Stranded With The Scottish Earl (8 page)

A faint light shone beneath the door.

Heart thumping with apprehension, and forbidden excitement, she pushed up against the pillows. It could only be Lyle, standing outside her room in the
deepest hours of the night.

Should she speak? Demand he go away?

Or would knowing she was awake encourage him to come in?

What might he do to her in the middle of a stormy night? What might she let him do?

Anticipation tightened every muscle.

How long did she sit there, holding her breath until she was lightheaded, tense as a deer sensing the hunter?

Eventually Bill gave a soft whine and settled again. The light under the door retreated. Charlotte was safe.

She lay down and drew the covers up about her chin. It seemed no fierce Scottish earl would ravish her tonight.

And her strongest reaction was aching disappointment.

Lyle lay awake, listening to the rain slap against the window. His hands curled into the sheet below him. The storm inside him vied with the one outside.
The knowledge that the woman he wanted was within reach fueled a pounding demand in his blood.

What a blasted inconvenience a conscience was. All night, sin had whispered its alluring message into his ear. Had even convinced him that if he went to
her room, the comely Miss Warren wouldn’t send him away. Because his deepest instincts insisted that he could make her want him, that she’d
surrender her innocence in a conflagration of passion beyond anything he’d ever known.

For hours, desire had warred with honor, and almost won. He’d stood outside her room, breathing heavily, as if he’d run up a mountain.

Honor had hauled him back from the precipice.

Honor couldn’t vanquish hunger. Retreating from that closed door had been agony.

But if he used his experience—and her own barely awakened needs— against her, he didn’t play fair. The devil inside him sneered at the
schoolboy statement, but he couldn’t do Charlotte Warren wrong.

What a day it had been. Just like this, destiny seized a man. He smiled out into the night. His particular destiny was breathtakingly pretty. And
opinionated. And innocent. And demonstrated an intriguing talent for kissing.

Content despite his frustration, he rolled over. Tomorrow he’d pursue this unorthodox courtship, and kiss Miss Warren, and perhaps convince her to
favor his suit. Challenges all.

As he closed his eyes, his hand slid under the pillow to touch the small leather case he’d kept with him since receiving it in London.

The next morning, Lyle wandered downstairs, lost in fantasies of what he’d do to Charlotte when she finally accepted him. As he was sure she must.

A search of the ground floor revealed no trace of his hostess, although he discovered a pretty but rather spineless picture of her in the dining room. It was still early—he’d never adjusted to London hours of sleeping until noon—but he knew she’d risen before him. In the
drawing room, she’d tidied away the remains of their informal dinner, and the curtains were open to the pouring rain outside.

Selfishly he was grateful for the awful weather. While the deluge kept them trapped, the delectable Miss Warren was all his.

When he descended to the kitchens, he found her standing at the table, slicing the ham. A smile of sheer delight spread across his face. “Good
morning, Cinderella. Lovely day.”

She glanced up with a wary expression, the barriers that had become so rickety back in place. A plain white apron covered last night’s dress, and
she’d bundled that extravagant hair away from her face. The severe style suited her, revealing the pure bone structure and graceful neck.

“I do so loathe a man who is witty before nine in the morning.”

Actually his comment hadn’t been sarcastic. The mere sight of her turned the rainy morning radiant. “Good God, lassie, you’re putting me
off the idea of breakfast. Cheer up.”

Her lack of welcome couldn’t dampen his happiness at seeing her. He’d never been in love before. He’d never imagined love could strike a
man harder than a rock falling on his head. Harder, and with the same lack of warning. But watching the slim, golden-haired woman lit by stark gray light
through the high windows, he admitted the inescapable truth. He was head over heels with Charlotte Warren.

He bent to pat Bill, who scampered up to greet him. Charlotte swiveled around to check the sausages, frying on the stove behind her. The kitchen smelled
marvelous. Spicy meat. Coffee.

Coffee…

Lyle looked around and spied a pot on the bench. “May I?”

She didn’t turn. “Go ahead.”

By the time he’d poured two cups, she’d set a plate of sizzling sausages and eggs on the table. “Please start.”

