When a Scot Loves a Lady

were climbing up to the coxcomb’s attic chamber. Foolishly, Leam had imagined her above this. But he knew better of beautiful women. He had known better of this particular beautiful woman for three years.

She turned down the stair.

Air once more filled his lungs. There was nothing for it but to announce his presence; within a few steps she would collide with him. He ascended, making his boots heard.

With a soft yelp of surprise she halted and peered into the darkness beyond her candle. In the gold light of the flame her fine wide eyes glowed, her cheeks cast in a rosy hue, lashes like fans.

Leam moved two steps beneath her.

“My lord?”

“Maleddy.”

“I thought you out in the yard smoking with Mr. Yale.” Alcohol had rounded the edges of her voice, softening the hauteur. “What are you doing here?”

“A coud ask ye the same, lass.”

“I am going to the kitchen to find a basin of water. I have not bathed in—” She swayed toward him slightly. “Good heavens, here we are in a remarkably dark stairwell, and I upon the verge of informing you all about my bath. Whiskey is most remarkable at loosening one’s tongue.”

“Aye, ’tis.” That loose tongue was delectably pink, her lips dusky in the dim light. He should now turn and go back to the yard and pummel Yale. Any moment Cox would enter and see him here, on his way up in secret.

The image of Kitty Savege at her bath rooted him to the step.

“And now you must return the favor,” she said. “I have informed you of my program, so you must tell me where you are going. This sneaking up the back stairs makes you look like a spy.” Her generous lips curved into an impish grin, sparkling like her eyes and so entirely at odds with the crystalline town lady, Leam stared. “Are you a spy, Lord Blackwood?” Her smooth cheek dimpled like a girl’s.

“Nae ony mair.” His voice came forth hoarse. He stared at her mouth as her smile faded, as his groin pulsed with heat, as the candlelight wavered and she fumbled for the nonexistent rail, and as he began to wish that he had drunk more whiskey after all. Then at least in the morning he, like his friend, would have an excuse for the unwise behavior in which he was now about to engage.

Chapter 6

The earl reached to Kitty’s hand and drew from it her teetering candle.

“Hae a care, lass. Ye’ll drop it.”

Excellent. She hadn’t really needed it anyway. She hadn’t really needed a bath either; that could wait until morning. She probably most needed sleep, but her blood seemed to whoosh through her veins. No doubt this had something to do with the whiskey, and the fantasy replaying itself in her mind of the Earl of Blackwood kissing her. A fantasy she had been nursing for hours, just like the glass Mr. Yale continually refilled.

As he had been doing all evening, Lord Blackwood stared at her mouth now, but this time from a very short distance away.

“If you are so bent on kissing me,” she heard herself say in a remarkably throaty voice, “you may as well do it and cease this foolishness. I am no schoolroom miss and can, I suspect, withstand the insult.”

He smiled a provoking smile, his rich eyes laughing. “Oh, can ye, lass?”

“Of course. I have lived in London nearly my entire life, you know.”

He didn’t seem to like that. But after that night three years ago, this did not surprise her. His eyes at exactly the level of hers now looked somewhat disapproving and quite intense. Kitty had never particularly liked men of great intensity.

But she liked the Earl of Blackwood. She liked the way he stared at her lips and the hot lapping pool it generated in her. She liked it that he built up the fire when the innkeeper was otherwise occupied, that Mr. Yale seemed to listen to him even when he pretended not to, and that his brother had carried his portrait into battle. She liked his hooded gaze, never mind that he was a barbarian, except in the yard earlier when he had spoken so beautifully.

Gentleman or barbarian? Spy or fantasy?

She giggled. It was preposterous. Years of cool, collected, directed precision, now all subsumed in intoxication over a highly unsuitable man. She wanted him to kiss her, it seemed, more than she had wanted anything else in her life.

He stepped up to the riser beneath her, filling the space with his broad shoulders and sheer size, filling every corner of her senses. She leaned forward. The hint of leather and pine still curled about him, not at all as a gentleman should smell and thoroughly delicious. She inhaled, filling her nostrils, then her head. He remained perfectly still, watching her.

She tilted forward and pressed her mouth to his.

She sighed, right there on the step in the near dark with her lips pressed to a man’s, a stranger’s for all intents and purposes.

He felt so good.

Her palm found the front of his coat. She could not seem to prevent her fingers from spreading and discovering hard muscle beneath fine wool. Ever so gently his mouth moved against hers, cupping her lower lip, and heat shot through her body like a sizzle of lightening. He kissed her back and she allowed it, the fitting of shape and texture, and the delectable heat curled into her belly—then swiftly, thickly, between her legs. A tiny gasp escaped her. He seemed to take it into his mouth. In sheer relief, upon a soft utterance of pleasure, Kitty opened hers.

A large, strong hand wrapped about her shoulder. In complete control, Lord Blackwood put her away from him.

Stomach twisting, Kitty opened her eyes.

She did not see on his face that which she expected. Instead his dark eyes seemed to shimmer with surprise and a hint of confusion, echoing the shock slipping through her body. He had not expected it either, the jolt of real desire, and something more. The awareness of it in his gaze weakened Kitty. Her shaking hand sought a stair rail, but none could be found. His attention followed her action, then abruptly returned to her face.

With one deliberate movement he drew her against his chest and covered her mouth with his.

This time the kiss was not a mere brushing of lips. This time his hand wrapped around her jaw to hold her close. He tilted his head and crossed her lips with his, and a rumble of pleasure came from his chest. She gripped his shoulders, a thrill of pure, sweet pleasure coursing through her. He was all hard male beneath her touch and she felt it to her toes. His tongue stroked her lips, coaxing to enter. She let him in, feeling him at the sensitive soft insides of her lips, then against her tongue. She gasped in breath and he caught her tongue with his and she wanted him.

Good heavens, no.

But resistance was futile. She might tell her hands to press at his arms now to push him away, but they would not obey. She might command her lips to seal themselves, but they adored the sensation of his tongue, masterly and damp, entering her. He wanted his tongue in her and she allowed him full liberty.

His palm slipped away from her face to spread on her back, trapping her to his chest and it was like heaven to be so trapped, to be wanted by a man. This man. And Kitty’s muzzled head told her that perhaps these three years she had been lying to herself. Perhaps she had broken free of Lambert Poole’s hold on her that night not because of the particular message she had read in Lord Blackwood’s fathomless eyes but simply because she had wanted him to hold her instead—quite literally.

Madness. She was not a wanton. She was a coolheaded, rational being. This man was a flirt, a cretin, and she had nothing whatsoever in common with him except that they clearly seemed to enjoy kissing each other. She ran her hands along his arms, drunk on him now, the caress of his mouth carrying her along the insanity. She touched his face and everything inside her softened. The plane of his high cheekbone and hard jaw was perfection, taut and barely rough from the day’s whisker growth.

“I wanted you to kiss me.” She heard herself utter the words, breathless and trembling, unable to control