Stranded With The Scottish Earl (6 page)

“I’m domineering and used to getting my own way.”

“I like a woman who knows her own mind.”

“I’m stubborn and opinionated.”

“If I’m contemplating a lifetime with a lassie, I want her to show a bit of spirit.”

“I have no society polish. A countess should be sophisticated, whereas I’ve never had a season. I’ve never even been to London.”

“Aye, you’ll settle into the Highlands well, then. My home is a long journey from the bright lights of Edinburgh—a wee wife who pines for
city life would never be happy with me.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I kissed you like there’s no tomorrow.”

“Are you trying to convince me for or against?”

Her lips twisted in self-denigration. “I’m clearly a woman of wayward morals.”

He couldn’t contain his laughter. “Is that right?”

Her cheeks were fiery now. “You don’t want to marry a flirt.”

“If I’m the only laddie my wife flirts with, I have no objection.”

Her expression was a mixture of defiance and shame. “How do you know I don’t kiss every gentleman the way I…I kissed you?”

He smiled gently. “Have you ever kissed anyone else like that?”

“No.” Her long eyelashes, darker honey than her hair, flickered down. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t.”

She was bewitching. He’d admitted to being besotted. Every moment in her company only deepened his enchantment. “I’ll take my
chances.”

“Surely you want a wife you can trust.”

“Apart from your…waywardness and propensity for impersonating fairytale characters, I believe you’re an admirable creature.”

“Hardly.” The compliment didn’t please her. “I let you take liberties.”

“As your future husband, I’d like to place it on record that I intend to take liberties at every opportunity.” He paused.
“Scotland’s a gey chilly place, especially in the winter. I don’t want a cold marriage bed.”

She stiffened. “There remains one insurmountable obstacle.”

“What’s that?”

Her delicate jaw set in an obstinate line. “I don’t want to marry you.”

With a thoughtful expression, he turned away and stoked the fire to release more warmth into the room. The rain flung itself against the windows as if it
would never end. Near the closed door, Bill raised his head, then laid it down on his paws again with a whine of doggy disappointment.

“Have you nothing to say to that?” she asked in a challenging tone.

Carefully Lyle placed the poker against the hearth and turned to face her. “Your father said I might need to persuade you.”

“Did he indeed?” she asked in a dangerous voice.

“Aye, but he seemed sure I would prevail in the end.”

“Oh?”

“Aye. He told me you just hadn’t met the right laddie to tempt you from your independence.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I suppose you’ve decided you’re the right laddie?”

She made a fair attempt at imitating his accent. “Modesty forbids me from answering that.”

To his surprise, amusement lit her eyes, and she laughed. “Modesty, is it, Lord Lyle?”

Charlotte bent to collect the pile of damp clothes he’d left on the floor, turning in a blink from grand lady to housemaid. Perhaps she’d make
a decent Cinderella after all. “I’ll spread these in front of the fire in the kitchen so they dry.”

Surprise delayed his next question as she headed for the door. Bill leaped up to follow her. “Is that it?”

“Come downstairs when you’re ready.” She reached for the doorknob. “We’ll have supper in the drawing room. It’s just
off the hall. I’m sure you’ll find it.”

Lyle couldn’t be any more confused if she’d waved a wand and turned a pumpkin into a carriage. “What about our wedding?”

She raised her eyebrows as if he spoke complete gibberish. “You expressed an interest, my lord. I responded with a refusal. Now there’s no
reason you and I can’t spend a pleasant evening together. Are you hungry?”

“Aye.” Around noon outside Winchester, he’d stopped for beef and ale. He hadn’t eaten since.

“I’ll see what I can find.”

“You can cook?” he asked, genuinely curious. London’s delicate ladies looked like they lived on dew and nectar. Prepared by someone else.

“Of course I can cook.” She paused on her way out and cast him a smile that was pure friendliness. What in Hades was she playing at now? She
acted as if he’d never held her in his arms. Perhaps he should remind her. He smothered the urge to tumble her onto the bed until she was his dazed
darling again. For a while there, he’d had the upper hand. But somewhere she’d clawed back the advantage.

Exhilaration bubbled in his blood. Exhilaration and the determination to win this lassie. He’d always enjoyed games. This one promised champion fun.

