A Scot to the Heart by Caroline Linden

They kept well clear of Edinburgh, running south as far as Melrose before turning west. The Lowlands were far easier traveling than the rocky crags of the Highland Cairngorms he had so recently raced through. Vastly relieved to be on a more maneuverable horse than boxed in a carriage, Drew kept a keen eye out for any more followers.

There would be hell to pay for what he’d done in Dunbar. Neither Williamson nor Hay would suffer any lasting harm, but Drew had burnt his authority and respectability to ash by assaulting them and fleeing with the woman they sought.

Williamson had told him in no uncertain terms that Ilsa must return to Edinburgh. Drew had been trying to convince him otherwise when Hay shoved her to the ground, having already locked one manacle around her wrist.

Well. There was no going back now. Ilsa rode ahead of him, her back straight, as at home astride the hastily acquired horse as she had been on Duncan’s long-legged gelding. They didn’t talk much, but there was no need. She no longer avoided his eyes, and that alone eased the tension in his heart.

Of where they were headed and what they would do there, he thought very little. It didn’t matter. He had bound himself to her, like a liege knight to his queen, and where she led he would follow.

The first night they stopped on the edge of a quiet little wood, where the grass was thick and soft and a stream ran nearby. Ilsa nibbled her lip at the prospect of sleeping in the open, her eyes flitting up and down the road behind them.

“Don’t worry,” he assured her, unsaddling the horses and setting them to graze. “I’ll keep watch.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to find an inn? We’ll be defenseless out here . . .”

He put his hand on his sword. “Cold words, lass. I’ve been an army officer for a decade, and ye fear for yer life in my hands?” He shook his head, and she smiled reluctantly, as intended.

Later, when they had a small fire going and the horses were snuffling quietly nearby, Ilsa crept close to him. “Thank you,” she said, drawing up her knees under her chin.

“For what?” He watched her, his arms folded across his chest as he leaned against a sapling.

The fire flickered on her unbound hair, blue-black in the dark. “For following me. I was cruel to you in the carriage.”

“You were wary.”

She looked at him, her eyes midnight pools. “I was wrong. I’m sorry for the things I said.”

“We’re all wrong at times. No sin in making certain of someone.”

She touched the knuckles of his right hand. They would be sore tomorrow; the officer was a big fellow, and Drew had hit him hard. “You struck the sheriff-clerk’s officer. Two of them.” Her fingers ran over his. “If you hadn’t been there, they would have arrested me and made me go back to Edinburgh.”

He flipped his hand and grasped hers. “It didn’t happen. Don’t dwell on it.”

“No,” she whispered, staring at their clasped hands. There was an ugly bruise circling her wrist from the manacle. “Because you didn’t let it.” She raised her eyes. “I know where Papa’s gone.”

Drew’s stomach clenched.

“I did not know before I spoke to Cousin Mary,” she went on, staring at their little fire. She made no effort to pull her hand from his. “Mary is his only cousin. The Fletchers are a clan of small families. When my mother died, Mary came to stay with us for a few months. I believe she hoped Papa would marry her.” A faint half smile lit her face. “Papa was so handsome and charming and clever, everyone was in love with him . . . He did not marry her, though, and she went away and married someone else, but they remained deeply fond of each other. Talking about him with her was wonderful.”

Drew wondered if Ilsa counted too much on Fletcher’s charm. “Then those men will find her and demand she tell them what she told you.”

Finally some animation returned to her face. “She’ll tell them these charges are lies! Mary would take any secret of Papa’s to her grave, but she doesn’t even know what to tell them. If I’d been thinking clearly, I would have figured it out without going to Dunbar, but I’m still glad I went. Mary had heard rumors and was worried. Talking to her reminded me. Papa will go to the Lord of Princes.”

He stole a quick, alarmed glance at her. Did Fletcher mean to take his own life? “What does that mean?”

“It’s a solicitor in Glasgow. Archibald Lorde in Prince’s Street. Papa says he looks like an archbishop and calls him the Lord of Princes, as a great joke.”

Drew couldn’t keep back a bark of laughter. Perhaps Fletcher was more cunning than he’d thought. “It would take Cockburn’s men a long time to riddle that one.”

