Stranded With The Scottish Earl (2 page)

Before he’d set out on this knuckleheaded quest, he’d feared he’d fallen victim to a trickster. Perhaps Bassington Grange would turn out
to be a rundown disaster in desperate need of an injection of cash via a gullible Scottish earl. Sir John had appeared plump in the pocket—not to
mention the person—but he wouldn’t be the first fellow to make a show that he couldn’t afford in the bright lights of London.

But if these well-stocked stables were any indication, the ebullient baronet was exactly what he presented himself to be. Rich. Worldly. Respectable.

Which left Lyle puzzled on several counts.

A soft grunt from his fair companion pierced his musings. The lassie struggled to lift the heavy valise off Saraband’s wet back.

“I’ll do that,” he said, brushing her aside.

The white terrier settled in a corner, black eyes riveted on his mistress. Lyle couldn’t blame the dog for watching her. The saturated shawl slid
down, revealing that breathtaking face. Cinderella was a bonny sight, and there must be magic at work, because she got bonnier by the second.

Lyle even found her managing air enticing. Clinging vines had never appealed to him. Both his sisters were clever and independent—and fully capable
of putting a mere younger brother in his place. He’d missed that Scots snap in the demure Sassenach lassies he’d met in London, even the ladies
lauded as diamonds of the first water.

To his mind, a diamond worthy of the name needed to have a flash of fire.

Ignoring him, the lassie was untying a couple of smaller bags from the saddle. He was piqued that she’d made more of an impression on him than
he’d apparently made on her.

However, that didn’t absolve him of his obligations.

Setting down his valise, he ripped off his leather gloves. He dropped the sodden gloves on top of his luggage and swung his greatcoat off, scattering drops
of water everywhere and making Saraband snort in protest.

“Here.” He slung the heavy woolen garment around the lassie’s straight shoulders.

Surprised, whisky-colored eyes widened as they focused on him, and her hands clutched the coat closer. It was warmer in the stables than outside, but not
much. “Thank you,” she said in an uncertain voice. “But you’ll be cold.”

“I’ll live. For pity’s sake, go back to the house and dry off. I’ll follow once I’ve settled Saraband.”

He waited for her to object to the order, but her attention had already shifted from him to the bay. “She’s yours?”

“Aye.” He’d ridden down from London in easy stages to avoid having to trust to hired hacks.

“She’s a beauty.” She stroked Saraband’s silky nose. The horse extended her neck for more attention. “Far too fine to stay
out in the rain.”

His lips twitched. He’d offer Cinderella half his fortune if she’d describe him in similar terms. “She’s part Arab.”

The lassie’s knowledgeable air as she surveyed the horse betrayed the identity she concealed under her humble costume. “You can see that in her
head.”

Lyle patted the mare’s rump and praised her in soft Gaelic, for she’d done more than her share through today’s heavy weather. With care,
he lifted the saddle from the bay’s back. When he raised his head, Cinders regarded him with an oddly arrested expression.

“There’s no need to wait,” he said in a mild tone. “I’ll see you inside.”

Her eyes narrowed. This time, Saraband wasn’t going to save him from Cinderella’s displeasure. “You’re very free giving orders in
another man’s house.”

He shrugged and bent to grab a handful of straw to rub his horse down. “As you please.”

When he looked up again, the girl had gone. “She’s a gey odd lassie,” he murmured to Saraband. “I’m not sure what to make of
her.”

The horse shifted and whickered as if in agreement. He lifted a currycomb from a hook and continued the grooming. After the difficult journey, the familiar
task was soothing. “Definitely an odd lassie. But bonny. Aye, dashed bonny.”

“I’m glad you think so,” a familiar voice said from behind him.

Startled, he turned. Devil take this weather. The rain on the tiled roof concealed the fact that Cinderella hadn’t taken his suggestion and returned
to the house. She was carrying a bin of oats which she poured into a manger in the corner.

“I mightn’t be talking about you,” he said gently.

She cast him another of those unimpressed glances as he set aside the brush and shouldered his valise. Behind him, Saraband buried her nose in her feed.
The mare might make a braw confidante, but she was useless when it came to giving advice. And as Lyle surreptitiously studied the lass who set out ahead
with such a confident step, he’d love a woman’s perspective on his situation.

