A Scot to the Heart by Caroline Linden

The party set out on a fine sunny morning. It was almost fifty miles to Stormont Palace, and on his own Drew would have done it in a day. Instead, he bowed to his mother’s wishes and they stopped for the night at an inn near Kinross.

Drew purposely kept his distance from Ilsa. Not only did he wish to prove Duncan wrong about staring at her, but she was always with his sisters, particularly Agnes. Since Agnes was still throwing around sharp looks whenever Felix Duncan opened his mouth, this wasn’t as difficult as expected. Thankfully Monteith and Kincaid were jolly companions, and Winnie and Bella were on better behavior than usual.

He kept his attention resolutely elsewhere and remembered that he had brought all this on himself. He could have ridden to Perth alone and made his inspection in peace and solitude. No one would have teased him, as Bella did, or given him a hard time about the journey, as Monteith did, or scolded him for drinking too much, as his mother tried . . . or given him a small, intimate smile, as Ilsa did when they passed each other on the stairs.

So overall, it was worth it.

They turned into the gates of Stormont Palace in the late afternoon, as the slanting sun gilded the sandstone to deep bronze. Ivy spread like a spiderweb up the walls of the house, though the front was clear of it as they came along the winding drive.

Drew had been riding beside the first carriage with his mother and Bella and Winnie. Aside from one shocked exclamation and a long look at him, his mother made no response after sighting the house. Bella and Winnie, on the other hand, kept up a furious pelter of questions directed at Drew, ignoring Mother’s admonishments not to shout or to hang out the windows of the carriage.

As they drew nearer, he slowed his horse to fall back to the second carriage, where Agnes and Ilsa rode with Ilsa’s maid. He touched his hat as Ilsa smiled at him through the open window. “Welcome to Stormont, ladies.”

“It’s very grand.” Agnes leaned out her window.

“But lovely,” added Ilsa.

Drew nodded. If he hadn’t spent several weeks at Carlyle Castle, he would have been stopped dead in his tracks by the house. It was an impressive sight, and only more so the closer they got. A pair of towers rose on either side of the front, crenelated and square. Wide steps led up to the entrance. The windows were tall arches reminiscent of the Norman Carlyle Castle, but more plentiful and graceful; it should be bright inside. He knew there was a courtyard, and a river ran near the house, but from the front it had the look of a quaint little citadel, proud and secure in its domain.

“When you said palace,” said Kincaid, pulling up beside him, “I thought you meant like Hamilton Palace, just a fine big house. This was once a royal residence, aye?”

“An abbot’s,” admitted Drew.

Kincaid gave him a sideways look. “And now yours.”

Drew shook his head. “Not mine—not yet.”

Still, he pulled up and dismounted a little bit away from the others. His mother and sisters spilled from the carriages, exclaiming and pointing. His friends clustered around the horses, one of whom seemed to have a loose shoe.

He studied the house. Palace. Castle. Either of those words fit. Mine. There was a word that ought not to fit, yet somehow did. A handful of servants were lining up on the steps, headed by a slim fellow with spectacles gleaming in the sun. That would be Mr. Watkins, the estate steward. They were waiting to greet him—as the nearest thing to the owner.

At Carlyle Castle he had been unquestionably a guest. Upon the death of the duke he might take possession, but while the duchess lived, it would always feel like her home. Even if Her Grace removed at once, it would take years and years to remake it in any other style and taste, and cost a considerable fortune. Not that Carlyle Castle gave any feel of home to someone who had lived in far more modest accommodations his entire life; he had come to think of it as his future quarters, significantly more lavish than those at Fort George but similar in purpose.

This house, though . . . He liked everything he could see. He liked that it was in Scotland. It wasn’t his yet, but already he felt more attached to this house than to Carlyle Castle.

“This visit is off to a promising start,” said a voice beside him.

With a start Drew looked down at Ilsa Ramsay, who had left the others and stood watching him. “Is it?”

She grinned. “Not only are your sisters amazed and excited, your mother has declared herself impressed.”

“That is promising,” he agreed.

“And you . . .” She stepped nearer, studying him. “You’re also pleased.”

“Am I?” Lord, he couldn’t resist leaning closer. “How can you tell?”

“The way you stand. The ease of your shoulders.” Her voice dropped and her eyes glowed. “The look on your face, fiercely interested and intrigued.”

His heart was banging against his ribs. “Seen that look before, have you?” he murmured.

