Stranded With The Scottish Earl (3 page)

Another reason to reject his suit. Since her beloved mother’s death ten years ago, she’d run the Bassington estate, and she’d discovered
that she liked the world to march to her drumbeat. She’d bridle against any attempt to tame her, yet she couldn’t respect a man who let her
walk all over him.

Lucky for her, as the only child of a rich man, she could afford to claim her independence. Her indulgent papa always gave her her way, saying he
appreciated having such a diligent chatelaine.

Which made this lunacy her father cooked up with Lyle even more inexplicable. She stifled the familiar pang of hurt that struck every time she recalled
that cheerful letter disposing of her future.

“Follow me,” she said, turning with a swish of her meager skirts toward the steps. The Cinderella costume was a blessing when it came to a
disguise, but it was cursed flimsy. She was starting to shiver. Changing into dry, warm clothing became imperative—especially if this strange
other-worldly feeling portended a cold.

“You’re very kind,” he said in a neutral voice, shouldering the valise with an ease that sent an unwelcome thrill through Charlotte.

Goodness. If ever one needed to fight off dragons, this was the man to enlist. Any sensible dragon would take one look at that powerful form and scurry
back to its cave.

With Bill at his heels, Lyle followed her up the stone stairs. In the constricted space, she was preternaturally aware of his size compared to hers. She
should have kept her clogs on. She’d never thought of herself as a fragile woman, but something about the earl’s large, strong body made her
feel ridiculously tiny and defenseless.

They stepped into the great hall, the core of the original medieval building. How vast and empty the manor felt when it contained only her and one
too-handsome man.

Lord Lyle paused at the top of the steps and glanced around the massive space with its hammer-beam roof sporting angels with the Warren shield—three
gold swans on a blue background. His expression was a mixture of awe and amusement. “Good Lord, lassie, I feel like Henry the Eighth.”

She bit back the impulse to say that even if he took six wives, Charlotte Warren still wouldn’t count among their number. “It’s very old,
fourteenth century.”

She’d resented Lyle’s constant attention. Now, stupidly, she resented that he forgot about her. He performed a slow turn, whistling in
admiration. Those clever eyes took in the ancient patterned tiles and the tall heraldic south window, which even on a grim day flooded the enormous space
with light.

“It’s impressive.” His attention settled on the makeshift stage beneath the window. “Cinderella’s parlor, I take it?
I’d have thought Sir John’s daughter would play the leading role. I was told she lives here.”

Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. “Miss Warren is away at present.”

“While you run the Easter play.”

“I’m a mere participant, sir,” she said. “I do what I’m told.”

The glance he directed at her indicated disbelief. “That must be difficult.”

She lowered her eyes to hide her stirring temper. “I know my place, Mr. Smith.”

The name stuck in Charlotte’s neck. But if she admitted she knew who he was, she’d have to confess her own identity. Her impulsive adoption of
an alias sank her deeper in subterfuge by the minute.

Above her, the rows of Warren angels stared down in silent condemnation. They clearly didn’t approve of her leading the noble earl up the garden
path.

“I’m sure you do, Miss Flora.” Something in his tone caught her attention. Surely he hadn’t guessed who she was. She wasn’t
dressed like the lady of the manor, and he had no reason to doubt her.

“The…the bedrooms are upstairs.” The words vibrated between them like an invitation from a courtesan to a patron.

The light faded fast as evening drew in, but even so, she caught a flash of pure sapphire in his eyes. “Please lead the way.”

In the flurry of activity, settling his horse, and bringing Lord Lyle inside, and most distracting of all, maintaining her disguise, she’d been
conscious of him as a man, but not afraid. Now her precarious position, stranded with a stranger, struck her like a blow. When she thought of him as the
enemy, she was sure she could hold her own. When she recognized the unwelcome attraction flaring between them, her confidence faltered.

All mockery fled that compelling face with its chiseled jaw and arrogant nose. “What’s wrong?”

What was wrong was that all of a sudden she realized that Lord Lyle posed a genuine threat. Something at her deepest level insisted that physically she was
safe—perhaps his kindness to his horse and her dog, or that moment when he’d given her his coat despite being soaked and frozen
himself—as far as she wanted to be.

