Scottish Brides (9 page)

She hadn't. After that one trip after an extra blanket, she had curled up at his side and slept the sleep of the innocent.

Blasted woman. After waking up a few dozen times, he would have welcomed a wrestling match.

Now he was hungry and grumpy. Andra still warmed his side, so who the hell was running up and down the stairs and talking in those loud tones?

He opened his eyes—and made a grab for the tartans. “Mary, what are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” his loving sister answered.

Her critical blue gaze made him aware of his expanse of bare chest, and he glared at her as he pulled up the blankets. Then his gaze shifted to encompass Sebastian and Ian, and he prudently arranged the tartans over the already-covered Andra, adjusting them to her chin. “Where did everyone come from?” His mind leaped from suspicion to suspicion. “Is this Lady Valéry's doing?”

“A woman of her age can't climb the stairs.” Alanna held Ian's arm and stroked the mound of her belly. “But she sent you her regards, and she invites you to bring your complaints to her.”

“If I were the lady Andra's brother, I'd be forced to beat you for debauching so gentle a maid.” Sebastian rubbed his chin as if remembering a former trouncing.

“I'd help.” Ian rubbed his fist into his palm as if the thought pleased him.

Both the men owed him a drubbing, but Andra was tapping his shoulder, and Hadden didn't have time for silly, manly challenges.

“Hadden,” Andra whispered, “what are all these people doing here?”

He almost groaned. How was he going to explain this to her when he couldn't explain it to himself? The tower could scarcely contain the crowd; his relatives, some Scottish dignitaries he barely recognized, and Sima, Douglas, and the house servants.

“I couldn't venture to say,” he mumured.

Taking in the scene, she decreed, “We need some privacy.” With, careful deliberation, she reached out, grasped the edge of one of the tartans, and pulled it over their heads.

The plaid was so thin that the light leaked through, and he could see Andra on the bolster beside him—Andra with her wild-woman hair and sleepy eyes and puckish smile.

“There it is,” he said inconsequentially.

She looked puzzled. “What?”

“Your smile. I was afraid you'd lost it.”

Her smile trembled and grew, and her eyes began to shine with the kind of light that gave him a smidgen of hope. “Are they here for the wedding?” she whispered.

My God, was she talking about what he thought she was talking about?

“Our wedding,” she clarified. “A wedding is usually the only reason you'll see my cousin Malcolm anywhere near Castle MacNachtan. He's afraid I'll ask for money. And a wedding is free food and drink.” Hadden was still too dumb-founded to speak, so she added, “I saw his whole family out there. He's very thrifty, you ken.”

Hadden caught her hand in his. “Andra, I swear I never planned this.”

“I'll acquit you.”

“I seized the chance I was offered, and without regret, too, to tell you—”

She put her finger over his lips. “And tell me you did, in more ways than one. It's a lot of sense you made, Hadden

Fairchild, and while I am still afraid, I love you enough to take the gamble.”

His heart, frozen and constricted for too long, expanded with joy. Taking her wrists, he reeled her in. “Andra . . .”

“If you'd look, you'd see that I've already accepted your proposal.”

He glanced around but could see nothing. Nothing except—he laughed aloud—over his head, the black and red and blue MacNachtan marriage kilt.

 

A Note from Christina Dodd

 

On a recent trip to Scotland, my family and I went looking for Brigadoon.

We didn't find it. The mythical village that appears out of the mist only one day out of every hundred years proved elusive to us, but Scotland holds many treasures. In the Low-lands we found Lady Valéry's eighteenth-century manor (or one much like I imagined), the original setting of Mary Fairchild's story in
A Well Pleasured Lady.
On the wild west coast we explored an estate much like the one Ian Fairchild won—along with his wife—in
A Well Favored Gentleman.
Finally, in the midst of the Highlands, we discovered a moldering castle, and I remembered, Mary's brother Hadden, a man badly in need of a story. When I came home to Texas, the stones of that castle rose in my mind, and I created Andra to be a mate to the incomparable Hadden.

I hope you enjoyed this tale, and as well as the Fairchild tales.

And I'll see you in Brigadoon.

Rose in Bloom

 

 

 

 

Stephanie Laurens

One

 

 

 

Ballynashiels, Argyllshire

 

June 17, 1826

 

“What the devil are
you
doing here?”

Duncan Roderick Macintyre, third earl of Strathyre, stared, stupefied, at the willowy form bent over the piano stool in his drawing room. Sheer shock, liberally laced with disbelief, held him frozen on the threshold. A lesser man would have goggled.

Rose Millicent Mackenzie-Craddock, bane of his life, most insistent, persistent thorn in his flesh, lifted her head and looked up—and smiled at him, with the same, slightly lopsided smile with which she'd taunted him for decades. Her large, light-brown eyes twinkled.

“Good morning, Duncan. I'd heard you'd arrived.”

