A Scot to the Heart by Caroline Linden

Glasgow was a small but handsome town, with houses built of stone and many impressive public buildings. It was a great hub of commerce, though the main harbor at Port Glasgow was several miles down the Clyde; here was where the tobacco lords built their mansions and flaunted their wealth, princes among the merchants.

Ilsa surveyed it with weary eyes. They had avoided inns for the last few days of hard riding across fields and through woods and along narrow rutted roads that were impassable except by horseback. Drew had promised her a proper room tonight, with a hot bath and fresh clothes, and she was irrationally eager for it.

They bypassed the large and well-known Saracen’s Head Inn and took a room in a small establishment away from the main street. Drew kept his word; servants were hauling in the bathing tub even as they climbed the stairs. He left her with a rueful smile and a soft touch on her cheek, saying he would be back in an hour.

Ilsa knew he was as tired as she was. When they slept in the open, he’d been awake and watching every time her eyes fluttered open. He only shrugged and called it army training when she protested, but she was keenly aware how much he’d done for her.

She peeled off her dirty clothes and sank naked into the tub when the maids left, content just to soak in the hot water and not feel linen against her skin. Unfortunately, that left her free to examine the darker corners of her mind and the thoughts that had been quietly growing there.

When she left Edinburgh, it had been on a wave of righteous indignation that Papa was being framed and slandered. It was easy to embrace a bold course when it was only her own reputation and name at stake. She believed in Papa; of course she would find him and save him, and curse the gossiping tongues of Edinburgh for saying otherwise. She was a lonely warrior waging her battle for redemption, and she was fine with that.

But now she was not. In her moment of weakness, when she gave in to her own longing and let Drew accompany her, she had yoked him to her quest. She knew he didn’t believe in Papa’s innocence. She knew he was only here because he loved her, more than he ought to do and far more than she deserved.

And because of that—because of her—he had thrown away his good name and sterling reputation.

A gentleman had fled town with a woman suspected of helping a wanted criminal escape justice. An officer in the English army had attacked and subdued officers of the law. The heir to a dukedom was probably wanted on charges in Edinburgh right now, and his disgrace would hurt not only him but his family, his mother and sisters, whose approval and affection Ilsa had yearned for so desperately.

She wondered what the very proper English duchess at Carlyle Castle would say when she heard about Drew’s actions. Then she shivered and thought no, she would prefer not to know. It was bad enough thinking what Mrs. St. James would say. Ilsa’s throat tightened as she remembered how it had felt to think that she might have a mother in her life, in those few halcyon days before Papa’s fall from grace shattered her world.

And that exposed the most painful thought, the one that had been festering in her mind since Dunbar. She had told herself Papa was innocent, that these charges were lies from front to back, that when she found her father, he would confidently assert his innocence and explain his disappearance in some of the same terms Winnie had used: he had left town to avoid being unjustly accused; he had gone to amass evidence proving his defense; he planned a triumphant return with the forces of truth and justice on his side.

But now . . . she was not so certain.

Drew’s questions, which she had dismissed with such scorn, had privately unsettled her. Would Papa want to be found? Why hadn’t he reassured her and Jean before he left? Why had he left at all? What had he meant by that horribly guilty letter?

What if he weren’t entirely innocent?

What if he weren’t innocent at all?

What if she had lured Drew into ruin and disgrace for a lie?

She loved him more than anything in the world—more than Robert, more than Papa, more than her independence. And she had ruined him.

The door opened behind her, and Drew came in with a package under one arm. Ilsa clasped her arms to her chest; while he was out taking care of things, she had been lying in the cooling water staring at the ceiling. “You’re back,” she murmured.

“Aye.” He set the package on the bed. “A dress and unmentionables. Not very fine ones,” he said with a note of apology. “I’ve scant experience buying ladies’ garments.”

She felt sick but made herself smile. “I gave my clothes to the maid to wash. Anything clean will be a luxury. Thank you.”

His mouth quirked. “Since I made you send everything else back to Edinburgh, ’twas the least I could do.”

He had done that so they could escape the sheriff-officers sent to arrest her. Ilsa put her hands on the edge of the tub and got to her feet. “I don’t mind.”

His gaze seared her from head to toe. “If you need anything else,” he said in a low, gravelly voice, “tell me.”

There wasn’t another man in the world equal to him. No one else would have done what he had done for her, even when he thought her conclusions were wrong and her quest was doomed and it would cost him dearly.

Ilsa stepped out of the tub. “There is one thing . . .” She crossed the room toward him, water trickling down her bare body. She stopped in front of him and slid her hands up his broad chest, pushing the dust-covered jacket from his shoulders. With steady hands she unbuckled his belt and pulled the plaid free, letting it fall. She undid his neckcloth and the buttons of his shirt before stripping that off him, too.

He stood rigidly, his breath uneven. “Ilsa, you must be exhausted,” he tried to say, but she put her finger on his lips.

“This is what I need,” she said, and pushed him with her fingertips toward the bed. Without resistance he sank onto the mattress, falling back on his elbows, his eyes burning as he watched her.