But how safe did she want to be?

That was the niggling question she couldn’t answer. A gaping chasm of uncertainty opened beneath her feet. Raising her chin, she concealed self-doubt
beneath a show of bravado. “Follow me.”

She started up the grand oak staircase, but her shaky legs stumbled on the first step. Quicker than lightning, Lyle grabbed her arm, steadying her.

At his touch, her heart leaped, stealing her breath. She stared wide-eyed up at him, giddy and unsure.

What on earth was wrong with her? One would imagine she’d never been alone with a man, when her duties on the estate had her dealing with males of
various degree from morning to night. None made her feel the way she felt dangling off Lord Lyle’s elegant hand.

She swallowed, her throat so tight that it hurt. Dear heavens, she was in trouble. And for once in her life, she felt helpless to rescue herself.

“Watch your step,” he murmured.

Was he referring to more than just her ascent to the upper floors? “I’m…I’m fine now,” she said jerkily. “The light
is—”

“Going, aye. Should I fetch a candle?”

She shook her head, telling herself to pull away. But delicious heat radiated up her arm from his long fingers. How the devil did he do that? The day was
cold, miserable early spring, but Lord Lyle’s touch promised sweetest summer. “There are candles upstairs.”

“Very well,” he murmured.

His deep voice made her shiver. Mere inches away, that velvety baritone with the exotic, beguiling burr made every hair on her skin stand up.

If only she was getting a cold, but what was the point of lying to herself? For the first time in her twenty-five years, her body reacted without reference
to her head. She mightn’t want to marry Ewan Macrae, but he was the most breathtakingly appealing man she’d ever met. And she suspected that
nothing she did would save her from tumbling headlong into his thrall. However lunatic that made her.

She’d seen this madness strike in the village. She’d seen this madness happen, masked in society manners, to her friends. Her reaction had
always been amused tolerance. She’d been smugly immune, too sensible for such silliness.

Fate paid her back. Now she had an inkling of how powerful the impulse to sin could prove under the right influence.

Except Ewan Macrae wasn’t the right influence.

Common sense insisted she break free, run for the hills, no matter the weather.

But astonishingly, Charlotte didn’t shift an inch. The desire to press herself against his hard, imposing body, and beg him to kiss her kept her
captive. How she hated to admit that she was just as pudding-headed as any other susceptible girl in a spectacular man’s presence.

For a fraught moment, Lord Lyle studied her face. Then he straightened. Keeping hold of her arm and balancing his bag on the other shoulder, he escorted
her upstairs with the ceremony he’d devote to a duchess.

“You’re cold,” he said, and she realized he’d mistaken the cause of her trembling.

“Yes,” she said, denying the heat that pumped like a furnace in her blood.

At the top of the stairs, she retained enough wisdom to direct him to the chamber farthest from hers. She hoped it was far enough away. Her instincts told
her that he too felt this odd attraction, although to do him credit, he’d minded his manners. But she couldn’t mistake the firmness of his hold
or the spark of interest in his eyes.

What a wicked libertine.

Even if she could stomach an arranged match, she categorically didn’t want a husband who dallied with the servants.

The craziest part of this crazy scenario was that she was jealous of herself.

She flung open the door to the blue room. Bill trotted through ahead of them as Lyle let his bag slide to the floor.

“I’ll light your fire for
you.”

Oh, for pity’s sake, what was wrong with her? Squirming, she waited for him to mention the fire burning between them, a fire that needed no kindling.

He merely gave her a brief smile. “No need. I can look after myself.”

“Very well.” At last she found the gumption to pull away. Terrifying quite how much will that required. Then she hesitated in the doorway,
bereft because that capable hand no longer touched her.

She needed to get away. Now. The large four-poster bed near the window loomed, a threat and a lure.

She swallowed, sent him a wild look, and rushed out. The slam of the door echoed through the empty corridor as she collapsed breathless against the wall
outside his room. In a futile attempt to quiet her galloping heart, she pressed one trembling hand to her heaving chest.

