Stranded With The Scottish Earl

Published by Anna Campbell

Copyright 2016 Anna Campbell

Cover Design:  © Hang Le

ISBN: 978-0-9975307-1-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and
retrieval systems - except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews - without permission in writing from the author, Anna
Campbell. This book is a work of fiction. The characters, events, and places portrayed in this book are products of the author’s imagination and are
either fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

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Bassington Lea, Hampshire, March 1823

A week before Easter, Ewan Macrae, Earl of Lyle, rode through a raging storm to reach Bassington Grange—only to discover Cinderella guarding the
door.

“Good afternoon,” the lassie in the ragged brown skirt said coolly, holding the door open just far enough to speak to him. To keep the rain
out? Or to fend off unexpected earls?

At twenty-eight, Lyle wasn’t a green lad to stammer in a lady’s presence. Still, he needed a few seconds to catch his breath and dredge some
response from the mush that used to be his brain.

Cinderella was
very
pretty.

He swallowed, shifted on his feet like a yokel, and located a word or two. Hardly original. “Good afternoon.”

Cinderella had creamy skin and rich honey-colored hair, tumbling loose around her slender shoulders. Symmetrical streaks of dirt adorned high, slanted
cheekbones. Half a dozen freckles set off a sweet, straight nose.

She really was a peach. Not even the half-closed door could hide that.

“You need to turn around and go back,” she said after an awkward pause. From the depths of the house behind her, a dog yapped to warn off the
intruder.

“But I’ve only just arrived,” he said, trying a smile. Despite his hat and thick greatcoat, a trickle of water traced a chilly path down
his neck. “I’d love to come in out of the rain for a wee while. It’s hurling it down in buckets.”

To confirm his statement, a gust of wind spattered raindrops across where he stood beneath the unreliable shelter of the portico. Damn it all, this weather
was cold enough for Scotland.

He was used to his smile melting the frost off unwelcoming lassies. Cinderella was made of sterner stuff. Under gracefully arched eyebrows darker than her
hair, the amber eyes remained wary. “No, you really need to go back.”

He struggled to appear harmless. Difficult given his devious plans for the next few days. The distant barking built to a crescendo. “I have business
with Sir John.”

“The master isn’t in residence,” she said firmly, her grip tightening on the door’s edge.

He was well aware that Sir John wasn’t here. Last night, he’d left the portly baronet happily ensconced in his luxurious townhouse in Mayfair.

Lyle reached out with one gloved hand to catch the door before it closed. Although surely she couldn’t mean to shut him out on such a dreich day. He
wouldn’t consign his worst enemy to this downpour. “I’ll wait.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Sir John’s in London.”

And warm and dry, Lyle would lay good money. Sir John Warren had immediately struck him as a man who ensured his own comfort.

“Look, perhaps we can have this discussion inside.” Lyle wrapped his arms around himself and gave a theatrical shiver, only partly put on. It
was as cold as a polar bear’s parlor, more January than March. “It’s perishing out here. I’m starting to turn into an icicle. I
swear I haven’t got my eyes on the family silver.”

No, he had his eyes on something much more precious.

“You don’t understand.” Her uncompromising expression didn’t soften. “In heavy rain, the bridge goes under, and you’ll
be marooned here.”

As he’d ridden across, he’d noticed the wild water gushing high under the stone arches. Well, at least that might explain her lack of welcome.
She feared she’d be stranded with a stranger.

The last thing he wanted was to frighten her. However difficult it was to imagine this indomitable creature afraid. He bit back the impudent suggestion
that he should come in anyway. Already he could see he’d got off on the wrong foot with Cinders, although God knew why.

“Perhaps I should go back to the village.” What a letdown after the day of uncomfortable travel. Nothing had gone as planned, not least the
weather, and his immediate and powerful reaction to seeing this lassie for the first time.

“That would be best.” She’d closed the door before he reached his horse. Poor Saraband stood on the graveled forecourt, sopping, head
down, as miserable as a cat in a washtub.

Cursing, he swung into the saddle and set his tired mount to a canter. But when he came to the end of the lime-tree drive, he saw that he’d lingered
too long at the house. The river gushed over a bridge that, mere minutes ago, had been clear. Cinders hadn’t exaggerated about the speed of the
rising water. For one reckless moment, he contemplated setting Saraband to swim the flood, but the sight of a half-grown oak tree barreling down the
torrent swiftly dissuaded him.

It seemed he and Cinderella were fated to have another chat.

“Sorry, my bonny. It’s back we go. And no dawdling.”