They dashed out of the stables and through the rain, the wee dog barking at their heels, into the Grange’s kitchens. Like everything else Lyle had
seen on the estate, they were spotless and modern. The warmth from the huge hearth sent the blood to his prickling extremities.

He dropped his luggage on the floor and headed for the fire. The dog was two steps ahead of him.

The lassie opened a cupboard and pulled out a pile of towels which she dropped on a well-scrubbed table. “Here.”

He stripped to his shirt and started to mop up the damp. Without looking at him, she unwrapped herself from his coat and spread it and her sodden shawl
across a couple of chairs. Then she kneeled near the fire to tend to the dog.

When Bill was a fluffy white blob, the lassie rose and started to dry her thick hair, darkened to milky coffee with rain. Lyle struggled not to notice how
the brisk movement of her arms jiggled her generous bosom against her thin blouse. He had a liking for small, curvy women. Or at least he did now.

After draping his wet, crumpled towel over another chair, Lyle straightened and stared at his adorably disheveled companion. “Shouldn’t we
introduce ourselves?”

She lowered the towel from her hair and regarded him with unreadable eyes. To his complete amazement, she dropped into a curtsy. “My name is Flora,
sir. I’m a housemaid here.”

With difficulty, he stifled a scoffing laugh. His intelligence mustn’t have impressed her. That lie wouldn’t convince the county’s
greatest blockhead. Not least because she spoke with a clipped upper-class accent and her hands, while undoubtedly competent, were as smooth and
unblemished as any lady’s.

“Flora…” he said in a thoughtful voice, studying the wee besom and trying to make sense of this latest twist in their interactions.

“Yes, sir,” she said, dropping her gaze with unconvincing humility.

What the devil was she playing at, Sir John Warren’s beautiful only child? She’d kept him guessing from the first, which promised interesting
times to come. Last week in his London club, her father had offered this girl to Lyle as his bride.

Intrigued and faintly annoyed that she judged him daft enough to swallow this twaddle, Lyle decided to allow her enough rope to hang herself. Plastering an
ingenuous smile on his face, he stepped closer. “I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Flora. My name is Smith. Ebenezer Smith.”

Charlotte Warren stared incredulous at the tall, commanding man who filled the Grange’s kitchens with sheer force of personality. Then she shut her
mouth so sharply, her teeth clicked.

“Mr. Smith?” she said, much as he’d said “Flora.” Flora was the first name she thought of when she decided not to reveal who
she was.

“Aye, that’s right,” he said with that sincere smile she didn’t trust at all.

“But you’re Scottish.” She slipped out of her clogs, then was sorry she did because barefoot, she lost a good two inches in height.

“Smith is a gey common name north of the border.”

Whereas there was only one Ewan Macrae, Earl of Lyle, she thought grimly. She glanced toward the fine leather baggage piled beside the table.
“That’s odd. The initials on your saddlebags are E.A.A.M.”

To her satisfaction, chagrin flashed in those deep-set, dark blue eyes
.

Take that, Ewan Macrae, whatever that double A stands for. “Arrogant Ass,” I’m guessing.

After she’d read her father’s insultingly brief note announcing that he’d chosen the perfect husband for her, she’d balled it up
and flung it into the fire. Then she’d set out to ignore the absurdity, hoping that like most of her father’s crazes, it would go away.

It hadn’t gone away.

The proof that it hadn’t stood before her now, over six feet tall, black-haired, brawny, and with an insolent light in his cobalt eyes that made her
want to pitch a copper saucepan at his gorgeous head.

“That’s the monogram of the fine gentleman I serve, Ewan Macrae, Earl of Lyle.” He paused and subjected her to a sharp glance where she
stood near the hearth. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”

“I have no interest in society wastrels,” she said in a lofty tone, before recalling her humble alias. A housemaid shouldn’t criticize
her betters. At least to the betters she criticized.

“Is that so?” he asked with a suspiciously straight face. “If you don’t mind my saying, Miss Flora, you’re a haughty wee
lassie for one so low in the domestic pecking order.”

Although she thought herself too frozen and wet to blush, blush she did. But then she wasn’t used to telling lies, whereas this man lied as readily
as Bill had flopped down before the roaring fire.