She arched her brows. “Perhaps. Have I misunderstood what it means?”

“I doubt it.” If he had looked at the house anything like the way he looked at her, no wonder she thought him pleased. “It means I am taken aback by how very appealing it is. It means I find myself suddenly anticipating this inheritance with immense pleasure, unqualified by any sense of responsibility or obligation.” His horse tossed his head, restless, and Drew calmed him without taking his eyes off Ilsa. “It means I like the look of it from top to bottom.”

A fine flush had come over her face and her lips had parted invitingly. “A good omen,” she said in a husky murmur.

“I hope so.” Damn him for a sinner but all he could think of was that the two of them would be under the same roof for several days . . . dining together . . . sleeping in bedchambers mere feet apart . . .

Let the house be full of private nooks and crannies, he thought. Let there be a vast wine cellar where two people could disappear for an hour. Let her room be next to his—

“Shall we go inside?” demanded Bella, making Drew start.

“Of course.” Ilsa turned toward her with a laugh. “We were discussing that very thing, weren’t we, Captain?”

“Then come along!” Bella hurried back toward her mother, who was watching them with a curious tilt to her head.

Drew handed off his horse to the groom who’d appeared. “Were we talking about the house?”

Ilsa smiled. “Of course. One hopes the interior will also please and delight.”

“Or be a hollowed-out ruin, besieged with ghosts.” He cleared his throat, trying to shake the urge to flirt with her even more provocatively. “I’ve no doubt which one my sisters would prefer.”

She laughed with him, and they walked side by side toward the house, so close their elbows bumped. And that also felt so right Drew didn’t even want to think about it.

George Watkins came forward and introduced himself. “A great pleasure to welcome you and your guests to Stormont Palace, Captain. I’m sure you’ll find everything in order for your party.”

Drew nodded, intensely interested in seeing the house. “I’ve no doubt. Will you show us around?”

Mr. Watkins was eager to do so. He led them from room to room, bubbling over with little bits of history and lore about the house, the men who built it, the families who had lived in it, and even the furnishings and objects within it.

When Bella reached out to touch an engraved silver cup on a table in the gallery, Mr. Watkins piped up that it had been used by Their Majesties King James IV and Queen Margaret over two hundred and fifty years earlier while on a visit to the house. Bella snatched her hand away, and her mother pulled her back from the table entirely.

The furnishings in the dining room were French, elaborately carved walnut and inlaid with ebony from the time of King Louis XIV. It was rare to find examples outside of France, said Mr. Watkins proudly. Everyone studied the room in reverent silence, and Drew wondered how they would ever sit down to eat.

The large landscape over the mantel in the drawing room was revealed to be by Alexander Keirincx. “It was painted by commission of King Charles I, in honor of his first visit to Scotland,” Mr. Watkins proudly informed them. “A magnificent view of Stormont Palace.”

And left to hang unseen in this lonely house, thought Drew. He wondered if the duke even knew what treasures he owned in these far-flung, forgotten properties.

The bedrooms had been prepared, and the housekeeper, who turned out to be Mrs. Watkins, showed everyone to their quarters with friendly efficiency. Drew lingered with Mr. Watkins in the staircase hall.

“Mr. MacGill said you wish to make a thorough examination of the place,” said Watkins with a trace of anxiety. “I’ve done my best to assemble the records, which I’ve always tried to keep in good order, sir, but it was very short notice—”

“I’m sure we’ll manage.” The house appeared clean and well-kept, comfortably old-fashioned and handsomely appointed. Drew inhaled deeply. Yes, he did like this house.

It felt like home.

After a day of travel, dinner was a light repast, in the beautiful dining room with sky blue damask on the walls and a glittering gold chandelier above the long table. They retired to the drawing room, but when Mrs. St. James sat down at the harpsichord, it twanged painfully, putting a quick death to Winnie’s hope that they could dance.

Ilsa wandered over to the windows facing south, across a broad sweep of lawn. Mr. Watkins had mentioned a maze on the property, and she thought she could see a corner of it. That would please Bella.

Agnes joined her. “When Drew called it a palace, I thought it an exaggeration,” she murmured. “’Tis very grand.”

“And very beautiful.” Ilsa’s eyes roved appreciatively over the room. They hadn’t seen but half the house, and it was remarkable.

“Yes,” Agnes admitted. “It is.”

“One true benefit of your brother’s expectations?”

Agnes smiled reluctantly. “A very small one.”

