A Scot to the Heart by Caroline Linden

He was on Duncan’s doorstep before his heart stopped pounding.

God above, he liked that woman. And she might just drive him mad, with her sly glances and subtle comments that sent his mind tumbling down wickedly erotic paths. That sparkle in her eyes when he said there was nothing wrong with naughty . . . the way her gaze turned hot and lustful when he said they wanted the same thing . . .

Each other. God above, she wanted him as much as he wanted her, and he hadn’t been wrong about her whispered words in the oyster cellar. His skin seemed to burn with wanting.

There was, however, a possible fly in the ointment, and he attacked it head-on, having no patience to wait.

Duncan was sprawled on the sofa reading. It must be a legal document, because he wore his spectacles, and Felix was too vain to wear them any other time.

“You didn’t tell me you knew her.”

Duncan flushed dull red. “Why should I? It’s not a crime to know someone.”

His defensive attitude took Drew aback. “You might have mentioned it.”

“There was nothing to tell,” muttered Duncan, his jaw set and his eyes fixed on the papers in his hand.

“Hmph. She specifically named you, idiot, and said I should invite you to visit Stormont Palace with us.”

“She did?” His friend’s face came alive with wild, sharp pleasure—before going carefully blank.

His hands clenched. “Good God, Duncan, if you had an amour with her, you ought to have told me when I asked about her the other day! Acting like you hardly knew her name and teasing me about catching her interest.”

Duncan’s expression froze. “Ilsa Ramsay!” he exclaimed. “Of course. Ha ha, St. James, have you been tormenting yourself imagining me making love to her?” He laughed, once more the careless scoundrel Drew knew.

“Who did you think I meant?”

Duncan pretended not to hear. “We’re going to Stormont Palace? Excellent. What, and where, is Stormont Palace?”

He raked one hand through his hair. “The ducal property near Perth I’m to inspect. Mrs. Ramsay suggested I make a party of it, invite my family and even you. Why would she do that?”

“Did she?” Duncan brightened. “I knew I liked her. Such intelligence and wit, not to mention a splendid figure.”

Drew glared at him. “Why would she want to invite you?”

“Perhaps she fancies an amour with me.” Felix draped his arms over the back of the sofa and looked smug. “I trust you’re going to invite her to this impromptu house party, too. I’d be very grateful.”

“Not so you can flirt with her.”

“Planning to flirt with her yourself?” His friend gave him an evil grin. “I told you that little book would be helpful.” He wagged one finger playfully. “She’s one of the finest catches in all Edinburgh. I’ll expect your profuse thanks at a later time.”

This time Drew managed to ignore the images Duncan’s words conjured up. “If not her, then who?” he demanded as Duncan threw aside his reading and sprang to his feet.

“Who what?”

“Whom did you think I meant, when you looked so elated to think you were invited to Stormont?” persisted Drew.

“Hmm? No one,” said the fellow airily.

“No.” He stopped, nonplussed. “Not Winifred?” He’d been startled by how beautiful his younger sister had grown. Duncan must have noticed, too.

His friend paused in the doorway. “No,” he said over his shoulder, “not Winifred. Until later, St. James.” And he was gone, banging the door behind him.

Which left Drew annoyed, puzzled, and somewhat startled to realize that he had, in fact, planned to invite Ilsa Ramsay to Stormont Palace.

After the exhilarating walk with Captain St. James, when her mind had filled with wild, irrational fantasies of what might happen between the two of them, it took only a few words from Aunt Jean to send her thoughts crashing back to earth.

“Oh my dear, there you are! Heaven above, I’ve been so worried.” Jean was waiting just inside the door, ready to close it behind her. “The streets are not safe these days.”

“What has happened? I walk every morning and you don’t complain.”

Jean clicked her tongue in reproof. “Haven’t you heard? There was a robbery at the goldsmith’s shop near Parliament Square!”

“This morning?” exclaimed Ilsa. Her walk home had brought her very near Parliament Square.

“No, lass, last night! Mrs. Crawley and Mrs. Douglas were here with the news!”

