When a Scot Loves a Lady fc-1 Page 6

  “If one of your enemies determined to murder you, he would not be hesitating.” Leam dropped the muffler beside the bottle.

  “S’truth.” Yale struggled to sit, setting the whiskey on the bench and taking up the garment. “But murder? Perhaps he is merely seeking information, like we were wont to do.” He lifted a black brow over a preternaturally clear eye. “Or p’raps it’s Lady Justice, chased us all the way from Dover Street to ferret out our purpose.”

  “In a Shropshire snowstorm?”

  “In a Bengalese monsoon?” He dropped the muffler. “That fellow we sought in Calcutta tracked you all the way through the jungle, if you recall.”

  Leam shook his head, moving to his horse’s stall. “I’ve no idea why this one hasn’t come closer.

  He’s within spitting distance yet he balks.”

  Yale leaned back against the cold stable wall and swung the bottle once more to his lips. “Much as the lovely Lady Katherine?”

  Leam would not oblige him with a reply. But it was a damned nuisance sometimes that the lad had the instincts of a real spy. Always watching.

  “He is closer than I like given the circumstances.”

  “P’raps you ought to simply wait for him behind a wall and shoot him when he appears. Works like a charm, you know.”

  The big roan bumped its head into Leam’s chest. He ran his hand along its smooth face.

  “Is that how it happened, Wyn? When you shot that girl?” Leam didn’t know the whole story of it; Yale had never shared it. But he knew well enough that his friend had not always drunk the way he did now. It had started after one assignment went terribly wrong.

  The Welshman pushed up from the bench and hefted a saddle into his arms. On steady legs he moved to his horse’s stall. But this time Leam could see the drink in his eyes and the set of his mouth.

  The soberer the lad grew, the more he laughed. For years they had gotten along famously together: Mr.

  Wyn Yale, the drunk, and Lord Uilleam Blackwood, the man with a hole where his heart should be.

  Yale unfixed the latch on a stall door and heaved the saddle and blanket to his black’s back. It was an elegant creature, beauty and strength in its Thoroughbred lines.

  “Going for a ride, Wyn?” Leam spoke mildly. “It is unwise in this weather, of course.”

  “When you call me by my Christian name, Leam, you intend to lecture me. I will save you the trouble. Ta-ta.” He tightened his mount’s girth and reached for the bridle.

  “I could knock you down. You would sleep this one off.”

  “You couldn’t, old man.”

  “I haven’t bothered to in years, it is true. But I am tempted now.”

  Yale slid the bit into the black’s mouth and dropped the reins over its neck. He drew the horse from the stall, its hooves clomping across straw-strewn wood.

  “Are you trying to kill yourself, or the horse?”

  The Welshman pushed the stable door open and mounted amid lazy swirls of snow blowing off the roof.

  Leam followed. “Don’t be a fool, lad.”

  “Save your lectures for your son, Blackwood. He’s still young enough to find some use in them.”

  He spurred the horse into the snow. It stepped high, wary of the drifts, but the Welshman pushed it forward.

  His son.

  “You will ruin that animal’s legs, you idiot!” The wind grabbed Leam’s voice. Heedless, the black-clad man and black-coated horse disappeared around the corner of the stable.

  He cursed and headed for the inn. He shook his coat and pushed through the entrance. Bella and Hermes came in behind and he shut the door—too forcefully. He tugged off his gloves and threw his coat onto a hook, bending to swipe his boots with a cloth, his head a wretched mash of anger.

  Anger, he could feel in spades. Only anger, still after so long. His tenure with the Falcon Club had done nothing for that, nothing at all, although that had been the reason he’d joined five years earlier.

  To cast off grief and guilt, and most of all fury, with purpose. To release his anger by keeping himself occupied.

  All idiocy. He’d run away, accomplishing nothing but alienating himself for far too long from his home, the house in which his son lived.

  His son.

  He went into the parlor.

  Lady Katherine stood by a window. The pane was open and the cold air blowing in rippled the delicate fabric of her skirt. But she did not seem to note it. Her wide gaze rested on him, strangely questioning once more.

  His anger slid away, heat of an entirely different kind replacing it, low and insistent again. By God, those thundercloud eyes could bewitch a man.

