A Scot to the Heart by Caroline Linden

Drew was beginning to get a taste of what life would be like as the Duke of Carlyle.

Part of it he did not care for at all. After the Tattler’s sensational report, a flood of letters and supplicants looking for something from the duke appeared on Felix Duncan’s doorstep. No matter how many times Drew said he was not the duke, and could not speak for the duke, none of them were deterred from begging that he put in just a word with His Grace. Duncan reported that David MacGill had indeed been the one who let the secret slip—or rather trumpeted it about—and Drew took great pleasure in writing a severe report to Mr. Edwards about the solicitor’s shortcomings.

Before he left Carlyle Castle, Mr. Edwards had suggested he engage a secretary. Drew had thought that ridiculous—he was perfectly capable of managing his own correspondence—but now he was reconsidering. He should hire a secretary, a tall fierce one capable of standing guard, armed and intimidating, against the hordes of favor seekers.

The other side of the coin, however, was more gratifying. Being a future duke made some things immensely easier. For instance: his visit to William Scott, the procurator-fiscal. As mere Captain St. James, son of a victimized shop owner, he would have been left to cool his heels before being patronized by a deputy clerk. As the heir to Carlyle, he was escorted in and welcomed very cordially by Mr. Scott himself. When he explained that his family’s business had been attacked by the thieves, Mr. Scott hastened to apologize and assure him everything possible was being done.

And when Drew said that he thought more could be done, and he had some suggestions in fact, Mr. Scott listened with attentive and respectful interest. The man agreed it was a sound idea, and suggested that Drew go argue the case to the lord advocate, who would then need approval from the Home Office in London. Mr. Scott provided a letter of introduction to smooth the way and wished him luck.

His idea, after all, was a King’s Pardon, as ripe and juicy a plum as any criminal had ever been offered. It was legal absolution for all past offenses, not merely the most recent one. The skill and daring of the break-ins had suggested experienced thieves, with more than this sin on their consciences. All it would take was one thief, eager to clear his blotter with the law, to put an end to the robberies.

If he had to bear the impositions of the Carlyle title, he might as well seize the advantages.

But all that cost him several days, between riding to and from the lord advocate, and he’d not had a chance to see Ilsa since that last dinner at his mother’s home, before all hell broke loose and upended his days. They’d said only a simple farewell that night because Drew had never guessed how long it would be before he saw her again.

How blissful the life of ordinary Captain St. James seemed now, when he could hardly walk out of his borrowed rooms without being intercepted and importuned by someone, let alone escort a woman up Calton Hill for a walk, a conversation, even a kiss. Now it would be noted in the newspapers if he called upon her, and Drew didn’t want to do that after her speech the other day.

But he was desperate to see her.

Finally his sister gave him an excuse. Agnes had returned home after the robbery to help their mother sort out their losses, but she’d left a trunk at Ilsa’s. “Would you come with me to retrieve it?” she asked guilelessly.

“Of course,” he said, and saw from her smug smile that she knew he’d been dying to go.

Unfortunately Ilsa was not alone. At his entrance, her aunt and two older ladies curtsied in perfect unison before turning looks of calculating anticipation upon him. Ilsa alone gave him a smile, and he contrived to find a seat near her.

The conversation was wretched. The ladies tried to pry out of him how long he meant to stay in Edinburgh, the condition of the duke, and what his personal fortune was. They knew he had been to see the procurator-fiscal and wondered aloud about his role in the recent scandalous robberies; would he be called to the jury? They brushed aside or outright ignored Ilsa’s every attempt to divert the conversation, and when Agnes returned to say her trunk was ready to be carried home, it was with mingled relief and dismay that Drew leapt to his feet and made his farewells.

Ilsa followed them to the door. “Thank you for calling,” she said as Agnes deliberately stepped away and fawned over Robert, who had emerged from his room with a brisk whinny to beg for the apple she’d brought him.

Drew gave a soft huff of laughter. “Much good it did me.” He lowered his voice. “Perhaps you’ll reconsider haunting Duncan’s lodgings.”

Some of her usual spark returned. “If only I could.”

His sister was still cooing over Robert, so Drew took a chance. “Do you walk out tomorrow?”

“Yes, if the weather is fine.”

“Perhaps to the Botanic Garden?”

Her face brightened further. “Yes, I could . . .”

He bowed close to her. “I fancy a walk there myself, around eleven.”

With joy in her face, she whispered back, “I hope you have a very, very pleasant stroll, Captain.”

Ilsa didn’t go often to the Botanic Garden, which was a mile distant on the northern edge of town. It was the sort of place visitors went to see, or those citizens with a passion for plants and vegetables. Jean and her circle attended lectures there presented by a professor from the university, and that had been enough to dissuade Ilsa from going.

Today, though, she pinned on her new hat and put on her favorite morning dress, and asked Maeve to accompany her and Robert. The pony tried to amble up the familiar slope of Calton Hill, but pricked up his ears to explore somewhere new.