Devilry made him smile. “That’s an excellent skill in a wife, my love.”

She laughed, the wee baggage, and left the room with a confident swagger that made him itch to kiss the insolence out of her.

“Can I help?”

Charlotte looked up from the omelet that started to firm on the stove top. Lord Lyle was fully dressed in a dark blue coat that brought out the rich color
of his eyes. She suffered a spurt of naughty disappointment that he covered that superb torso with clothing, however elegant.

“Can you make toast?” She gestured to the loaf on the table. He said he wanted a managing wife. She’d show him the error of his ways.

“I can try.”

“You’ll need the toasting fork, and then…” She stopped and studied his suspiciously interested expression. “You’re
teasing me.”

“Just a wee bit, lassie.” With eye-catching efficiency of movement, Lord Lyle set to his task. Every gesture set her foolish heart racing. From
the first, she’d thought him an impressive figure of a man. But now she had firsthand experience of what a splendid physical specimen he was.
She’d touched that strong back and felt the powerful embrace of those long, sinewy arms.

He produced several perfect golden slices, then turned his attention to loading a tray with the cold ham, cheese and dried fruit she’d found in the
larder. Competence invested his every action.

Including his kisses.

She killed the traitorous thought before it could go any further. The only way to weather their unavoidable togetherness was to act as she would with an
acquaintance. Dinner and polite conversation, with an embargo on topics like kissing and weddings, would get them through the evening.

Then if heaven had any mercy, tomorrow the rain would stop, the river would subside, and the earl would ride away on his magnificent horse and forget the
unsuitable woman who had briefly caught his fancy.

Her foolish heart smarted at the thought of him forgetting her. But her head had taken charge, and her head insisted that if she kept the tone pleasant but
impersonal, she’d escape unscathed.

She cut the omelet in half, served it, and placed the plates on the tray.

“Let me take that,” Lord Lyle said.

She didn’t argue. He might as well use those muscles for something useful, instead of beguiling silly girls who should know better. “Thank
you.”

Snatching a bottle of her father’s best claret, she followed the tall man up the steps, then directed him to the drawing room.

“The dining room is too big for two and as cold as charity,” she said cheerfully, pointing to the table where she ate when she was on her own.

She stood back and let Lyle arrange the food. Amazing how graceful he made the everyday movements. Then she reminded herself of her plan. Jolly.
Uninvolved. Polite. That was Charlotte for the rest of Lyle’s visit.

But this enforced intimacy inevitably recalled lying in his arms, when she’d been far from uninvolved. With shaking hands, she set two wineglasses
from the sideboard on the table and lit the candelabra that provided a centerpiece for their makeshift meal.

Charlotte was grateful that Lord Lyle didn’t comment on her jumpiness. She wasn’t optimistic enough to imagine he hadn’t noticed. Those
deep blue eyes didn’t miss much at all.

As if to prove her right, he stepped back from the table and stared at the Reynolds hanging over the mantelpiece. “Your mother?”

“Yes.”

“She looks like you.”

“Do you think so?” Charlotte regarded him skeptically. “She was considered a great beauty.”

He cast her a wry glance. “You’re not too bad yourself, lassie. There’s no need to hide your light under a bushel, just because
you’ve got a couple of freckles.”

“Only seven.” Her hand rose to cover the freckles on her nose, until she realized he was provoking her again. Her lips flattened. “Oh,
you’re an annoying man.”

“Aye.” The amusement drained from his eyes. “How old were you when you lost her?”

“Fifteen.” The memory of her mother’s death remained sharp, despite the ten years since it had happened. She usually avoided speaking of
those sad days. To her surprise, she didn’t mind telling Lord Lyle. Perhaps because he was a temporary presence in her life. “A winter fever
caught her, and she was gone in two days.”

“That’s hard.” He turned back to the picture. “She looks like a gallant lady.”

Charlotte studied the beautiful image, and for the first time saw past her grief to a lovely woman who had just married the man she adored and who thought
a long life of happiness lay ahead. It was something of a shock to realize that when the picture was painted, her mother had been three years younger than
she was now.