Love clearly sharpened the appetite. But he waited until she sat before he took the chair opposite and began to eat. “Miss Warren, this is
magnificent. I’d marry you for this breakfast alone—you don’t even have to throw in your father’s wine cellar.”

She glowered as she lifted her knife and fork. “It’s not nine o’clock yet.”

He was buttering his second piece of toast before he noticed that she wasn’t attacking her meal with the same gusto. “Too much claret last
night?” he asked sympathetically.

“No.”

Lyle sat back in his chair and finished his coffee. “Then what is it?”

She rose with a sigh and scraped the rest of her breakfast into Bill’s bowl. “It’s rained all night and the low-lying fields will be
underwater. I’m worried about the livestock.”

Any impulse to jocularity faded. The trouble in her eyes made him want to fight monsters for her. “I’ll go out and check.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s raining buckets, and you’re a guest.”

“An uninvited guest. All the more reason to put me to work.”

“Nevertheless, it’s not your problem. You’re welcome to sit in Papa’s library while I’m out. There should be plenty in there
to keep you entertained.”

“I don’t need entertainment. I need to help you. Your problems are mine, my love.”

Charlotte must be worried indeed. She didn’t snap him down and proclaim her independence. Instead she glanced up at the windows. “It will be
vile out there. Believe me, you’ll regret your gallantry.”

“Och, I won’t melt, lassie. In Scotland, we’d call this weather a heavy dew.” Not quite true. “Don’t be a wee goose,
Charlotte. You’ll work better and faster with a partner.”

To his surprise, a faint smile eased her expression. “A big brute like you might come in handy.”

“We brawny laddies have our uses, you know.”

“I feel I’m taking advantage.” She removed his empty plate, venturing close enough for him to catch the fresh scent of her skin. Lavender
soap. Desirable woman. The fragrance was even better than sausages and coffee.

A grunt of laughter escaped him. “Make it up to me later, when I promise any advantage taken will be mine.”

He was pleased to hear the cutlery rattle against his plate. She wasn’t so worried that she missed the promise in his statement. Still, her shoulders
were straight and her tone pragmatic when she untied that devilish titillating apron. “I’ll accept your offer, then. Thank you.”

Lyle prided himself on being a braw Scot, not a soft Sassenach fribble. On his estates, he was accustomed to physical exertion. Hunting. Riding. Boating
across to the mainland from the island where the family seat held pride of place. He’d always lend a hand with harvest or repairing a tenant’s
cottage.

But the day that started with the animals in the outbuildings tested his endurance. At first, natural chivalry prompted him to treat Charlotte as mere
decoration, but he soon realized that she was perfectly capable of keeping up with him. More, that there was far more to do than one person could handle.

An hour in the stables with feed and water buckets worked up a sweat, and Charlotte labored as hard as he did. But caring for Sir John’s coddled
thoroughbreds seemed like the lap of luxury once Lyle started to trudge through driving rain to check the outside stock.

The howling wind was icy, and the rain pelted them like freezing bullets. Mud sucked at his boots, and the grass was as slippery as glass. Wet hair
plastered his head and despite his thick leather gloves, his hands soon turned numb. Even for a man in oilskins, it was like swimming the Arctic Ocean.

Most of the cattle had found shelter in open byres. If the rain persisted, keeping them fed might present problems. For now, he and Charlotte left most of
them where they were, only bringing any heavily pregnant cows back to the barn. Lyle was grateful that the cows were too miserable to offer much
resistance. With a wee touch of persuasion, he could coax them to go where he wanted. But nothing could combat the endless cold or keep off the rain.

He began to think of Scottish weather with a touch of nostalgia.

Charlotte toiled at his side, if not cheerful, at least uncomplaining. He tried his best to do the heaviest work, but with just two of them taking the
place of an army of farmhands, it was impossible to cosset her.

They’d worked for hours and moved well beyond the house when Charlotte shouted something at him. It took Lyle several moments to realize that she was
trying to get his attention. He’d hit a point where he acted purely on instinct. Every muscle ached with strain, and he’d never been so cold in
his life. That included the night he’d climbed Ben Nevis with some mad university friends into a freak blizzard.