“Some might think it crass to consider the creature comforts when deciding whether or not one favors something, but they most certainly affect one’s opinion,” Ilsa went on. “At times they’re the deciding factors.”

Agnes appeared put out by that. “Everything counts, I suppose. Not that this would be my house. It’ll be Drew’s.”

“But you would be welcome here,” Ilsa pointed out. “And if this is the forgotten and neglected house in Scotland, not visited in twenty years, what do you think the other, more preferred houses are like?”

Her friend gave her a perplexed look. “Those won’t be my houses, either.”

“No,” Ilsa murmured, “but think of the gentlemen you’ll meet, living in those houses. I daresay they’ll own similar houses, and you might well end up mistress of one of them.”

That made the color rise in Agnes’s face, and she made an excuse to go talk to her sister.

The gentlemen joined them soon, but everyone was tired from the travel, perhaps a bit overwhelmed by the house, and when the clock chimed the hour the party broke up and everyone retired.

Ilsa had been given a room at the end of the hall, elegantly furnished like the rest of the house. It was fit for a duke, she thought, even a royal prince.

And Drew liked it.

In her mind she saw him again, standing at the foot of Calton Hill, arms spread wide as he disclaimed any pretensions despite his noble inheritance. Just a soldier, he’d said. Someone who could be a friend to her. Today he had walked through this exquisite house like a man planning his possession of it. It might as well have drawn a bright line between the two of them.

Ilsa smiled wryly. There had always been a line between them. She had seen it, even if she—and he—was tempted to ignore it. But it was real, and she must remember that.

She took a shawl from the wardrobe and let herself out of the room, lamp in hand. On the tour, Mr. Watkins had pointed out one door and said it led to the roof walk. Bella and Winnie had wanted to go up, but their mother overruled them, and then it had been forgotten by everyone . . . except Ilsa.

It took several minutes to locate it, but soon she was climbing the steep, narrow stair. It was a fair but clear night, and when she stepped out onto the broad castellated roof, the wind whipped at her hair, causing her to turn her face to the rising moon in bliss.

She explored the confines of the walk, which only ran along the front of the house from tower to tower. To the east was the vast ebony expanse of night sky, to the west the last indigo rays of twilight. It was too dark to see the long approach to the house, but lamps glowed in enough windows to give a sense of the courtyard below her. The air smelled of fir and heather, and she realized the faint rushing sound was the river they’d crossed on the way here. Was there a more elemental Scottish place than this? she wondered.

“Here I thought I’d have to confess to my sisters that I was wrong about ghosts,” said a voice behind her.

Ilsa laughed. “Why?”

The captain came up beside her, resting his elbows on the stone and looking over. “Mrs. Watkins assured me the house was in pristine order, yet somehow a large book had wandered from the library to wedge itself in the door to the roof. The wind howling down the stair made a frightful sound, too, like a banshee promising vengeance on the intruders.”

“If I’d let the door latch behind me, I’d have ended up a ghost in truth.” She went up on her tiptoes to peer over the wide stone rampart again. “’Tis a long way down.”

“You don’t look frightened,” he said with amusement.

She inhaled deeply. “Not at all. I love to be up high.” A bird swooped silently overhead, a hawk or an owl hunting by the light of the moon. “How glorious it would be to glide on the wind like a bird. Can you imagine it? Standing on this ledge and just stepping off”—she extended her arms as if she would take flight—“to soar into the night.”

“Would you?” He sounded intrigued. “Like Mr. Lunardi and his balloon?”

Ilsa’s good humor faltered. Mr. Lunardi the aeronaut had thrilled Britain and Scotland with his hydrogen balloon ascents a few years ago. “Yes,” she murmured.

“Did you see him? I understand his voyage from Edinburgh was a great success.”

Ilsa said nothing. She had longed to go, had pleaded with Malcolm to allow her, but he refused. She only found out later that her husband had gone with some other men and wagered heavily on Lunardi’s voyage, while she’d been forced to strain for a glimpse of the balloon from the uppermost windows of the house.

“My mother and sisters were amazed,” the captain continued, not noticing her sudden silence. “I received no fewer than three letters about it—how magnificent the balloon was, how high he rose, how far he flew.”

“I heard it was a marvelous sight. Would you go up in a balloon?” she asked, to divert the conversation.

“I’m not sure,” he said with a soft huff of laughter. “It seems a risky business, that. I’d want to know it wouldn’t crash, or catch fire and then crash like that French fellow trying to cross the Channel.” He shook his head. “No flight is thrilling enough to warrant a fiery plunge to earth.”

