he tried to sit up. God in heaven, he wished he’d not promised her da he wouldn’t beat her!

She had paused now, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “You keep a civil tongue in that head of yours, sir, or I shall call a footman to bind your arms as well. And your mouth!” she warned him with a glare. “Now that you are lucid, there is no excuse for cursing!”

The curses he kept to himself in that instant would have curled her hair.

“There now,” she said, nodding. “You see the importance of behaving yourself and shall be rewarded.” In moments, she had loosened the strips of linen that bound his ankles to the bedposts.

James breathed easier now, overwhelmingly relieved to see the columns of both legs right where they should be there beneath the blankets. He couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the welcome sight. One thigh was mounded over with what must be the bandages covering his wound. Gingerly, he tested his ability to move it. Bless God, it worked to some extent. It ached, but the pain was not piercing so long as he kept it still.

His head hurt much worse, as though it would explode. He reached up and explored his brow, feeling a sticking plaster.

“Either a bullet grazed it or you scraped it on a low hanging branch,” Susanna told him. “I stitched it myself.”

He heard the pride in her voice at the accomplishment. “Congratulations,” he snapped, busy raising the covers to have a closer look at the condition of his lower appendages. All was in order. And bare as the day he was born. He shot her a glance and saw her blush.

“Get that footman you spoke of. I need assistance.”

“I am here,” she informed him primly. “What do you need?”

James felt himself heat under her glare. And it wasn’t the fever. “Just get him in here! Now!”

She turned and trudged toward the door muttering. “I believe I liked you better when you were insensate.”

“How long was I out?” he asked. “Did I miss a day?”

“Three,” she answered succinctly, then disappeared into the other room.

Three days? She had tended him for that long? That must be why she appeared rather frazzled. He’d been a trial to her, James thought with a sigh. For three days she had nursed him dutifully and he’d rewarded her diligence and wifely care with sniping remarks and accusations. He would have to make it up to her somehow.

Before she returned, James had relegated his little wife to the status of sainthood and promised himself he would do all in his power to deserve such a woman. Had any man ever been so lucky? He didn’t think so.

The paragon swept in, her energies apparently renewed and the aforementioned footman in tow. She smiled at the servant. “Here is Thomas Snively who has been a godsend to us these past few days. I suppose you don’t remember him at all?”

“No, I suppose not.” James muttered, regarding the handsome, strapping fellow dressed in the fine hotel livery of dark wine trimmed in silver. “Snively.”

“Good morning, sir,” the man said. “We’re most happy to see you are better today. How may I assist you?”

Why was Susanna smiling so adoringly? Snively was obviously English, another mark against him, second only to his appearance. James felt the brutal stab of jealousy, a relatively unknown emotion for him and damned uncomfortable. He glared at Susanna, immediately reassessing her status as angel of mercy. “You may go now.”

Her lips pursed, the smile wiped away as if it had never existed. Of course, she was no longer looking at Snively. “I shall not be dismissed in such curt fashion!” she declared.

James closed his eyes and said softly through his gritted teeth, “Then I implore you, lady. Would you kindly vacate this chamber in order to spare yourself embarrassment?”

“Very well, since you put it so nicely.” She picked up her skirts and swept gracefully—and hurriedly—out of the room.

James heaved a huge sigh of relief and glanced up at Snively who looked vastly amused. “I make it policy never to strike a man bearing no threat, Thomas Snively, but I will have that smirk off your puckish face.”

“Yes, sir.” The smile sobered instantly.

“And your eyes off my wife,” James added.

“She’s an eyeful, I grant,” Snively said with a wry inclination of his head. He rocked on the balls of his feet. “But I have one as lovely at home who would slay me if I poached. Not that I’m inclined. Now should you like to test that leg or shall I fetch a bedpan?”

James groaned. “I’ve made a right jackass of myself, aye?”

“That you have,” agreed Snively as he approached and offered his arm. “But we’ll set you to rights soon enough. Ever been shot before?”