Saraband’s ears flickered, and she answered his urging with a willing burst of speed. Like most lassies, she was happy to cooperate with the Earl of
Lyle. Despite the rain whipping into his face and the freezing wind, he smiled. He could already see there was one exception to that particular rule.

As he and Saraband splashed their way back to the manor, he saw that Cinderella stood in the open doorway, watching his approach.

“I was too late,” he called through the gale, as he dismounted and strode toward her.

“I know.” That acute golden gaze inspected him with visible disfavor. He had a horrible inkling that she meant to refuse him entry, despite
knowing that he was stuck on the wrong side of the river. An elegant great hall with oak-paneled walls and black and white floor tiles extended behind her.
“I checked from upstairs.”

This time, she was better prepared for outdoors. She wore clogs and she’d wrapped a rough shawl around her head. For a moment, she bore a haunting
resemblance to the clan women on his Highland estate.

“I didn’t want to risk crossing.”

There was a suspenseful pause. Surely she wouldn’t lock him out. Then she stepped aside and gestured toward the house’s interior. “Come
in.”

Lyle didn’t immediately obey. Although the roaring fire in the ancient hearth beckoned like brandy to a drunkard. “Will you ask someone to see
to my horse, please?”

She glanced across to Saraband. “There’s nobody else here but me.”

Lyle frowned in puzzlement, although the reasons behind her lack of hospitality became clearer by the minute.

“There must be staff.” The house was large and well kept, too much for even the most diligent Cinderella to manage on her own.

Her lips turned down. He couldn’t help noticing how full and pink they were. Alluringly kissable. From her slender feet in those incongruous clogs up
to the ruffled blond crown of her head, Cinderella was a delectable package.

“Of course there are staff. Just not here.”

“They don’t live in?”

She sighed. “We’ve been rehearsing the Easter play. The household had the afternoon off, to keep the details of the production secret. Because they all have family in the village, with the river rising, they’ll stay there now in case of an emergency. Bassington Grange is high enough to be out
of danger. Bassington Lea isn’t.”

“What about the cast, then? Are they still here?” Although Lyle regretted the prospect of company. Other people meant he needed to mind his
manners. Some madcap part of him enjoyed this unconventional encounter.

She shook her head. “They left about twenty minutes ago.”

He must have just missed running into them. Cinders stepped past him to share the doorstep. To his surprise, she only reached his shoulder. Her bearing had
made her seem taller. In the restricted area, she stood close enough for him to catch a drift of her scent. His nostrils flared at the fresh, flowery
perfume, detectable even through the rain. Despite the cold, heat prickled his skin.

A noise from inside distracted him from the lassie. Stubby legs skittered on the tiles and a small white dog raced toward them, barking all the way.

“Bill, no,” she said in dismay, as the dog leaped around the trim ankles showing beneath the shortened skirt. “How on earth did you get
out, you dreadful beast? I had you safely shut up.”

“He’s just trying to protect you.”

“I can look after myself,” she said, as the dog rushed up and down the shallow steps between the door and the forecourt. “Sit, you
brainless hound.”

The dog heeded the voice of authority and sat. Unfortunately in a large puddle below the lowest step. Filthy water splashed up and turned white fur muddy
gray.

“A great watchdog you make, my friend.”

Lyle hid a smile at her resigned tone. “Perhaps he senses my benevolent intentions.”

She shot Lyle an unimpressed glance as she stepped out into the rain. “I told you he’s a brainless hound.”

He followed her down the steps. “There’s no sense in both of us tramping through the downpour.”

He reached for Saraband’s reins,
but the girl beat him to it.

Any argument—that delicate chin was stubborn—meant longer outside. While Cinders lowered her head against the rain and hauled his horse, he
splashed after her.

As they battled around the mansion to the yard at the back, he realized that he hadn’t yet introduced himself. She’d turned his world upside
down, and thrown his manners out the window. Be damned if he was going to do the pretty in the middle of this tempest.

The wind turned the rain into needles, and his booted feet sloshed through puddles that came up past his ankles. A huge stone building with a clock tower
loomed ahead out of the gray. He hoped to hell it was the stable.

It was. Once they entered the vast, echoing space, a blessed calm descended. High windows lit the interior, even on a gloomy day like this. The scents of
hay, leather, and pampered horseflesh surrounded them.

Lyle was yet to see much of Sir John Warren’s estate, but his impression so far was of a prosperous and well-maintained property. The impression now
firmed to certainty, and that was deuced interesting. Thoughtfully he followed Cinderella and Saraband down lines of stalls, past bloodstock that
wouldn’t disgrace his own stud, to an empty loosebox.