  “An ye wish, lass, A’ll saddle ma horse an search the road behind,” he heard himself say.

  “For our servants?”

  “Aye.”

  “You would do that when you have just told Mr. Yale he oughtn’t to ride?”

  “Aye.” That, and quite a bit more he began to fear with a sick twist in his stomach. He wanted to please her and see those thunderclouds glimmer with desire as they had in her bedchamber. “An ye wish.”

  She remained silent a moment, slender and poised like a portrait, but shimmering with muted life in the gown that caressed her curves as his hands might. There was every newness about her, yet every familiarity, as there had been for the briefest moment that night three years ago. His heart beat a frantic pace.

  A tiny crease appeared between her brows. “I would not have you put yourself at risk.”

  He nodded. “Nae tae worry, lass. Thay’ll hae found shelter.”

  “I hope so.”

  “A ken ye dae.”

  Her frown deepened. “Do you know?” Then the corner of her lips twitched, her winged brows quirking. “That is what you said, isn’t it?”

  She was ice and fire at once, diamonds and feather down, soft heat bubbling forth through a cool veneer.

  “Aye.” Leam backed toward the door. Distance was safest. Imagining she would shy from his blatant barbarity, he had redoubled his incivility earlier, boorishly commenting on her gown. The ploy had rewarded him only with the sensation of her skin marked upon his hand and the sweet, humid heat of her breath upon his lips.

  But this honest conversation was going no better.

  Distance. Sanity. Alvamoor, where his son awaited him to celebrate Christmas. His son. Nearly six now, his appearance no doubt altered since the previous year, as always with the swiftly growing young. But Leam knew the boy’s face well. Better than his own.

  Without bidding the lady adieu, he grabbed his coat and gloves and retreated once more into the wild out-of-doors. The cold without could not touch a man with a soul of bleak barbarism like his.

  Chapter 5

  Kitty folded linens. She had not performed such a domestic task in an age. Permanently residing with her mother in her brother’s town house, she left the housekeeping to Alex’s capable London staff.

  But Mrs. Milch had complained again of the lack of the serving girl, and Kitty’s brain was good for nothing more taxing this afternoon.

  By the stable Lord Blackwood had spoken perfect English to Mr. Yale. Nary a hint of brogue or tumbling roll had marred the cadence of his deep voice speaking clearly and smoothly the king’s own English. Better than the king’s.

  She’d heard it by accident. She had opened the window to release from the parlor a cloud of smoke a hard wind had sent down the chimney. But she had tarried there in the frigid air to spy on him. She would deny it to herself if she could, but she had no wits to now.

  Perhaps he had been putting on airs to tease Mr. Yale, like an actor employing a false voice to mimic another. But he’d sounded like a gentleman. Quite nicely. So nicely that Kitty was barely able to find words when he had stormed through the door.

  But why would he feign otherwise? And what sort of renowned flirt backed away from a woman so obviously wishing to be kissed, on such slight discouragement?

  An honorable one. An honorable one
who teased a lady about the suitability of her gown?

  Kitty released a tight breath.

  “Two horsemen have come into the yard, Mr. Yale and a stranger with a portmanteau.” Book in one hand, Emily peered out the window. “Mrs. Milch, I believe you are to have another lodger.”

  “It’ll be mutton sausage for him too.” Mrs. Milch stacked Kitty’s linens and headed toward the kitchen.

  The innkeeper met the gentlemen at the door.

  “Welcome back, sir,” he said to Mr. Yale. “I see you’ve found another lost traveler.”

  “Yes, indeed!” The newcomer gave the room an open smile that creased his attractive face into an attitude suggesting sheer pleasure at being stranded. His gaze met Kitty’s and his blue eyes brightened. He drew off his hat, revealing close-cropped gold curls and fashionably long sideburns.

  “Ma’am.” He bowed, then to Emily. “What good fortune to find such company upon such a road. I should not have dreamed this luck.”

  “Where have you come from, sir?” Emily asked.

  He offered another charming smile. “Cheshire, ma’am.”

  “I meant just now.” She turned to his companion, who was removing his coat and hat. “Mr. Yale, where did you find him?”