“She was.” Her voice lowered. “You would have liked her. Everybody did. She had the gift of happiness, and she bore her sorrows bravely.
My father hasn’t recovered from her loss.”

“Sir John spoke of her in London. It’s clear he’s never stopped missing her.”

“They fell in love at first sight and never looked at anyone else. He met her at her first ball in London and proposed the next day.” Charlotte
smiled fondly, for a second forgetting that she was angry with her father. And that tonight, perhaps love and marriage weren’t the wisest choices of
topic.

“My parents died last year in a carriage accident outside Edinburgh. I still miss them.”

Meeting Lyle’s gaze was like sinking into cobalt velvet. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”

“No reason you should,” he said, running his hand through his hair. “My sisters and I are just out of mourning.”

“Sisters?”

“Aye.” He grimaced and resumed the familiar teasing tone. Except now she knew him well enough to see that this time, at least, he had to work
to achieve that lightness. “Margaret and Kirsty. Both married. Both sure that they know just what a younger brother needs. I told you I was used to
managing women.”

 She heard the fondness in his voice. “You’re lucky. My parents would have loved a brood of children, but there was only me.”

He caught her hand and squeezed it. “There’s nothing ‘only’ about you, Miss Warren.”

“Th-thank you,” she said uncertainly. Telling him about her mother had changed things in a way she couldn’t quite identify. Upstairs
he’d described their interactions as a game. But sharing their experiences of loss and family ventured into unexpected territory—and left her
uneasy.

“I—” she began, unsure what she wanted to say, but frantic to shatter the bond between them.

He raised her hand to his lips for a brief kiss. How she wished he’d stop doing that. He released her and stepped closer to the table to pull out her
chair.

“Quite the feast. My compliments, Miss Warren.”

Disoriented and worried that long-held resolutions tottered on their foundations, Charlotte straightened and told herself the world couldn’t change
in an instant. She remained quiet as Lyle opened the claret and filled their glasses.

He sat opposite and took a sip. “My God.” He sighed in appreciation. “If your father has more of this claret, I’ll marry you just
to get into his cellars.”

Her knife scratched against her plate and she set down her cutlery. “My lord, that subject is closed.”

“Really? What a pity.” He began to cut into his omelet. “What about kisses?”

She choked on her wine. “I’m not going to kiss you.”

“Not right now, perhaps,” he said in an airy tone. “Although should the impulse strike, feel free.”

She stiffened in her chair and struggled to revive her defiance. “I’d hate our meal to get cold.”

“Och, so would I. Excellent omelet, by the way.”

“Thank you.”

“So shall we talk about what happened upstairs? I really think we should.”

“Over my dead body,” Charlotte said sharply.

He took another sip of claret and leaned back in his chair, looking very much at home. “Perhaps later.”

“Perhaps never.” She scowled at him. “I’d prefer it if we avoid mentioning my woeful lapse in judgment.”

He smiled at her as if she hadn’t just insulted him. “Let’s not spoil our meal with arguing.”

Which, she was well aware, did not an agreement make.

Of course he didn’t agree. He had his own agenda, and he meant to stick to it. Charlotte had a horrible feeling that if he wanted to talk about
kisses, they’d talk about kisses.

And marriage.

He was nothing if not persistent. The unwelcome suspicion arose that Lord Lyle’s determination might even rival hers. And she was the stubbornest
person she knew.

Seeking to calm her rush of nerves, she drank some more wine. Rich, complex flavors filled her mouth. She closed her eyes in pleasure. When she opened
them, Lyle watched her with disconcerting concentration, his hands flat on the table’s polished surface.

She narrowed her gaze, daring him to say anything…incendiary. “It’s my father’s best. Seeing it’s his fault we’re in
this mess, the least he can do is supply us with a decent drop to drink.”

Lyle lifted his glass in her direction. “In that case, I toast my amiable host and my exquisite hostess.”

She braced for more, but he set down his wine and addressed himself to his food with an enthusiasm that she couldn’t help liking.

The worry was that the more she saw of Lord Lyle, the more she liked. As the meal progressed and he told her about London and she told him about her life
on the estate, that liking burgeoned. Even while her intuition screamed that this compatibility was more dangerous to her future plans than his kisses.