A Scot to the Heart by Caroline Linden

Two months later

Edinburgh was just as he remembered it. From the London road it seemed to rise up out of the earth as a kingdom on a hill, the stone houses clustered like acolytes at the foot of the castle, which surveyed the verdant plain imperiously from its perch.

Drew hadn’t been here in over a year, thanks to his posting at Fort George. On his way to Carlyle, there hadn’t been time to stop and visit his family. But now . . .

Now he had plenty of time, and vast quantities of news.

His family occupied a small house just off the High Street. It was evening, and his mother and sisters would have closed up the shop by now. But the only one home when he arrived was Annag, who had been his nurse years ago and refused to leave the family even when means grew tight. Now she was all-purpose help to his mother and sisters. “Oh, Master Andrew!” she exclaimed at his entrance. “Here you are, come at last! And about time, too. Your mother’s been fair worried.”

He laughed, embracing the short, gray-haired woman who was almost as dear to him as his own mother. “I wrote to her when I would arrive.” Though it did not surprise him to hear his mother had been fretting, hoping he would appear three days early.

She pursed up her lips. “And you sounding as English as Butcher Cumberland.”

Drew grimaced. “Aye, I’ve been in England these six weeks,” he said, slipping back into the Scots she spoke. He’d got used to speaking clipped English for the duchess.

“May you recover from it soon,” she said tartly. “None of that here, laddie!”

“No, ma’am. Where are they now?”

“At the Monroes’ for dinner. I’ll send round—”

“No, no, just tell them I’ve arrived. Tomorrow will be soon enough to talk.” He winked at her and turned toward the door.

“They’ll want all the news!” she protested, hurrying after him.

“And tomorrow they shall have it, along with the gifts I brought.” He grinned as her eyes grew wide. “Till the morrow, Annag.”

Duty satisfied, he stepped back out into the street and took a deep breath. It was not an unwelcome surprise to find them out. After a hard week of travel, to say nothing of the weeks of study and instruction at Carlyle, the prospect of a night free tasted as sweet as honey.

As eager as he was to see his family again, he had written to an old friend, begging a bed. Felix Duncan had replied as expected that he was welcome to it. Drew swung back into the saddle and took his horse to a stable before walking up the street, saddlebags over his shoulder, to Duncan’s lodgings in Burnet’s Close.

“Come in,” came a muffled bellow at his knock.

He entered to find his friend practicing feints in front of a cheval glass, pausing to adjust his stance after each stroke.

“Are you rehearsing to fight yourself?” he asked with amusement.

“If I’m to face an equal, I must.” Duncan eyed himself critically and raised his elbow to create a more elegant line from hip to wrist.

“Very good. And if you’re ever looking to face someone better, I’m at your service.”

Duncan abandoned his posing. “Better! Not better. Only taller and with longer reach. God’s eyes, man, you’re a mountain.”

Drew obligingly flexed one arm. “The result of tedious hard labor. You might try it.”

Duncan, who had never done a day’s hard labor in his life, propped his épée on his hip and glared at him. “And will it make me taller? Lengthen my arms? I think not.”

He snorted with laughter. “Nay, you’re a hopeless cause. Doomed to be a reedy little man forever . . .”

Duncan growled and raised his sword, and Drew made a show of yawning in reply. His friend’s face eased into a lopsided grin. “For all that you’re a rude one, ’tis good to see you again, St. James. Welcome.”

“Aye,” he agreed as he clasped Duncan’s outstretched hand. “Many thanks for the use of your spare room.”

Duncan resumed his position in front of the glass. “Anytime you need it.” He raised his épée, watching himself in the mirror again. “Although you’re worse than an old woman, hinting at wondrous revelations and not telling me what brings you back to Edinburgh when you ought to be marching around Fort George in the rain.” He lunged, pausing to flick his queue of ginger hair over his shoulder and slant his eyebrows threateningly.

Drew grinned again. It was true he’d told Duncan some whopping stories when they’d been mischievous lads ducking their tutors in the labyrinth of narrow alleys in and around the Cowgate. “This time, Duncan, I’ve got a revelation so wondrous even you won’t believe it.”

He went into the spare room where his trunks had already been delivered. One of them was familiar; it held his belongings, other than the essentials in his saddlebag. The other, larger trunk was new, full of gifts and trinkets for his family, lovely frivolous things suitable for the mother and sisters of a duke.

The sight of it sobered him. It was a Trojan horse, that trunk, a lavish gift that would subtly inject the elegant, rarified world of Carlyle Castle into his family. After the way the previous duke had treated his grandfather, Drew’s family had wanted nothing to do with the castle. Now, though, they had no choice, and that trunk was meant to change their minds.

He’d written to his mother only that he appeared to have expectations from the ducal branch of the family; it had felt like hubris to write it down and send the news into the world, unfettered and liable to run amok. Mr. Edwards, the solicitor, was keeping the whole matter quiet. No one outside Carlyle Castle knew of the duchess’s plan.