What in Hades must Lyle make of her bizarre behavior? He must think her raving mad.

Right now, she was inclined to agree.

Charlotte forced herself to straighten and walk at a sedate pace toward her room. She’d change into dry clothes. And she prayed that in the process,
she’d locate the sanity that so catastrophically deserted her.

Despite his cold, wet clothes, Lyle stood for a long time in the center of the room and stared at the abruptly closed door. He felt like he’d been
belted in the head with a cricket bat. Dizzy and breathless and befuddled. He’d expected Charlotte to be pretty. He hadn’t expected her to send
his whole world reeling.

He shook his head to try and restore his everyday self. It didn’t help. He should have realized when Cinderella met him on the doorstep that
he’d entered a fairytale kingdom where normal rules no longer applied.

He sighed, turned away, and spent far too long lighting the fire. He could blame his cold hands for his clumsiness, but he knew it was because his mind
wasn’t on practical matters, but on a certain outspoken lassie.

At last the flames licked around the wood, and he stood and tugged fresh, mercifully dry clothes from his valise. He’d changed into trousers and had
just picked up a clean shirt when he heard a short knock.

Before he could answer, Charlotte Warren, the world’s least convincing housemaid, stood in the doorway. She clutched a bundle
of towels to her lavish bosom and stared at him aghast.

Except when he recovered from his shock and took a closer look, she didn’t exactly seem horrified. Instead she seemed…interested.

Interested was…
interesting.

His body’s response to her arrival was predictable, and given how little he wore, she couldn’t miss it.

“I’m sorry…”

“I’m sorry…” he said at the same time, as the hand holding his shirt dropped to his side.

She bit her lip, her gaze tracing an incendiary line down his bare chest to focus below his waist. Wild color flared in her cheeks and her eyes widened.
Lyle stood stock still as confused messages clamored in his brain.

Turn around. Cover yourself. Tell her to leave. Kiss her.

The silence extended. And extended.

His chaotic mind had time to register that she’d changed into a plain blue gown most servants would only dream about. Her luxuriant honey hair flowed
loose, curling as it dried. The knuckles holding the towels shone white with tension.

Of course she should be frightened, alone with a man with obvious carnal intentions. But when he stepped closer, the shirt drifting disregarded to the
carpet, it wasn’t fear he read in her amber eyes.

“Thank you for the towels.” His prosaic words belonged to a different world from the wanton fantasies rocketing through his head. Fantasies of
throwing this gorgeous creature onto the big bed behind him and tossing up those neat blue skirts to reveal the treasures beneath. Fantasies of burying his
hands in that cascading mane of hair and his lips in the tempting pink of hers.

Her usually steady voice emerged with a faint tremor. “I was wondering if you needed dry clothes. If you did, I could get you some of
Papa’s.”

She must be as bedazzled as he was, or else she’d never make such a betraying statement.

“Thank you,” Lyle said, ordering himself to settle down. Without noticeable effect. He’d given Miss Warren to believe that she was safe,
and he was a man of his word. Maid or mistress of the house, it didn’t matter. He had no right to lay a finger on her.

No matter how those fingers ached to discover if that silky skin was as soft as it looked.

He reached for the towels, but she didn’t immediately release them. Instead she stared up at him, as if unsure whether he meant to leap on her.

As if she was even more unsure whether she’d like it if he did.

He gave the bundle a gentle tug, and her lips parted over little white teeth. How the devil could he resist? Thought of conscience, calculation and
courtship evaporated.

All thought evaporated under the imperative of desire.

“Hell,” he whispered.

He swept her into his arms and leaned down to claim those plump, glistening lips. Her glorious taste thundered through him. Salty and tart like a mixture
of green apples and the sea. He discovered without any real surprise that he’d craved the flavor of Charlotte Warren all his life.

For a breathless interval, she rested in his embrace without resisting or participating. He plundered her lips, running his tongue across the seam until on
a sigh, she parted. Giving up any hope of emerging from this alive, he plunged deep into the sweet ocean of her mouth.