“What?” he yelled, turning from the yearling he’d wrested from the mud to see Charlotte pointing to a building barely visible through the
downpour.

The gale whipped her words away, but his frozen brain kicked into motion. He reached the hut just before her and held the rickety door as she threw herself
inside. The swift change from turbulence to dark, musty stillness was almost shocking. The hut had no windows and the thick thatched roof absorbed the beat
of torrential rain.

“To think, they praise the gentle southern climate.” He slid back the hood on his oilskins. “This is as bad as anything I’ve seen
on Silvaig.”

“What’s Silvaig?” There was a scrape of metal, then a faint flame flickered as she lit a candle. The frail light revealed that the hut
was set up as a refuge.

Despite his exhaustion, he smiled at her. She was as dirty as he was, and her face and bare hands, now she’d removed her gloves, were white with
cold.

“Why, it’s my home,
mo chridh.”

And one day yours, if heaven grants me the privilege.

She shifted around, lighting more candles. Outside, she was a companion in adversity, almost genderless. But in this confined space, he became powerfully
conscious of her femininity.

He tore his gaze from Charlotte and surveyed his surroundings. “Well, this is a bonny place for a shepherd to take his leisure.”

The hut was unheated but dry. Right now, after the deluge outside, dry was enough.

“It comes in useful when the weather turns bad.”

“Aye, I can see that.”

“We can catch our breath before we check on the sheep.”

“Sheep now?”

“Yes.” In the gloom, her eyes were deep and mysterious. “Are you hungry?”

I’m hungry for you.

When she struggled out of her oilskins, he took off his thick gloves and moved to help. During the last hours, he’d come to loathe the smell of rain.
But the scent of the storm clinging to Charlotte was fiendishly appealing.

Under the oilskins, her outfit was unconventional for a lady, but perfect for slogging through the mire. Her blouse and serviceable skirt cut to mid-calf
over boots reminded him of her Cinderella costume.

He closed his eyes, resting his hands on her shoulders and praying for control. Where the hell did he find the energy to think of sex?

“My lord?” she asked uncertainly, turning to him. “Has your voice rusted away?”

In a gesture of affection and admiration, he squeezed her shoulders. And stepped away from temptation. Only a barbarian would leap on her now, when she was
weary and distracted and defenseless. Anyway, damn it, he had more livestock to rescue. He needed to conserve his strength.

“Not quite.” He shrugged off his oilskins. They’d protected him from the worst of the wet so his clothing beneath was damp, not sodden.
It was cold in the hut, but better than outside. “Did you mean it about feeding me?”

When she smiled and bent to squeeze the worst of the water from her hem, he was glad that he’d ignored his baser urges. For the first time, her
expression held a hint of trust. Wading through all that mud suddenly seemed worthwhile.

Which didn’t stop his heart from leaping with excitement when she began to fiddle with her skirts. His rocketing pulse settled when he watched her
untangle two leather pouches from the belt and set them on the rough deal table.

“I’ve got ham sandwiches and fruitcake. They’re a bit squashed.”

“Charlotte, you’re magnificent,” he said lightly. “Will you marry me?”

Her eyes glinted with amusement. Somewhere today while they’d been herding recalcitrant cattle, a miracle had occurred. Before, whenever he mentioned
marriage, she’d stiffened up like a startled cat. Now she looked flustered, but not entirely displeased.

“No.” She passed him a thick sandwich. “And I haven’t given you permission to use my Christian name.”

“Thank you.” He settled on the wooden bench set against the wall, the hut’s only seating. “Etiquette decrees that when a man has
pulled a lady from the mud three times, he’s permitted to address her in intimate terms.”

Charlotte joined him on the bench, biting into her sandwich. Her nearness warmed his side. Convenience or progress? “I must have missed that
one.”

“One of Beau Brummell’s strictures,” he said, starting his lunch.

She was right. The food was squashed, but at least it was dry. Right now, he was hungry enough to gnaw the leg off the table, and this simple fare was
delicious.

“And once the lady has returned the favor by assisting the gentleman after he’s fallen flat on his rump, she’s required to call him
Ewan.”