I know this cannot last, she thought as she went down on her knees. I know he’s not for me. She dragged her fingertips down his stomach, taking a wicked thrill from his harsh inhalation. I know these will be my last days with him. And I will let him go without a fight because he deserves someone much better than I.

She made love to him with her mouth, as he had done for her, until he pulled her up and rolled her under him to sheath himself in her body. Ilsa dug her nails into his back, hooked her legs around his waist, and urged him to ride her harder, wanting it to last forever, desperate for the oblivion this incendiary passion offered.

And when he slept beside her that night, his arm strong and comforting around her, she clasped his hand to her lips and whispered once more, “I love you.”

And that’s why I’m going to let you go.

Drew was ready to tear Glasgow apart to find William Fletcher.

He sensed a change in Ilsa when they arrived. A sort of melancholy seemed to steal over her, casting a shadow over everything, even when she looked at him and smiled or pulled him close in bed. The nearest thing he could compare it to was soldiers strapping on their weapons in anticipation of a battle, preparing to face their doom.

They located Archibald Lorde’s offices in Prince’s Street. Ilsa spoke to the clerk, who told them to wait while he disappeared into the inner sanctum.

After a lengthy wait the clerk ushered them back. Lorde was a tall, pale fellow with a beatific smile. “Mrs. Ramsay, Captain St. James, pray be seated.”

Ilsa waited until the door was securely closed. “Mr. Lorde, I am here to see my father, William Fletcher.”

Nothing betrayed the man. “I’m sorry, madam, I have not seen him.”

She nodded and bent over the desk, reaching for the pen. “Of course not,” she said as she wrote on a piece of paper. The solicitor watched with one brow raised. “If you should happen to see him or hear from him, give him this.” She dusted the page with sand to dry the ink and held it out. “Please, Mr. Lorde.”

He sighed. “Mrs. Ramsay. I don’t know what you mean.”

“I understand.” The paper remained steady in her outstretched hand. “Please, sir.”

With a jerk of his head he indicated to leave it on the desk. “I really can offer you no hope.”

“I understand. I will return tomorrow afternoon, though, just in case.” She curtsied. “Good day, Mr. Lorde.”

Out on the street again, Drew asked, “What did you write?”

“I wrote that Cordelia would be ashamed of him.” She tugged her cloak around herself. “Cordelia was my mother. If Papa can be lured out, her name will do it.”

That night he finally broached a question that had been nagging at him. “What will you say to him?”

She was silent for a long time. “When I was young, my father was an epic figure to me. Larger than life, the handsomest man alive, clever and witty and charming. Everyone admired him. I remember walking with him and ladies would drop their handkerchiefs in front of him. He always retrieved them with a gallant word and bow. I said Mary would have wed him—so would any number of ladies about town.”

“Why did he never remarry?”

“I think he liked the attention too much,” was her soft answer. “Why wed one woman when you could command the attentions of a dozen, flirt with them and dance with them and always have a smiling, fetching woman vying for your attention?”

To have a companion, he thought. To have someone to comfort and support you. To share life’s joy with. To give your lonely, motherless daughter a mother and siblings. To love and to cherish.

“It was not merely ladies,” she went on. “Men the breadth of town respected and deferred to him. My grandfather founded the cabinetry shop and was a deacon before him, but Papa is a brilliant carver and crafts beautiful pieces. He would have been successful if he’d started from nothing, but he has held an elevated position all his life. Losing that . . .” She sighed. “I imagine if you asked him, he would say he’d rather die than be shamed and reviled by those who used to solicit his advice and good opinion. He is a proud man.”

Her hair had wound around his fingers. Drew fingered the silky lock. “You don’t think he’ll return to Edinburgh.”

Barring incontrovertible proof of innocence, Deacon Fletcher faced a daunting prospect in town.

This time Ilsa’s answer was almost too quiet to hear. “I don’t see how he will. But I need to hear it from him.” She looked at him in the darkness, touching his chin. “What did you do when your father died? Agnes told me it was not easy for you—”

He let out his breath. “No. We didn’t learn of his failings until he was gone.”

“But you endured it,” she murmured.

His arm tightened around her. “There was no choice. He was gone, but my mother and sisters were still here, still in need, and I had to provide for them.”

“Agnes said you were to go to university.”

“Once upon a time,” he said after a moment.

“What did you hope to study?”

“Astronomy. Mathematics. I fancied going to sea.” It was like a distant dream to speak of those things now.

“Instead you went into the army. When Agnes told me, I thought it a very unimaginative choice.” Some life sparked in her voice. “A clever fellow would have chosen piracy.”

He grinned. “Daring thought! Stupidly I thought the army would pay more reliably.”

Her shoulders shook with a small laugh. “And less fear of hanging.”

He closed his eyes at the word. She seemed to shrink in his arm, realizing what she’d said. “Yes,” he rallied. “More fear of dysentery, though.”

“Yet you survived. All of you.”

His arm tightened around her. “Yes. Not unscarred, but whole and able to carry on and find happiness and joy.”

To that she made no reply, but she clung to his side all night.