At times Drew had wondered wryly if that was to make it easier to bend him and his cousin to the duchess’s will, but the solicitor claimed it was for his own sake, to spare him the intense glare of scrutiny that would fall upon the heir to the dukedom. And that meant very few people in England, and no one at all in Scotland, had any idea that the future Duke of Carlyle trod the plainstanes of Edinburgh this evening.

In truth, he still hardly believed it himself. The Carlyle inheritance seemed like a dream. Even in the midst of Mr. Edwards’s strictures or explanations of some finer point of the estate, part of him had thought it wouldn’t really be his, that some other heir would miraculously emerge at the last moment and leave Drew and his rakish cousin empty-handed. Only now that he was here, about to uproot his family and begin shouldering the burden of Carlyle, was it sinking in that it was his future. This next month would be the last of his life as Captain St. James, ordinary Scotsman and soldier.

As expected, Duncan followed him within minutes, a towel around his neck and two drams of whisky in his hand, one of which he held out. “All right, then, what is this wondrous and incredible revelation?”

For answer, Drew handed him a sealed packet. Duncan tossed back his drink and set down the glass to unfold the papers. For all his rakish ways, Duncan was a judge’s son and an advocate himself, and more intelligent than he acted.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” he exclaimed a few minutes later, still reading. “Is this—is this real?”

Drew nodded, stripping off his coat and tossing it on the wingback chair near the window. He longed for a bath and wondered if Duncan would agree to a naked plunge in the Firth, as they’d used to do.

“Carlyle?” said his friend incredulously. “Carlyle? You?”

Drew gave a mocking bow. “At your service.”

After another shocked moment, Duncan put back his head and roared with laughter. “You—a duke! You—the veriest devil of a child, a peer of the realm! You—the wild Scot, a proper Englishman!”

That last made him frown. “I was not wild, and I won’t be an Englishman.”

“Oh nay, never.” Grinning fiendishly, Duncan folded the letters and tossed them back at him. “It might take a while, but you’ll become one. No more Scots for you, only King’s English. You’ll wed a pale Englishwoman and your grandchildren will never venture north of the River Tweed.”

Tight-lipped, he replaced the documents in his trunk. “That’s lunacy speaking.” Even though he’d consciously spoken crisp English at Carlyle, and all but invited the duchess to find an appropriate wife for him. Of course she would choose an English lady . . .

“Is it?” murmured Duncan with a devilish gleam in his eye. “We’ll see about that.” He left the room, and Drew went back to unpacking his things, irate at his friend for speaking such blunt truth.

Several minutes later Duncan was back, a slim book in his hand. “If you’re going to remain a Scot, you’ll need help.”

The Widower and Bachelor’s Directory, read the title. Frowning, Drew opened it, and gave a bark of disbelieving laughter as he realized what it was. “A guide to rich ladies and where to find them, eh? What rubbish is this?”

“Not rubbish,” countered Duncan, still smirking. “Invaluable intelligence for the man in search of a wife!”

“Who said I was in search of a wife?”

Duncan arched his brows. “A single man with expectation of a wealthy dukedom will be in want of a bride. And even if he’s not in want of one, he shall have one thrust upon him, whether he wills it or no. Every unwed woman between the ages of seventeen and seventy will fling herself—or be flung—into his path until one of them trips him up and drags him to church, like a wild boar caught in a snare and trundled off to market.”

“You’re the only one in Edinburgh who knows,” returned Drew, annoyed. “I’d prefer to keep it that way. If women start flinging themselves at me, I’ll know whom to blame.”

Duncan snorted. “Aye, as if I’d go about telling all the lasses you’re about to be rich beyond their dreams. ’Tis of course the only way any sensible woman would take you . . .”

“You’re about to get to practice your fencing in earnest.”

His friend waved it off as he held out the silly little book. “Keep it! I know all the eligible ladies in town already. And once word gets out that there’s a ducal heir on the loose, you’ll need to know which ones to fend off.”

Drew replied with a suggestion that would have made any soldier blush. Duncan only grinned, beyond pleased with himself. “If you’re to depart the realm of ordinary men soon, we must make your last days memorable. Let me change my coat.”

That was more amenable to his humor. He’d been at the castle for six weeks, always minding his tongue, constantly alert. A wild, carefree night was just the respite he needed.

To his relief, Duncan’s idea of memorable turned out to be much the same as it had been in years past. At an oyster cellar beneath a tavern they met up with two other old friends, Adam Monteith and William Ross, and all proceeded to gorge themselves on oysters, well lubricated with strong Scottish porter. There was nothing anywhere to match the taste of oysters from the Firth of Forth.

He had never been to this cellar. There were several in Edinburgh, and some seemed to migrate around town. The gathering was lively, packed to the walls and operating at a dull roar of laughter and conversation.

At another table sat a large group of people including several ladies. They laughed and chattered with a gaiety that caught his eye, and made Drew think of his own sisters.