“No.” They continued to chat as Snively lent his support, seeming quite the expert at directing James in how to manage the damaged leg. In no time at all, he was standing, resting a moment or two at Thomas’s order, to recover from the dizziness of being upright after three days in bed.

Once he was back in bed, the dressings on his leg had been changed and the pain had subsided a bit, Thomas nodded. “This afternoon, I shall fetch you crutches. I expect you’ll be quite mobile in a few days’ time, though I shouldn’t attempt travel for at least a fortnight.”

“You sound like a doctor,” James accused.

“Guilty as charged. That is, I hope to be one day. I read medicine at University for six months of the year. The other six I work to finance my studies.”

James was impressed. “I wish you luck then. Believe me, I ken how difficult that must be.”

“I know you do. Lady Susanna told me about your work here in the city and why you do it. Most nobles would simply run up debts and let the devil take the hindmost.”

James ignored that. He knew it was true. “I need to send word to my employer. He’ll want to find a replacement.”

“Done, sir. Your lady asked me to discover your former address and settle matters with your landlord, so I did.”

“My tools and things? Where are they?”

“Here, of course. Everything but your clothing is crated and stored safely. I took it upon myself to ask the innkeep where you had been working and went to the construction site. Mr. Greaves sent his regrets that you were injured and produced a letter of recommendation and a cheque for the balance of your pay for the work accomplished. He bade me tell you that he will be hard-pressed to find another so skilled, but for you not to worry.”

For a moment, James was so overwhelmed he couldn’t speak. Then he shook his head. “’Tis good of you to go to so much trouble—”

Snively backed to the door. “No trouble at all, sir. It is common knowledge now, what you did for the earl. He has been quite generous to us during his visits to Edinburgh and is a particular favorite of the Royal Arms staff. I was glad to do whatever I could for you. You will let me know if there is anything else you need?”

James nodded. He felt humbled and not a little chagrined. He wished he were a wealthy man like Earl Eastonby so he could reward Thomas Snively properly. He found he didn’t much like being beholden, yet he would dislike it even more if he had to ask Susanna for funds. “I’ll owe you, Mr. Snively,” he said.

“It’s Tom, sir. And I shall hold you to the debt if you don’t mind. For starters, you might write a letter of commendation on my behalf to the concierge. I’m due a raise in pay and that might clinch it.”

“Good as done, Tom,” James promised. He trusted a man who understood obligation and the need to repay a good deed. “I want to thank you, too, for getting me through three days of fever.”

The footman threw back his head and laughed. “That was no fever, sir. A bit perhaps, but not enough to lay you low.”

“Nay?” James rubbed his aching head with the fingers of one hand. He realized then that the wound itself was barely sore, but the devil’s own cymbals were still clanging rhythmically inside his skull. “Then why do you think I was out for the count?”

Thomas explained. “Had I discovered before last evening that her ladyship was pouring liquor down your throat with an invalid-feeder to kill your pain, I would have dissuaded her sooner. If you’ll pardon the expression, sir, you’ve been drunk as a lord for three days.”




Chapter Five


“Susanna!”

She had just seen Thomas Snively out of the suite with an order for their evening meal and was about to rejoin the patient. The angry bellow from his room made her jump clear off the floor.

He must be still perturbed about the restraints. With an eye-rolling sigh, she trudged across the sitting room, snatching up the half-empty bottle of Scotch whisky as she went. She should have ordered more. This would hardly last through the night.

Her hair was falling down around her face, the chignon sagging to her nape in back. She hadn’t found time to give it a wash or more than a hasty brushing since before her wedding. Though she had left the room when Thomas had come to see to his needs every few hours, she had been afraid to stay away longer than absolutely necessary. Her father had made it very clear that her husband was her responsibility. And if the man died she would never be able to forgive herself.

She blew a frizzled strand out of one eye, took a deep breath and pushed the door open. “Yes? What is it?”

She could clearly see he was fuming about something.