“No,” Ilsa agreed. “Although that plunge . . . Before the impact it would be thrilling.”

“When I have savored every other pleasure in life and want nothing more than that thrill, with no regard for the abrupt ending, I will attempt it,” he replied dryly, making her laugh.

“What adventures did you dream of?” she asked on impulse. “Now that you have discovered my wild, lunatic wishes.”

He was silent for a moment. “I used to yearn for the sea. I would imagine spending a life on the waves, traveling around the world with only the stars as guide and reference. Sometimes we would go out on Moray Firth and see a pod of dolphins leaping and spinning as merrily as a pack of wolfhound puppies and I would envy their freedom.”

“How splendid that must have been,” she said fervently.

“They were remarkable. And I used to wonder what sights they had seen, able to navigate the oceans with only the boundless heavens above them.” His mouth quirked. “Beaches. Beaches are what they saw. Hurricanes and ships and beaches. They were bound to the water and could never see the amazing things on land.”

“You are a realist,” she said, and this time he laughed.

“And thus a cruel disappointment to you, I can tell.”

Ilsa smiled bittersweetly. He most certainly was not, not to her. “My father never cared for ships,” she said aloud. “He preferred to travel by coach, the finer the better. I’ve never been to sea.”

“Well, neither have I. Marched from one end of Scotland to the arse end of England and back, but never sent aboard ship.” He sounded wistful about that.

Ilsa turned toward him, resting her back against the stone. “You won’t have to march anywhere anymore.”

“And very thankful I am for it.” He winked, his mouth still soft and amused.

“You’ll have this house,” she added. “An even finer benefit.”

“After the army, any house with a sturdy roof, a sound chimney, and a warm bed is unspeakable luxury. Any ordinary farmhouse would suffice.”

And instead he would have this exquisite gem of a house, finely furnished and beautifully situated, as well as a castle in England. He would never have to settle for anything ordinary again once he became duke, and she told him so.

For a long moment he didn’t answer. “I still find it hard to believe,” he finally said, very quietly. “’Tis good fortune that most people only dream of—you said that to me, aye? But I never dreamt of it. My dreams were far more ordinary and humble. A safe and comfortable home for my mother. Happy marriages for my sisters. Not to lose any limbs to some colonel’s idiocy in the army. And someday, perhaps, a wife and family of my own to cherish.”

Her heart was throbbing at his reply. “That last is not so ordinary,” she whispered. “Certainly rarer than you might think.”

He shifted, his shoulder brushing hers. “Well, I did admit it was only a dream.”

“But now quite within your reach. Having realized the maddest dream of many—to be discovered as the long-lost heir to a great title and fortune—I assure you a wife will be far easier to come by.” Ladies would line up to apply for the position, even before they saw that roguish twinkle in his eye and heard the low rumble of his voice humming with laughter.

He exhaled slowly. “So they tell me. But I feel . . . for myself . . . that I would wish a wife who didn’t accept me because of that great title and fortune.”

Oh, her heart. “You must favor contrary women, then.”

“Aye,” he breathed. His thumb brushed a loose wisp of hair back from her face. “I do.”

Ilsa made herself laugh. “Just as I fancy leaping from this tower! Madness.”

He stepped up behind her, his hands steadying at her waist as she leaned over the rampart again. “For dreaming of soaring above the earth—nay, who would think that mad? Like you, I feel certain someday someone will work out how to do it, and then who will look mad?”

Her laughter faded. Jean or Papa or Malcolm would have scolded her for being fanciful. Drew recognized the grain of real longing in her words and told her she wasn’t mad.

This man was dangerous. Because if leaping from the tower wasn’t madness, then surely other things weren’t, either . . .

Not tonight, she bargained with herself; tomorrow, and the next day, she would be sensible. This moment was too beautiful, too rare, to spoil it with any claim of propriety.

Slowly she relaxed into him. Slowly his hands slid around her waist until she was in his arms. She should put a stop to this, but she liked the feel of it too much. She laced her fingers through his and rested against him. When he put his cheek against her temple, she turned into it, letting his lips whisper over her brow. He clasped her to his chest, his arms warm and strong around her. Ilsa soaked up the heat of his body. His heart beat beneath her cheek; it was as fast as her own, which raced recklessly whenever he was near. And when he touched her . . .