Her soft, lilting brogue washed over him, a warm caress beneath his skin. His gaze locked on the expanse of creamy breasts now on display, Duncan stiffened—all over. The reaction was as much a surprise as finding Rose here—and every bit as unwelcome. His jaw locked. Fingers clenched about the doorknob, he hesitated, then frowned, stepped into the room and shut the door.

And advanced on his nemesis with a prowling gait.

Holding the sheets of music she'd been sorting, Rose straightened as he neared—and wondered why the devil she couldn't breathe. Why she felt as if she did not dare take her eyes from Duncan's face, shift her gaze from his eyes. It was as if they were playing tag and she needed to read his intent in the cool blue, still as chilly as the waters of the loch rippling beyond the drawing-room windows.

They weren't children any longer, but she sensed, quite definitely, that they were still playing some game.

Excitement flashed down her nerves; anticipation pulled them taut. The room was large and long; even with her gaze fixed on Duncan's face, she had ample time to appreciate the changes the last twelve years had wrought. He was larger, for a start—much larger. His shoulders were wider; he was at least two inches taller. And he was harder—all over—from his face to the long muscles of his legs. He looked dangerous—he
felt
dangerous. An aura of male aggression lapped about him, tangible in his stride, in the tension investing his long frame.

The lock of black hair lying rakishly across his forehead, the harsh angularity of his features and his stubbornly square chin—and the male arrogance in his blue eyes—were the same, yet much sharper, more clearly defined. As if the years had stripped away the superficial softness and exposed the granite core beneath.

He halted a mere two feet away. His black brows were drawn down in a scowl.

Forced to look up, Rose tilted her head—and let her lips curve, again.

His scowl grew blacker. “I repeat”—he bit off the words—“what the
devil
are you doing here?”

Rose let her smile deepen, let laughter ripple through her voice. “I'm here for Midsummer, of course.”

His eyes remained locked on hers; his scowl eased to a frown. “Mama invited you.”

It wasn't a question; she answered nevertheless. “Yes. But I always visit every summer.”

“You do?”

“Hmm.” Looking down, she dropped the lid of the piano stool, then shuffled the music sheets together and stacked them on the piano.

“I must have missed you.”

She looked up. “You haven't been here all that much these last years.”

“I've been tending to business.”

Rose nodded and quelled a craven impulse to edge toward the windows, to put some space between them. She had never been frightened of Duncan before; this couldn't be fright she felt now. She tossed her head back and looked him in the eye. “So I've heard. Away in London, resurrecting the Macintyre fortunes.”

He shrugged. “The Macintyre fortunes are well and truly resurrected.” His gaze sharpened. “And I haven't forgotten what you did twelve years ago.”

Twelve years ago, when last they'd met. He'd been a painfully fashionable twenty-three, with the highest, starchiest shirtpoints north of the border. Even south of it. She hadn't been able to resist. Half an hour before he'd gone up to dress for his mother's Hunt Ball, she'd slipped into his room and steamed all his collars. He'd been forced to appear slightly less than sartorially perfect. Unrepentant still, Rose grinned. “If only you could have seen yourself . . .”

”Don't remind me.” His gaze searched her face, then returned to her eyes. His narrowed. “You're twenty-seven—why haven't you married?”

Rose met his gaze directly, and coolly raised her brows. “Because I haven't yet met a man I wish to marry, of course. But you're thirty-five, and you haven't married either—although that's about to change, I understand.”

Exasperation colored his frown. His lips thinned. “Possibly. I haven't yet made up my mind.”

“But you've invited her here, with her parents, haven't you?”

“Yes—no. Mama invited them.”

“At your instruction.” When she got no response beyond a further tightening of his lips, Rose dared a teasing grin. She wasn't entirely sure it was safe to play her old game, but the old tricks still seemed to work. The change was infinitesimal, yet he tensed in response to her smile.

She'd known Duncan literally all her life. As the only child of aging and wealthy parents, her childhood had been one of indulgence and cossetting, but also of severe restrictions. As her father's heiress, she'd been groomed and watched over; only during the summers, during the long blissful weeks she had spent here, at Ballynashiels, had she been allowed to be herself. Her wild, carefree, hoydenish self. Her mother had been a close friend and cousin of Duncan's mother, Lady Hermione Macintyre; together with her parents, she'd spent every summer of her childhood here, in precious freedom. After her mother's death five years ago, it had been natural to continue her visits, with or without her father; Lady Hermione was a surrogate mother and a dearly loved haven of sense in a world that was, too often for Rose's taste, governed by sensibility.

She did not have a “sensible” bone in her body, a fact to which Duncan could attest. Eight years her senior, he'd been the only other child here through those long-ago summers; naturally, she'd attached herself to him. Being insensible—or, more accurately, stubborn, willful and not easily cowed—she'd ignored all his attempts to dislodge her from his heels. She'd dogged his every step; she was quite sure she knew more about Duncan than anyone else alive.