He blinked slowly, hard, and his teeth were clenched, just as they had been when he had ordered her from the room. Susanna knew she should gather her patience and consider the fact that he was wounded and likely in great pain. But whatever nurturing instincts she possessed were worn exceedingly thin at the moment.

“What the devil do you think you’re doing with that?” he growled, pointing at the bottle she dangled at her side.

She held it up and looked at the clear, amber liquid that had provided relief from his troubles, that had granted him sleep, that dulled the edges of a man’s consciousness or eradicated it completely.

Obviously it had cured the worst of his ills. At the moment he certainly appeared hearty enough to give her a rousing set down. Damned if she would stand for that after all she had done for him.

Suddenly the three days she had just spent with her husband took their toll. With a determined movement of her free hand, she pulled out the cork with a pop, put the bottle to her mouth and drank as much as she could stand without stopping. Unable to breathe for the burning in her throat and chest, she plunked the whisky on the table by his bed and stalked out.

“Wait!” he called. “Where—”

She didn’t wait to hear the rest of his question. Instead, she marched directly to her bedroom and into the bathing chamber. The water would be cold, of course, sitting there unused after having been brought up by the maids the day before yesterday.

Susanna stripped off her blouse and skirt, kicked off her shoes and tore at her stockings. She tossed her clothing this way and that, then climbed into the large tub and sat down with a splash.

Even the liquor-induced languor didn’t prevent her screech. God in heaven, it was freezing!

She dunked her head under the water, raking the few hairpins out with her fingers. Not since she’d fallen in the mud when she was six had she ever felt this dirty, this unkempt, this ugly. Beggars on the street were cleaner than she was. On the ledge beside the tub she found soap, sweet-scented chamomile, her favorite. In moments, she was covered head to toe in lather and scrubbing herself to a fare thee well.

She could hear him calling her again, sounding almost frantic, but she refused to hurry. If he was well enough to stand for a few moments, he was well enough to remain alone for a few more. Anyone who could yell that loudly was surely in no danger of expiring.

“Ungrateful wretch,” she mumbled as she pushed suds out of the way so she could dunk her hair in clearer water to rinse it. Only when she felt clean did she abandon her icy bath and climb out. She wished for a maid to hold a warmed towel for her, but that was a thing of the past. Father had refused to hire one when they came here and she doubted she would have another where she was going.

“Independent woman?” he had questioned in that imperial earl voice of his. “Let us see how independent you really are.” He had not even brought his valet with him, probably to illustrate to her that men were of stronger constitution and better able to do for themselves.

To be fair, his valet Barnes was unable to make the trip, old and feeble as he was. And Minette, her own personal maid, had taken a position with Lady Bloom immediately after Susanna’s fall from societal grace.

“I could not care less,” she muttered. “Tending oneself is a hundred times simpler than tending that Scot.”

“Is it now?”

Susanna yelped, jerking her head around so fast she slung a shower of water out of her long wet hair. “What are you doing?” She scrunched the thick toweling closer, hastily covering as much of her as possible. “Get out of here!”

He leaned against the door frame, biting back a grin. It shone like devilment in his eyes as his gaze traveled the length of her. “Pardon the intrusion,” he said, so insincerely, she wished she had something to throw at him.

Fortunately for him, she had nothing near enough but the bar of soap on the ledge. Even that might have knocked him off his feet and she was tempted. “Get out of this room immediately!”

One shoulder shrugged. “You’ve seen me in the natural state. Turnabout’s fair, eh?” He paused while he looked his fill.

Susanna shivered. Her teeth chattered. She was not that cold at the moment. But she was furious.

He braced himself more carefully, taking his weight off his bad leg. “I was worried,” he said, sounding a bit more serious. “You seemed upset.”

“I? I seemed upset?”

“Swillin’ that whisky like you were, aye.”

Susanna reined in her anger, warned herself that cold reason was more effective and schooled her voice to a whisper. “Please. Go back to your bed. I’ll be in as soon as I’ve dressed.”