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Smith. It was the pressure of the moment,” she said in the same intransigent tone. “With everyone away, I’m
in charge of the house.”

He had the most extraordinary eyes. Even when his expression was serious, a smile lurked in their depths. If her insane parent wasn’t so set on
promoting the match with Lord Lyle, Charlotte might even find that twinkle appealing. Most women would.

Which begged the question why the earl connived with her father to marry a woman he’d never met. Viewing him dispassionately—or at least trying
to—she imagined such a spectacular man must have to beat admiring females off with a stick every time he stepped out his front door.

He put on the guileless expression he’d tried on the front doorstep. It was no more convincing now than it had been then. “I promise I’m
no burglar, Miss Flora.”

Her lips tightened. “That’s just what a burglar would say.”

He ran his hand across his head, leaving his black hair delightfully disarrayed—not that she noticed, she told herself—and responded with a
hint of asperity. She could tell he didn’t like having his credentials questioned. Too bad. “Well, if I am a burglar, today I can only steal
what I can swim away with.”

“When the rain stops, the water will go down,” she said steadily, slipping her icy feet into an old pair of leather slippers.

He regarded her with a concentration that had an odd effect on her pulse. Perhaps after all that running through the rain, she was coming down with a cold.
“You don’t really believe I intend harm, do you?”

If he intended to marry her, she considered that great harm indeed. But Flora the housemaid couldn’t say that. Bill rose and gave himself a good
shake before he trotted forward to investigate the stranger’s boots.

Bite him, Bill.

Lord Lyle clicked his elegant fingers. And Bill, the rotten traitor, yipped in delight and rolled over to offer his pink belly for a scratch.

“Nice dog.” He bent to rub the terrier’s damp white fur.

Silly dog, she thought, but remained silent. Something about the way that elegant hand caressed her pet into bliss made her lightheaded. She raised a hand
to her cheeks. She was unhealthily warm. A cold must be coming on.

Lyle hunkered down to do a better job of turning Bill into his devoted slave. He looked up at her from under the black wing of hair that flopped over his
brow. “If you really are worried about my intentions, I can try and get across the river. I’m a strong swimmer when unencumbered with stolen
booty.”

Charlotte stifled the urge to return his smile and wondered why she wasn’t scared. After all, they were alone, and she was at his mercy, should he
decide to turn nasty. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Then I can sleep in the stables.”

Watching Bill squirm with pleasure, she summoned the words that would exile this unwelcome intruder from her personal Eden. It wasn’t as if Lord Lyle
couldn’t manage out there. Her father housed his horses better than his tenants—and his tenants had no complaints. In the stables, however
beneath his dignity, the earl would be warm and dry. And safely out of her hair.

But her essential generosity prompted a completely different offer. “We have about a hundred bedrooms.” Only a small exaggeration. “And
you look like a gentleman.”

“Thank you, Miss Flora,” he said gravely. Odd how she was convinced he continued to laugh at her.

He shouldn’t call a mere housemaid miss, but if she protested, he’d only find her more amusing. Strange the insight she already had into his
character. “I’ll…I’ll show you to a room.”

“Thank you.” He collected his steaming coat and stepped toward her.

She retreated into the table, before remembering that she didn’t want him to know he made her nervous. Still, she gulped before she spoke. It was
just that he was so tall, and he watched her with such attention. And that wet shirt stuck so lovingly to every line of his impressive torso.

When she read her father’s letter, she’d pictured Lord Lyle as a weedy creampuff. The sort of milksop who let other people arrange his life.
The man standing near enough for her to catch the delicious scents of rain and male was more roast beef dinner than fussy French patisserie.

“Miss Flora?”

Realizing how her eyes clung to his broad chest, she blushed to fire. She licked her lips, hoping without great optimism that the dimness concealed the
color in her cheeks. “I’ll take you upstairs.” She paused, recalling that she was a maid. “Sir.”

Charlotte hadn’t had this trouble staying in character when she’d played Cinderella. Perhaps because the play’s Prince Charming was Paul
Carter, the vicar’s son. A perfectly nice boy, but a nonentity compared to Ewan Macrae. All her life, she’d pushed Paul around. She already
knew she didn’t have a prayer of pushing Lord Lyle.