It was early still when they reached the garden, the plants dewy and lush. Ponies were not permitted, so she sent Maeve and Robert to wander in the field outside the walls. At the gatehouse there arose a problem; she had no order to visit, and it was not open to visitors until twelve. Ilsa hesitated uncertainly until the fellow asked her name. When she told him, he bowed and apologized, and opened the gate for her.

Once inside she found herself apparently alone. The garden fluttered and trilled with birds, but no other people, not even gardeners. It was peaceful and somehow invigorating. She took a deep breath and felt her shoulders ease.

Strolling leisurely, marveling at the plants, she had made it to the statue of Mr. Linnaeus, patron saint of botanists, when Drew found her.

“A sight that does feed my poor soul.”

She turned in pleasure. “Mr. Linnaeus?”

Drew came closer. “No. All I see is you.” His gaze seemed to devour her. “’Tis good to see you.”

That low growl did something inside her, quietly peeling back the veneer of decorum and propriety that muted her passionate urges. She smiled. “And you, Captain.”

He offered his arm, his expression focused and intent. Ilsa slid her hand along his forearm, letting her breast graze the side of his arm to see his hand contract into a fist.

“I’m puzzled by one thing,” she said as they walked around the pond. “The garden isn’t open for viewing until twelve, yet the man at the gate admitted me after asking my name.”

Drew had a satisfied air. “I discovered that the promise of a donation to Dr. Hope worked wonders upon his willingness to bend that rule.”

She caught her breath. “You bribed him so we could walk in the garden?”

He turned up the path that led to the greenhouse, the slate roof tinged blue in the rising sun. “No,” he said, opening the door for her. “I bribed him so I could have a private conversation with you and not be rushed or interrupted.”

“My.” She raised her brows at him. “One wonders why you desire so much privacy . . .”

His eyes smoky, Drew brushed his thumb across her lips. Ilsa’s heart lurched into her throat. “You’ll see.”

Mercy, whispered her helpless heart. “Show me . . .”

His fingers curled around the nape of her neck. His lips skimmed across her brow. “Patience, love.” He pressed a light kiss to her temple, right by her ear.

Her skin felt cold and hot at once when he released her and stepped back. The stoves that warmed the plants in winter were snuffed out, but she would have sworn there was a blazing furnace behind her. A sheen of perspiration made her shift stick to her bosom and she took a deep breath to quell it. “I hope everything is being done for your mother and the shop,” she said, seizing on the most ordinary topic she could find.

“Yes.” He led her through the soaring ferns and palms. “Which is to say, not much. They’ve no idea who the thieves are, but I’ve made a suggestion for running them to earth.”

“Oh?”

He nodded once. “Aye. That’s why I’ve been so occupied of late.” He gave her a look. “Why I’ve not been to call sooner.”

Her skin prickled. She was surely the most sinful creature in the world, imagining how he might have come to call, kissed her, made love to her on the drawing room sofa and made good use of the privacy offered by Jean’s impenetrable new drapes. “Hmm,” she said, hoping it sounded politely interested and not lustful.

His wicked mouth curved, as if he knew what she was trying not to think about. “But that’s not why I hoped to speak to you.”

“Oh no!” she protested, flushing from head to toe. “I—I want to know. What have you suggested? Shall you haunt every attic in Edinburgh, hoping to act upon the guilty consciences and send the thieves screaming into the streets?”

His knowing smile only grew wider. Ilsa waved one hand in front of her heated face, recalling how they’d concluded that night of haunting.

“No, a more craven appeal to the guilty conscience. A King’s Pardon,” he said.

Ilsa blinked. “A pardon?”

“For one man, who gives information on the rest of them.” He lifted his shoulder. “To stop the robberies. Those robbed deserve to know and seek justice, and everyone else, including my family, deserves to sleep in peace. The thieves have been devious. It’s almost as if they had keys, or someone opening the doors for them. They’ve never had to break in violently, which is surely how they’ve gone so long undetected.”

That had not been in the newspapers. “And the procurator agreed?”

“And the lord advocate. They’ve sent a man to London for the Crown’s approval.”

Ilsa said nothing. The English Crown would be more likely to approve such a proposal made by the Duke of Carlyle’s heir.

Again Drew divined her thoughts. “My inheritance has become terribly cumbersome of late, and this is one counterbalancing advantage.”

She didn’t really want to talk about that, the inheritance that would take him from Scotland and probably from her. “If you didn’t wish to discuss that, what did you want to tell me that was worth bribing a professor of botany for the use of this garden?”

“First, to apologize.” They had come to a bench nestled in a stand of spiky palms. Drew shed his coat and spread it on the seat for her. He sat beside her, one elbow on his knee so he could face her. “I asked to spend time with you, and then vanished for days.”

She waved one hand. “It’s nothing.”

“Not to me.” He caught her hand and brushed his lips over the pulse in her wrist. “I did miss you.”

“Some of that is inevitable,” she told him. “Even courtship is conducted at more leisure.”