He nodded, inhaled audibly and turned on his good foot. She watched as he made his torturous way out of sight.

She stood immobile for some time trying to decide what had really prompted the Scot to endure the pain he must have experienced in coming across the suite to her. He could not have known she would be unclothed, so she didn’t think his intent was prurient. He said he had been concerned about her imbibing the spirits.

Suddenly shivering uncontrollably, Susanna hurried to don clean linens. Again, she ignored the corset. Why hamper herself with stays when she would probably be bending and stretching, repairing whatever damage he had done to himself by overextending his strength? By the time she got to him he would likely have collapsed and bled all over everything. The very thought hastened her to the point of clumsiness.

She pushed her damp curls back over her shoulders and rushed to see what must be done. After all, he was her husband and her responsibility. Father would be proud that she had borne up so well under this task. Well, for the most part, she had.

The Scot had not suffered much, she’d seen to that. But she supposed Thomas Snively was right. It was time to decrease or cease altogether dosing the patient with spirits. Surely the pain was bearable now and he could sleep naturally. It was just that she could not bear to listen to his groans and watch him thrashing about, knowing the agony slicing through him. She had almost felt it herself.

When she entered his bedchamber, she stopped short just inside the doorway. He had returned to bed and was sitting up now, his back resting against the pillows, appearing little worse for his short walk. She released a breath of relief.

Apparently before he’d left the Scot, Thomas had dressed him in that nightshirt, one of several she had ordered purchased day before yesterday when she had found none in the baggage brought from his rooms. The garment was made of soft linen with flat tucks across the upper chest. He had turned up the sleeves over his forearms and left the neck placket unbuttoned.

His smile made her uncomfortable, for she had fully expected a grimace or at least a wan expression of suffering. Before she could comment on how hale he appeared, someone knocked on the outer door.

“That must be Thomas with supper.” She went to answer it. Thomas had arrived with a large tray bearing silver salvers and tantalizing scents. “Bring it in, please,” Susanna instructed. “Put it on the chair beside his bed.”

“Shall I serve, my lady?” he asked as he strode through the sitting room.

“No, you may leave it and return in an hour or so.”

“My lord,” he said, greeting the Scot. “I’ve ordered the crutches for you. It shouldn’t be long before they arrive.”

“Thank you, Thomas. They will be most welcome.”

Susanna marveled at the strength of his voice now, considering how he had sounded not an hour ago. And she noted his way with Thomas Snively. Friendly, yet authoritative. Like Father.

For the first time, it occurred to Susanna that the Scot might not be unused to governing people. Or perhaps he was but imitating the earl’s demeanor. Or hers. Apparently, he could banish his Scots brogue at will, though he never bothered when he spoke to her. A lack of respect? A taunt?

Thomas bowed himself out and they were alone. Somehow it seemed vastly different, being secluded with him when he was not so much the invalid. In fact, he hardly appeared bothered at all by his injuries.

“I’m famished,” he admitted, his avid gaze fastened on the tray. “Have you eaten?”

“No,” she replied. She had taken very little food while tending him, worried as she was for his recovery. A slice of bread and meat here and there, the occasional piece of fruit. Mostly she had subsisted on pots of strong tea and the large complimentary box of bonbons the hotel had provided.

Only today after realizing he was well enough to quarrel had she noticed her hunger and ordered a full meal. Of course, he could not tolerate solid food as yet.

She drew up another chair to face the one holding the tray and began to uncover the dishes, setting the domed covers on the floor beside it.

He inhaled audibly. “Ach, roasted beef. And onions!”

“The soup is for you,” she told him. “Good, Thomas has put it in a cup so I shall not have to spoon it for you. Here,” she said, handing him the porcelain mug as she uncovered another dish.

“’Tis green,” he muttered and handed it back.

She stared into the cup. “Of course it is green. It is pea soup. Drink it.”