  “At the pub.” He moved toward the hearth and held forward his palms.

  “I’m afraid I had a nasty time of it last night,” the gentleman said with a light air of regret. “Stuck upon the road, the most frightful winds howling, my horse terrified. I found this village when I was nearly dead with cold, but I’d no idea of an inn until this good gentleman informed me of it minutes ago.” His regard shifted to the stair, and his brows lifted. “Ah, your party grows augustly.” He bowed.

  “My lord, it is an honor.”

  “An who might ye be?” The deep voice shivered through Kitty. She had to look. She could not in point of fact prevent herself from doing so. He was far too handsome, far too unnerving, and far too confusing. She wanted to look without ceasing.

  “Cox, sir. David Cox.” The newcomer affected a martial snap of his heels. “A Lloyd’s man.

  Shipping insurance of late, but before that Wellesley’s army. Fact, I am already acquainted with you of a sort, if I may be so bold. I knew your brother, James, back in the dragoons. He was a bruising rider, a favorite amongst his men. You have quite the look of him, and he always carried a cameo portrait of each of his siblings, just as I do of my … dear sister.” His brow lowered handsomely. “My condolences, sir. I understand you were quite close.”

  Lord Blackwood nodded, his gaze hooded.

  “Well now, sir,” Mr. Milch said cheerfully, “I’ve got all my chambers spoken for upstairs. But that pub is no place for a fine gentleman such as yourself. If you don’t mind it, there’s the garret. It’s got a grate, so you’ll find it suitable warm, and my Gert has made up the mattress with a good woolen quilt.

  Can I tempt you to remain?”

  Mr. Cox’s smile flashed once more. “You could not tempt me away from such company.” His appreciative gaze returned to Kitty.

  She curtsied. “Mr. Cox, did you by chance encounter a carriage and four on the road yesterday or today?”

  “Fact, I did, ma’am.” He moved to her. “Last night near Atcham I spotted a very fine carriage, pulled up before a farmhouse not far from the road. It seemed out of place, but any port in a storm will do. Quite literally.” He chuckled, deep enough to be pleasingly masculine. “Are you lacking members of your party?”

  “Our servants, sir.”

  Lord Blackwood came to her side. He extended his hand to the newcomer. Mr. Cox passed his gloves into his other palm and shook hands.

  “It is excellent to finally meet you, my lord. It must be six years since I had the pleasure of your brother’s companionship in arms.”

  “Seiven.” The earl released him. “Take a dram of whiskey afore denner, Cox?”

  “Thank you. Don’t mind if I do.”

  “Whiskey?” Emily furrowed her brow. “May I have a dram as well, Lord Blackwood?”

  The Scot’s mouth curved upward. “Aye, miss. If ye wish.”

  If you wish.

  He was too close now. Memory of the sensation of his hand on her face, his caress on her lips, weakened Kitty, and it felt at once thrilling and horrid. He welcomed this tradesman as though he were an equal. He acted like a ruffian and occasionally spoke words that rendered her perfectly breathless.

  He was the most peculiar nobleman she had ever been acquainted with, and he made her heart race merely standing beside her.

  “Lady Katherine, will you take a glass as well? Join us in celebrating Christmas early?” Mr. Yale handed Emily and Mr. Cox glasses. Kitty welcomed the opportunity to cross the chamber, away from the earl’s unnerving presence.

  “Capital idea.” Mr. Cox lifted his glass in salute. “We shall be in this village until the snow melts, I suspect. In Shropshire for the holiday!”

  “Some of us were intended in Shropshire for the holiday already,” Mr. Yale said, offering a half-

  filled glass to Kitty. She sipped. It burned, then invaded the place behind her breasts with heat. She drank again, deeper.

  “Then you are not of a single party?” Mr. Cox glanced with interest about the group. “I had imagined these elegant ladies in your company, my lord.”

  “’Tis a sorry disappointment.” Lord Blackwood raised the glass to his mouth and looked directly at Kitty.

  “Lord Blackwood and Mr. Yale are on their way to no admitted destination, Mr. Cox,” she said in impressively measured tones given her quivering insides. His hand around the glass was beautiful, strong, and long-fingered. She could still feel it upon her. “Lady Marie Antoine and I are intended at her parents’ home not many miles distant.”