“It rather sounds like a suicide, doesn’t it?” Incredibly, she laughed, too. “I’d entirely forgotten him. Papa knows I don’t approve of his investments in tobacco, so he never speaks of them to me. Mr. Lorde was engaged because he’s in Glasgow, where most of the trading companies are based. If Papa is in need of funds, he could turn to Mr. Lorde, particularly once he’d cut his ties with Mr. MacGill.

“Mary mentioned fondly the annuity Papa settled on her at her marriage.” Ilsa sighed. “Jean has one, as well. Papa has a generous heart. But Mr. Lorde pays those. It’s much too humble for the great David MacGill, I suppose,” she finished dourly.

“Will this Lorde cooperate if he knows your father is wanted in Edinburgh?”

She gave him a look. “Papa’s not guilty, which Mr. Lorde will understand.”

MacGill hadn’t. Drew let it pass. “If he has papers from Lorde in his home, the sheriff will find them and visit Glasgow.”

“They haven’t found them yet—or at least, they didn’t mention it to me,” she said slowly. “Papa might have taken those with him . . .”

Which sounded like the act of a guilty man. Again Drew didn’t say it.

Ilsa freed her hand and twisted to face him. He leaned back and watched her, his hands flat on the ground beside his hips. Tentatively she leaned forward and pressed a light kiss to his cheek. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“For what?” He turned his head slightly, inhaling the scent of her skin, and let his lips skim her cheek.

“For coming back. For being concerned for me. For staying with me even after I told you to go away, when you could have gone back to your happy life in Edinburgh and left me to muddle along as I entirely deserved.”

“I care for you.” He caught her chin and feathered his mouth over hers. “A great deal. I couldn’t bear it if something terrible happened to you.”

“Thanks to you, it didn’t.”

“Nor will it,” he growled, and then he kissed her as he’d wanted to do for weeks, deeply, hungrily, completely. Her mouth opened under his and she pressed up against him, her hands at his shoulders, in his hair, tugging at his neckcloth.

Her dress came loose under his hands. Impatiently he lifted her, setting her astride him and pulling down her bodice, baring her to his starving gaze. Her skin was pearly pale in the moonlight and his hand shook as he trailed his fingers down her throat, slowing as he reached the swell of her breast above the confines of her stays. She watched him, her lips parted, her hair streaming over her shoulders, as she undid the knot at his neck and opened his shirt.

Drew’s head fell back in helpless surrender when she leaned forward and pressed her mouth there, to the pulse at the base of his throat. This woman had enthralled him and captivated him; if she left him forever tomorrow, he would never forget her or stop wanting her.

She kissed her way up his neck as her hands moved around his shoulders until she gripped his hair, tugging his face back to her. Rising up on her knees, she rested her forehead against his, her breath light and rapid against his lips.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Drew, I’ve tried not to—”

With a harsh exclamation he seized the nape of her neck. “Why are you sorry for that?”

“Because I’m ruined now, and dragging you down with me.” She touched the corner of his mouth, shadowed by three days of beard. “I can’t stop, though. I still love you. I still want you. I think I always will.”

He pulled her face to his and kissed her even as he tumbled her backward onto the soft summer grass and yanked down her stays just enough to taste her plump nipple. She moaned and clutched at his hair, her knees coming up around him, and he rucked up her skirts with both hands, spreading her satiny soft legs, completely bare all the way up.

He touched her, stroked her, marveled at the way her eyes widened, reveled in the ragged gasp of want she made, and then he was inside her, where he longed to be, held tight in her arms and legs as she begged him for more, her teeth on his skin making his nerves crackle like lightning had struck him, her hips rising to meet his every thrust with the same urgency and hunger, until she broke and shuddered beneath him, so tight around him, and he let go and poured his very life into her.

But her words festered in his mind—I’m dragging you down with me—and he didn’t know what to say. All his hopeful plans laid on the road to Fort George seemed built on sand now, with the high tide of reality rising to wash it all away. She was no longer respectable, and he could no longer count on the good graces and indulgence of the duchess. There would possibly be warrants issued for their arrest soon.

The only thing he could say was the one truth he still knew. Holding her close, he pressed his cheek to hers and whispered, “Let the world go hang. I love you, Ilsa.”

And will for all time.