Well—not exactly in the same way.

Finally Ross caught him looking and nudged him. “D’you fancy her?”

There was no doubt whom Ross meant. The woman at the head of the table was mesmerizing. Not only was she one of the merriest people in the room, inciting roars of laughter at her table, but she positively glowed. Her dark hair was loosely twisted up, and her gown was a brilliant blue. It was her eyes, though, that captured his attention. Those dark eyes danced with wicked humor and glee and made him want to know what had put that sparkle there.

As if she’d heard Ross’s question, she glanced his way. Caught, he gazed boldly back, and her mouth curled in an impish yet mysterious way before she shifted her attention away from him. Drew turned back to his porter, trying to hide the flush of heat that had gone through him and set his heart racing.

Ross nudged his shoulder again, brows raised knowingly. He shrugged, and stole another glance over his shoulder.

At some point a piper set up in the corner and began to play. In an instant the tables were shoved aside and figures formed for a country dance. Duncan leapt over a table to join in, as did Monteith and Ross. Drew threw his coat in the corner with everyone else’s and took his place.

The dance was as boisterous as the interlude before it had been. Within minutes he was out of breath, laughing as he swung first one lady, then another on his arm. There was no chance of conversation, over the drone and wail of the pipes, the stomping of so many feet on the wooden floor, the shouts and laughter of the dancers and those cheering them on. It was hot and fast and exuberant, and he loved it. There had been nothing like this at Carlyle, nor at Fort George. Colonel Fitzwilliam, the old prig, disapproved of his officers attending social gatherings.

He was so caught up in the dance that it gave him a genuine start when the next woman turned to take his hand, and he recognized the alluring beauty from the other table. The one who had smiled at him.

Hand in hand they spun around each other, then separated. Each time the dance brought them back together, Drew stared. Up close she was more than mesmerizing. Her dark hair was coming out of its pins, trailing down her back and flying around her as she circled the other dancers. Like the other ladies, she picked up her skirts and tapped her feet with energy. Her color was high and her face fierce with joy. And when she caught him staring at her, she only gave him that infectious flirtatious smile again.

The dance came to an abrupt end when someone tripped and sprawled on the floor. The piper stopped playing just as the fallen man began vomiting. With cries of alarm, the dancers scrambled away from him.

By sheer chance, Drew and the mystery woman were crowded together into a back corner, pushed almost behind the piper by the crush of people hurrying for the stairs. Someone shoved him in the back, and then the woman stumbled against him. Instinctively he put up an arm to shield her, and her eyes flashed toward him in gratitude.

He could only think of one thing.

“Who are you?” he asked, lowering his head to hers and stubbornly blocking the stream of people from this quiet corner. She smelled like the sea and oranges and woman.

She gave him a gleaming glance and said something he couldn’t quite make out over the roar of the crowd. He leaned down more. “What? What’s your name?”

Her hands came up on both sides of his face. For one breathless heartbeat, she pressed her lips to his in a sudden, searing kiss. He felt it to the soles of his feet and the roots of his hair; every nerve seemed to snap with the shock and beauty of it, as if she’d struck him with lightning. On pure instinct he cupped one hand around her nape and kissed her back.

Before he could manage to put an arm around her, though, she released him and ducked under his elbow into the crowd surging up the stairs. Even with his height advantage, he lost all sight of her in an instant.

His mouth still tingling, he waited out the worst of the exodus behind the stairs, then pushed his way through the room to retrieve his coat. Duncan was lying on a table, tapping his toes and laughing at Ross, who turned out to be the fellow who had lost his dinner all over the floor. Ross leaned weakly against a table leg, his arms thrown around it for support and his face white. Monteith was arguing with the landlord, who had fought his way downstairs and was scowling at the spray of sick all over his floor.

With a lurch Duncan rolled off the table. “Let’s go,” he said. “Monteith! Bring what’s left of Ross.” He tossed a pair of guineas toward the landlord, whose aggrieved expression didn’t change even as he snatched the coins from the air.

Out in the street, they heaved Ross between them, Drew and Monteith both trying to make sure the man’s face was angled away from them. Chairmen in Highland garb trotted past carrying sedan chairs, their boots thumping on the cobblestones. A dog barked somewhere nearby. Lopsided, winded, and more than a little drunk, they staggered through the streets, Duncan singing something bawdy in Scots and Ross moaning at him to be quiet.

“Monteith,” Drew said over Ross’s head lolling on his shoulder. “Who was the woman in blue?”

“Eh?” Monteith squinted at him. “Which one? Half the females there wore blue, St. James.” The last words came out slurred.

He gave up. Monteith was even drunker than Duncan, who was frightening away the stray cats that prowled the streets. Someone flung open a window and yelled at him to be silent, which made him begin another verse, louder than ever.

Tomorrow. Once Duncan sobered up, Drew would find out who she was. He could still taste her mouth on his, and he yearned to taste it again.