She wished she could snatch back that word as soon as she said it.

“Indeed,” he said in that lower, rougher voice. “And here I’ve come to tell you I must leave again.”

Ilsa looked up in dismay.

“I’ve got to return to Inverness and resign my commission. It was fully half the reason I returned north, and my colonel’s not the sort to countenance a mere letter.”

“And are you subject to his disapproval any longer?”

He grimaced. “’Tis a deep-grained habit. But, more to the point, I wish to be done with it.” He still held her hand and now spread it open, palm up, on his knee. Idly his fingers swirled over hers. “There are other matters demanding my attention now.”

“Yes.” She watched his fingers as if in a daze. “Your family—”

“No.”

“The demands of your inheritance—”

“No.” Somehow he was closer to her, the heat of his body making her hot and flushed again.

“What?”

“You,” he whispered after a moment. “Nothing but you, Ilsa.” He raised her hand to his lips, sucking lightly at her palm. Ilsa gripped the bench to keep from sliding into a puddle on the ground.

“How long will you be gone?”

His eyes, glowing gold and green, flashed toward hers. “A fortnight.” He lowered his head and sucked the tip of her ring finger between his lips. “Dare I hope you might miss me?”

She hooked her finger and pulled his wicked mouth to hers. “Desperately,” she whispered, and claimed his lips in a kiss that felt like it had been eons in the making. He slid off the bench to his knees and crowded closer as he pulled her to him. Boldly Ilsa opened her legs and took him there, full against her.

His hand speared into her hair, dislodging the hat. His tongue teased hers. She cupped his face and kissed him back, deeply and absolutely, until his free hand settled on her collarbone, his fingers loose around her throat.

“Did you invite me here to seduce me?”

He drew his fingertips down her throat, pausing on the edge of the gauzy kerchief tucked into her bodice. “Not . . . specifically.” Slowly the kerchief came loose until it fell from her shoulder. “But if the opportunity arises . . . should I refuse it?”

“Never.”

The corner of his mouth crooked. “Shall I continue?”

“Yes.” She let her head fall back as he pressed his mouth to her throat. “Will someone come in?”

“No,” he breathed, his hand spanning the small of her waist and urging her forward on the bench. “For fifty pounds Dr. Hope would keep out the King himself.”

That was enough for her; when his hand skimmed up her calf, she put her arms behind her and arched her back, a wanton pagan sacrifice to his desire.

“I want you,” he murmured against her skin.

“Yes,” she gasped as his fingers stroked between her thighs. A spasm rippled through her as he touched her again with intent.

And there in the midst of exotic plants from around the globe, she let him seduce her, his hand under her petticoat and his mouth on her breast. When she felt climax licking at her nerves, she reached for him, dragging up the front of his kilt until he rose up on his knees and fitted himself against her aching center, thrusting home with a harsh moan that pushed her over the edge. Tears gathered in her eyes as they moved and strained against each other, absorbed in each heavy stroke of his flesh joining hers, each hungry gasp, each urgent touch and stroke and hold until he broke and shuddered in her arms. Still shaking from her own climax, Ilsa clutched his shoulders, pressing her mouth to his neck, damp from exertion.

I love him, she thought with a start of amazement. I love him.

After several minutes he lifted his head and gazed at her. She smiled back—good heavens, she might never stop smiling from the euphoria thrumming through her veins. His own lazy but happy expression sent her heart soaring.

“A fortnight,” he whispered. “With only this to warm my heart and blood.”

She moved, undulating against him, and he caught his breath. “Perhaps it will encourage you to return sooner.”

He grinned. “God willing.”

He helped her restore her clothing, and then sat on the bench holding her hand while she leaned against his shoulder, telling her about his trip to see the lord advocate. Rarely had Ilsa felt this blissful sort of joy; his hand, so large and strong around hers, his body so solid and wonderful beside her. Was this what love matches were like?

“I’ll come to call when I return,” he told her when they finally walked out. It was nearly noon, when the gardens would open to other visitors. He tried to argue that he would see her home, but she told him her maid and Robert would be enough. It would be hard enough to conceal the happiness bubbling inside her without him; she was afraid that if he walked back into Edinburgh beside her, it would be in all the newspapers tomorrow that Wild Widow Ramsay had thrown herself at the next Duke of Carlyle. “You’ll be here?”

She laughed, reaching up on her toes to kiss him one last time. “Where would I go? You’re the one who keeps leaving again and again.”

He cupped her jaw and kissed her on the forehead. “I may go mad from missing you these next several days.”

And I you.She tugged the cloth at his throat back into place, having dislodged it during their frantic coupling. “You shan’t,” she said firmly. “How shall you find your way home if you run mad?”

He laughed and let her go, reluctantly. “Then I shall ride like the wind, throw diplomacy to the dogs, and race back as if the banshees were after me.”

And at that moment, it felt as if Fate was smiling upon her, deciding to repay her for her lonely childhood and indifferent first marriage by showering pure happiness upon her.

She should have known better.