  “Ah, then I am sorry you have not reached your family, Lady Marie Antoine.” He looked truly contrite. “But, I say, we shall make a party of it here instead.”

  “What do you have in mind, sir?” Mr. Yale lounged on the sofa, his glass full to the brim.

  “Lady Katherine and I were to bake bread tomorrow,” Emily said. “Perhaps we could find the ingredients for a pudding and make one of those instead.”

  “Have you any idea how?” the Welshman drawled.

  “Have you?”

  He offered her that slight smile Kitty now recognized, and took a long quaff of whiskey.

  “No doubt Mrs. Milch will know a recipe,” Emily said.

  “Then pudding it shall be.” Mr. Cox appeared all contentment. He turned to Kitty with a glimmer in his very blue eyes. “What else shall we have, my lady?”

  “Ned plays the fiddle. We’ll have music.” Mr. Milch set plates atop the lace covering. “Gert!

  Where’s the boy? He must play for these good folk before dinner.”

  “The boy?” Mr. Cox lifted a brow. “Why, he is seeing to my horse, of course. I gave him a penny for it.”

  Lord Blackwood met Kitty’s gaze. His mouth curved into the barest hint of a smile. A private smile, meant for her it seemed. Her breath faltered.

  “We canna lack a bonfire.” He spoke as though to her directly.

  “A bonfire?” she said. His gaze seemed to caress her lips as his thumb had in her bedchamber.

  “Whatever for, my lord?”

  “Scots believe evil elves hasten down the chimney on Christmas to spirit away little children,” Mr.

  Yale supplied, staring into the flames now. “We must build the hearth fires high lest we be invaded by sprites.”

  The earl’s grin tilted up at one side, and his gaze upon her mouth did not falter. Kitty swallowed.

  She felt dizzy and feverish again. From the whiskey, certainly. Or from the heated regard of the rough-

  hewn, superstitious Scot across the chamber.

  “I have read that Scots like to drink quite a bit at Christmastime.” Emily spoke in a singsong voice. She looked into her empty glass, then handed it to Mr. Yale. He stood and refilled it. “Is that true,
Lord Blackwood?”

  “Scots drink all the time,” Mr. Yale threw over his shoulder.

  “We’re nae alone in that.”

  “Scholars and great drinkers,” Kitty murmured, and before she could school her tongue, “Which are you, Lord Blackwood?”

  The larger dog pressed to his master’s side. The earl’s long fingers stroked the beast’s shaggy brow. “A’ll be letting ye guess that on yer own, lass.”

  “Lord Blackwood.” Emily’s voice slurred slightly now. “I am ever so grateful for the volume of poetry you lent me this morning. It is difficult to be without one’s books, is it not?” She sighed uncharacteristically. Mr. Yale laughed. Kitty blinked.

  Poetry.

  “Why, how long have you been waylaid here already, my lady?” Mr. Cox inquired in surprise.

  “A day,” Kitty said in the hazy grip of the effects of very little drink and a great deal of perplexing, enthralling man. “A single day.”

  Leam smiled. Lady Katherine Savege was apparently unaccustomed to whiskey. So too her young friend. Yale was already disguised, although hiding it well as always. On the other side of the chamber, the inn’s proprietor whistled a jig, several fingers of the Welshman’s brew under his belt as well.

  That left Cox, the man with gloves lined in brown cashmere who had shown up to join their little party in the midst of a snowstorm. Cox was drinking too; his eyes were bright. Far too often they rested on Kitty Savege.

  He dressed like an agent in shipping insurance might, in a nattily tailored coat and waistcoat, expensive and flattering to his athletic build. He enjoyed the advantages of charming address and winning good looks, the sort of pleasing fellow an untried girl like Leam’s young sister Fiona would admire.

  Cox turned to Lady Emily and offered her light flattery as though she gave a damn for that sort of thing, a smile of sheer earnestness on his face. Yale mumbled a comment and Cox chuckled, no doubt gratified to imagine himself privy to the joke. But every few moments he cast Lady Katherine another admiring glance. She returned his smiles, but her attention was scattered, occasionally on the others, occasionally on the glass in her hand, but most often on Leam.