He refused to look at it again, much less take it from her. “I abhor green foods,” he announced, rolling his Rs.

Susanna stared at his haughty profile, debating whether she should take him to task over this. Or perhaps pour the soup over his head. After a beat of silence, she decided this battle was of too little consequence to engage upon. She ripped off a portion of the bread, dunked it into the beef gravy and laid it on a small plate. “If your stomach rebels, you’ve only yourself to blame.”

He wolfed it down and licked his fingers. Appalling manners, Susanna thought as she picked up a knife to slice a bite of her beef.

The little plate appeared, empty. With a growl, she plunked down the bite she had cut for herself. “There.”

“More,” he ordered. “And some carrots and onions if you please.”

Her movements jerky with impatience, she complied. “At least use a fork,” she snapped, handing him hers.

He smiled at her, a singularly captivating expression that arrested her thoughts. In awe she watched the workings of his sensual lips and strong throat as he ate. Now oblivious to her regard and intent on the food, he polished off the portion in all haste and returned the plate with an expectant look.

“More?” she murmured and watched him nod.

Before she knew it, he had consumed the entire meal, leaving her only half of the small loaf of fresh bread and the now cold cup of pea soup. She detested pea soup.

Immediately, he slid from his pillows to a prone position, issued a sigh of repletion, closed his eyes and slept.

How young he appeared when sleeping, she thought, wishing she could brush that wavy lock of hair from his brow without waking him. How many times had she done that in the past few days? His skin was incredibly fine textured, smooth and slightly browned by his working in the summer sun.

Susanna peered at the small wound on his right hand, now almost healed. He had wonderful hands. They were nicked and rough, though beautifully shaped with their long, supple fingers and broad palms. An artist’s hands, she now knew, wasted on chipping away at stones to create blocks for buildings or whatever masonry work he produced here in Edinburgh.

Thomas Snively had brought her the small marble sculpture found with her husband’s tools. After seeing that one and only piece, Susanna instantly realized what an incredible gift James Garrow possessed. The sculpture was done by him, without a doubt, for there were rough plans for it drawn in his sketchbook and he had carved a square G on the bottom of the base.

Susanna, determined that he should be recognized for that genuinely remarkable work, had sent it with Thomas to the Le Coeur d’Ecosse Gallery on Halpern Street to have it evaluated. She had not heard a word about it since. Perhaps the manager, Monsieur Aubert, was still examining it or even showing it about to potential buyers in the city. Not that she would sell it or ever allow her husband to do. She had instructed Thomas to make that perfectly clear.

However, she figured that without her taking a hand in the matter, the Scot’s extraordinary talent as a sculptor would never be realized.

Susanna found both his artwork and the hands that had created it fascinating. She had touched those hands whilst he slept, even rubbed them with scented castor cream to soften the rough calluses. Her errant thoughts would drift dangerously when she did that, so she’d had to discontinue it. Imagining those hands on her had seemed devilishly wicked even if he was her husband. Someday she would have to allow it. She had promised.

Was it anticipation that had her tingling so or was it apprehension?

Embarrassed and uncommonly shaky, Susanna rose and hurried from the room. She needed some time alone, away from him, to plan her strategy for the next little while.

The Scot would not be lying there unconscious for the rest of their time in Edinburgh. He would need to be dealt with and she feared it would take all her wiles to remain in control.

He had beguiled her right out of her supper without so much as a by your leave. Susanna wondered if she had overestimated herself. Or perhaps underestimated him.

James watched the door close and wondered whether he could silently make it behind the privacy screen and be sick before she returned. The meal he had forced on an empty stomach threatened to make a return trip. Sheer force of will kept it down.

He dearly hoped she would let him suffer alone while he battled the consequences of establishing the upper hand with Susanna. The woman was entirely too head-strong.

It wasn’t that he misliked her for it, he told himself. She would need all of that assertiveness and more when she took over her estate. But he would still be wed to her and he had no intention of living under any woman’s thumb.




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