When a Scot Loves a Lady

“My lord, are you a rogue, a gentleman, or a barbarian? I must know.”

“A wee bit o ilk, lass.”

“A bit of each? Which is sincere?” With enormous effort of will, she pushed him off and ducked out of the reach of his arms. “Perhaps—perhaps you should hold to tragedy after all. Allow me to play your game now as well, won’t you? You mentioned Aeschylus the other night, so I suppose you know Greek.”

“Some.” His brow was drawn.

Kitty crossed her arms. “Well?”

He did not reply immediately. Finally, “In the Greek?”

“English translation, if you please.”

He regarded her steadily. “‘He burneth to enjoy a mortal maid, and then torments her. A sorry suitor for thy love, poor girl, a bitter wooing.’” Kitty squeezed her eyes shut. This could not be happening to her again. She had left torment behind years ago.

His voice, so beautiful, so deep and smooth, came again through the cold. “‘I have but now ceased mourning for my griefs.’” Her eye snapped open.

He looked … uncertain.

“Another play by Aeschylus, my lord?”

“Prometheus Bound.”

“Ah, no wonder it seemed familiar. I have seen it performed. It is the scene in which Prometheus, chained to a cliff face for eternity, speaks those words before the eagle sets upon him to devour his liver. Daily. Am I correct?”

He shrugged. “’Tis tragedy, lass.”

She pivoted about, putting her back to him and a hand across her mouth, and Leam’s heart beat so hard he could hear it. He had brought her to this state, again rendering the exquisite undone.

He was a complete ass revealing himself in this manner. He knew it and he couldn’t care. This clever woman—this beautiful woman—this woman whose rare and precious laughter stole beneath his ribs—she had given herself to him and he wanted more. Fool that he was, he wanted much more. He wanted to let himself feel what he knew he could feel with her if he allowed it.

He simply could not.

So he spoke now without disguise, disguising himself in the language of his youth’s passion, the poetry that his once reckless heart had adored. For the first time in his life, his tongue would not behave.

“I have played the fool before, my lord.” Her voice held steady, unlike her body that trembled when he held her, that had trembled the night before as he lost himself so completely in her. “But that was some time ago and I do not intend to repeat the experience now.” She moved toward the door.

“A dinna wish ye tae play the fool, lass.” The Scots clung. Leam willed it away, but it would not go. He suspected why. He knew their names. Their son awaited him at Alvamoor for the holiday. Their son who called him Father.

He must maintain this charade with her until he could leave. It was his only protection against the danger he wanted to dive into with her. He could not allow his heart to become engaged. He could not trust in his self- control, the self-control that had deserted him entirely when he had met his wife and became blind to all else. When he discovered her infidelity and his jealousy knew no limits.

A man who had sought his own brother’s death because of his jealousy over a faithless woman must not allow himself to love again.

Kitty turned partially toward him, her hand on the latch.

“Oh, you needn’t worry.” She did not meet his gaze. “I have done this before, you know, and it is quite easy. One simply says good-bye, and, voila! , no more fool to be had here.” She tugged on the door. It stuck. She put her shoulder into it. It did not budge. Leam went forward, reached over her, and bent to her tightly bound hair. He inhaled her fragrance, the dangerous beauty in his senses like nothing he had known in an eon. Very likely, he’d never known it.

He stroked the backs of his fingers along her cheek and neck, and she gasped in air and her body quivered. She ducked her head.

“Please open it.” Her voice was tight.

“Kitty—” She grabbed the edge of the door and pulled hard. Leam shoved it open, his stomach hollow. She marched through.

A crack sounded across the space. She screamed, pivoted about, and tumbled into a snowbank.

Chapter 12

Leam leaped forward, darting his gaze to the surrounding buildings.

“Yale!” he bellowed. “ Yale! ” He dropped to his knees beside her. Snow enveloped her, red speckling the white.

Frantically he searched. Dear God, please no. He unfolded the cloak tangled about her. A small circle of blood settled on the wool of her sleeve, spread through the torn fabric of her gown. He yanked his cravat loose, swallowing around the panic.

Where was the shooter?

A flash of dark moved about the edge of the building opposite.

Goddamn it. “Yale!”

The inn door burst open.

“Pistol shot! From the north. Get the dogs.”

Yale whistled into the inn, then took off across the street, Hermes and Bella streaking out the door and leaping ahead of him.

Kitty opened her eyes. Her lips and cheeks were pale. It looked a minor wound, but it would pain her greatly when he made her move, which he must do without delay.

“Good heavens.” She sounded more surprised than distressed.

“Good God.” He had done this to her. The shot must have been meant for him. The man following him must have a nervous trigger finger to have mistaken it. “Kitty, ma girl.”

“I believe I have been shot.”

“That ye hae. Lie still, lass.”

Gently, he lifted her arm. She screamed. He slid the cravat beneath it, looped it quickly again, then pulled it tight.

“Oh, God,” she groaned weakly. “Will you never cease torturing me?”

Leam tied off the cravat and gathered her in his arms. He carried her through the stable door and into the tack room. Carefully he set her down, propping her elbow upon a bench as she breathed fast and shallow, her eyes and lips clenched. He reached for a blanket, smelling of horse but it would have to do, and wrapped it about her shoulders, then slid an empty bucket to her side.

“An ye need tae be ill, gae at it.”

“I am to suppose, then, that you know of what you speak?” she gritted out.

“Aye.” He stood. “Stey here.”

At the door he scanned the yard. The shooter had run, but he might have a partner, although it seemed unlikely. He hadn’t even shot twice.

Lady Emily and Mrs. Milch appeared in the inn’s doorway.

“Gae inside,” he called over. They retreated and the door closed.

Yale appeared around the building across the way, moving fast, Hermes loping alongside.

“Someone’s gone in a boat beyond the beaver dam, but I don’t know if it’s the shooter,” he shouted as he neared. “Bella’s tracking the bank. I’ll ride.”

“Nae.” He moved aside for the Welshman and wolfhound to enter and pulled the door closed to a crack. “We dinna ken the land.”

“Or if he’s alone.” He dropped the pistol into his coat pocket. “Blast and damn, Leam.”