When a Scot Loves a Lady

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.

He was having the devil of a time looking away.

Curse Yale. Drink had not been wise tonight, at least not for him.

He set his glass on a table.

“My lord, it is a great man who shares poetry with others,” Cox said with unexceptionable deference. “Tell me, who do you admire more greatly, Byron or Burns?”

And there it was again, the slightest hint of ey, the barely discernable ow. As a man who had struggled his entire youth to banish the rough borderlands from his speech, Leam could recognize a countryman within a phrase. Cox was a lowland Scot.

“Aeschylus.”

The fellow’s clear brow beetled. “That name is unknown to me. But I’ve been traveling in the Americas until quite recently. Those colonials never learn of the latest great writers until they are far out of date.” He chuckled.

Lady Emily blinked like a fish. “Aeschylus, the ancient Greek tragedian?”

Yale glanced up, a glimmer in his silver eyes.

Leam felt like a fool, showing off his erudition. A jealous fool who had absolutely no reason to feel jealous.

He didn’t like the fellow. And he didn’t like the way he was casting calf’s eyes at a lady far above his station. But now Leam was both feeling like a fool and thinking like a jackass. If he did not take care, the evening would proceed apace.

Dinner was served and enjoyed in good cheer and a measure of general hilarity. Leam participated when required. He took a glass of wine, leaving the whiskey untouched, and watched the tradesman.

Cox made himself agreeable to all, showing no sign of discomfort among his new acquaintances yet a suitable modesty. When Yale searched for a taper to light a cheroot, Cox produced a flame. When Lady Emily begged to be excused on account of the tobacco smoke making her ill, Cox opened a window and held a steady arm beneath hers while she inhaled fresh air and Yale doused his cigar.

When Lady Katherine applauded young Ned for his fine fiddling, Cox requested an encore.

After some time, Leam had seen enough. No man was that pleasing to everyone and all without good reason. He knew this from personal experience.

Throwing on his greatcoat, he announced that he would go outside for a smoke. Yale followed, leaving the ladies to Ned, Mr. Milch, and the coxcomb.

“Had enough of Tommy Tradesman, have you?” Yale brandished his cheroot and cupped his hand to encourage the spark. He took a long pull and puffed contentedly, staring out at the snow and the narrow river lit with indigo moonlight. The street was empty, a murmur of voices emanating from within the pub several doors away, echoing between the double row of modest buildings as sound always did upon snow.

As so often after such a storm, the sky had finally cleared. Ten thousand diamonds sparkled in the midnight canopy, an eternity of unfulfilled wishes. At one time, an infinitely foolish university student reading poetry had wished upon them all.

Leam moved along the path flanking the inn that he had shoveled earlier that afternoon while endeavoring to avoid the company of a female with wide, storm-tossed eyes.

“To where dost thou hasten, oh noble lord?” Yale called after him. “To thine balcony from which thou might cast forth petals of rose and lily for thy elusive lady’s dainty toes to tread upon?” Yale was fully in his cups now. Only then did he ever make such foolish mistakes.

Leam retraced his steps, pulled his arm back, and planted his fist on his friend’s jaw.

The lad hit the packed snow with a thud.

“Damn it, Blackwood, you villain,” he snuffled, cupping his cheek with one hand and casting about with the other in the snow. “You’ve made me lose my cigar.”

“I have discovered a stair at the rear of the house.” Leam glowered down at him. “If you weren’t so soaked in drink I would tell you to go up and investigate his belongings. As is, I suggest you step back inside and do your best to keep him entertained for as long as you are able.” He pivoted about and nearly lost his footing on the ice. “By God, would that I were in Scotland already.”

“Ah, but then you would not have made the acquaintance of the lovely Lady Katherine.” Yale had found his cigar and was wiping it free of snow on the lapel of his coat.

But Leam hadn’t made her acquaintance here. Three years ago he’d met her in a ballroom, and even then he hadn’t been able to take his eyes off her. But she had been with another man. A man who did not deserve her.

“I would hit you again, Wyn, but you’re still on the ground.”

“More than welcome to come down here and further impress me with your pugilistic talents, old man.” He smirked and bit the cheroot, his jaw red with the pattern of Leam’s knuckles. Yale wanted the beating, and much more. He wanted oblivion, and Leam didn’t blame him.

He turned on his heel and stormed away.

From within the kitchen door that let onto the alley not far from the rear foyer entrance, another staircase ascended. The inn’s proprietress had long since gone to bed; the kitchen was piled with clean dishes, occupied only by a pair of mice content with a minuscule floor scrap.

Leam passed through a remarkably well-stocked pantry to the narrow staircase behind. He was halfway to the first landing when a door creaked above. He halted, making himself invisible in the dark. The small panel to the floor above opened, and into the stairwell, candle in hand, came Kitty Savege.

Leam held his breath, a metallic taste filling his mouth. He stood in shadow. She might not see him if she