Oh, this could get out of hand so easily. He would marry someone else, but that was in the future. Tonight he was here holding her, as unattached as she was . . .

Ilsa let him tilt up her chin. She let him brush his lips against hers. She had told herself not to encourage him, that he was not for her, that she didn’t need a man—but she stayed where she was, shamelessly letting him hold her and touch her until she wanted to cling to him and whisper in his ear, Yes, kiss me . . .

“Ilsa,” he breathed, his hands moving over her back, stroking her hip, cupping her shoulder, winding into her hair. “Ilsa, what does this—?”

She put a finger on his lips. “I don’t know. Don’t ask me.” Not tonight.

“You can’t ignore the question forever,” he murmured. “Not when we’re both so drawn to each other. I can’t help but think about it—about you.”

Words like that made her want so much. He pressed his lips to the side of her throat, and she barely kept back a moan of desire. Friends, her conscience repeated feebly. Not lovers. “What do you think about me?”

His mouth quirked. “A great many things.”

Her hands had fisted in the cloth of his shirt. With an effort she spread her hands flat, which only let her feel the rapid thump of his heart. “Mad, eccentric, impulsive . . .”

He laughed deep in his throat. “Aye, among your finer qualities.” She poked his chest in mock affront, and he caught her hand and kissed that finger. “Not mad. High-spirited.”

“Wild,” she said in a low voice. “Everyone in Edinburgh says so.”

His arms closed around her, pressing her full length against him. “Aye,” he answered in a guttural whisper. “You drive me wild . . .”

Her last thread of restraint began to fray. Who could resist him when he said such things in that dark, seductive voice? Who would be hurt by one kiss? His mouth was already hovering over hers, awaiting the slightest encouragement . . . and Ilsa succumbed. She raised her chin, and finally, finallyhe kissed her properly, the way she’d dreamt of for weeks.

The kiss in the oyster cellar had been impetuous and brief. This one was not. His mouth claimed hers, hot and tender and demanding all at once. Ilsa rose up onto her toes, clinging to him as his arms went around her and he gave a deep growl of satisfaction.

“St. James? Oh—good Lord.”

Ilsa flinched at Mr. Duncan’s voice, snatching her hands from the captain’s shoulders. His arms tightened around her but he didn’t turn around, only glanced over his shoulder. “Aye?”

“I beg your pardon, I saw the open door,” came Mr. Duncan’s reply. He must have stepped back, for his voice was more distant. Cowardly Ilsa huddled against the captain, grateful that she didn’t have to face the other man.

“Don’t take the book out of the jamb,” was all the captain said. After a moment he lowered his head to hers. “Caught red-handed,” he whispered.

Ilsa sighed. She ought to thank Mr. Duncan for saving her from her own wicked impulses. It was full night out now, too dark to see Captain St. James’s face, but his voice was still warm with invitation. They could pick up where they’d left off, on the brink of something that would forever change them from friends to . . . something more dangerous.

She eased out of his arms. Her heart still hammered, but she could think better when she wasn’t touching him. “I wasn’t the only one feeling restless, I see.”

“Duncan is always restless. Never still, that one.” He paused as she slid a step away. “He hurt Agnes somehow.”

Right. Excellent. Change the topic. She cleared her throat. “I’ve no idea what you mean.”

He made an impatient noise. “I wasn’t asking. I can see it for myself. But neither he nor she will say anything about it. They glare daggers at each other’s back and get all sour-faced when you mention the other’s name in their presence. It’s bloody awkward to be around them. Why did you tell me to invite him?”

Ilsa choked back a shaky laugh. She wouldn’t give away Agnes’s secrets—in fact, she didn’t even know this one—but he wasn’t wrong. “They’ll work it out. Or perhaps not, and it will be a feud for the ages.” Reluctantly she took another step away from him, away from temptation, and shivered as the night breeze struck her anew. “’Tis late to be out, dreaming of mad things like wings to fly or swimming with dolphins. Thank you for not being repelled by my flights of fancy.”

He brushed back a strand of her hair fluttering on the wind. “Hardly repelled, lass,” he said in that gruff Scots tone that made her shiver again, but not from cold. “Never that.”

She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders. “It’s very kind of you to say so. And on that graceful ending, I shall go to bed.”

“Aye,” he said, after a fraught pause.

Come with me . . .

“Good night, Captain,” she said briskly, gripping her shawl for strength, and stepped past him to go down the stairs, in great dignity and propriety, but filled with mad, wild unsatisfied longings.