“Oh.” Ilsa tried not to sigh impatiently. Mrs. Crawley and Mrs. Douglas were two of Jean’s humorless gossipy friends. Wearing one’s hat at the wrong angle set the two of them off in a frenzy of censure. “Then the thieves were long gone by the time I ventured near.”

Jean gave her a sharp look and shot the bolt on the door. “Don’t make light of it! Thieves, within feet of our front door!”

Almost a quarter mile, thought Ilsa. “Robert was with me,” she told her aunt. The pony had already ambled back into his room and could be heard nosing about his bucket of oats.

“Robert!” huffed the older woman. “That pony is no protection!”

“And the Misses St. James were as well, before their brother fetched them,” added Ilsa, partly truthful. “I was not alone until I reached High Street, which was filled with people.”

“Thank goodness.” Jean exhaled in genuine relief. “But you mustn’t risk it again. First these brigands breaking into shops. Next it will be houses, where someone is sure to be home, and before you know it murder will be done.” Aunt Jean dogged her heels all the way to the drawing room.

Ilsa put on her smock. She’d bought more green paint on her way home and thought she would finish her painting of Calton Hill. “Thieving is one thing, murder another—far more effort and trouble. I’m sure the thieves wouldn’t want to bother.”

“Ilsa!” Jean inhaled so hard, Ilsa feared she might faint. “You are too careless. It’s only a matter of time before the thieves turn to violence. We must ask your father to put a guard at our door. We must bar every window and make certain Mr. MacLeod loads his flintlock. And you—! Promise me you will not go out at all until the villains are caught.”

Ilsa had been only half listening to her aunt’s tirade, but at this she put up her hand. “No, Aunt. Pockets are picked every day in the streets, and still we go to the shops. I shall be careful, but I am not staying in every night.”

Jean stiffened. “You must,” she charged. “For your own safety.”

“I shall not be careless of that,” Ilsa promised, “but how can we let fear of these thieves keep us trapped at home indefinitely?”

“’Tis not fear if ’tis sensible! What would your father say, if something happened to you on my watch?”

“Aunt Jean.” Ilsa leveled a firm but loving look at her. “I am no longer a child under your watch.”

“Yes, you are! If anything were to happen to you, your father—”

Ilsa felt a growl rising in her throat; it must have been loud enough for Jean to hear, for her aunt fell silent, although her eyes flashed and her mouth was a flat line.

“Ye’ve become such a headstrong lass since Malcolm died,” she said with withering reproach before she marched out.

Alone in the silent room, Ilsa regarded her pot of paint. Under Jean’s watch. She should have guessed as much, when her father persuaded her to have her aunt to stay after Malcolm’s death. You can keep each other company, he’d said. Ilsa had reluctantly agreed. Aunt Jean was the closest thing she’d known to a mother, and though Jean had been strict and protective, she’d also been loving.

Ilsa had thought Papa meant well, putting together the widow and the spinster, two women without children to occupy them. She’d thought Papa wanted a bachelor’s residence again. But no; Papa had meant the child and the guardian, keeping a close eye on her again now that she had no husband to do it.

She set down her paint and noticed for the first time the drapes, hung again in front of the drawing room window. The view was once more narrow, the room once more shadowed.

Stay in, bar the doors, curtain the windows, post a guard. It was too much like Malcolm’s edicts. Now that she’d had a few months of freedom, it felt like being buried alive.

That night she put on her favorite gown, a glorious emerald silk with silver spangles and miles of lace. It fluttered when she walked and made her feel like a butterfly, capable of soaring wherever her fancy took her. Malcolm would have hated it, for the brilliant color and low-cut bodice. She would not be held captive by her aunt’s rigid rules, nor by her father’s manipulations. She ignored Jean’s furious protests and stepped into the sedan chair Mr. MacLeod had summoned for her.

The Assembly Rooms were full when she walked in. Obviously no one else in Edinburgh was huddling behind their doors in fear of thieves. In fact, her father met her almost immediately. “Ilsa! What are you doing here?”

She kissed his cheek. “The same thing you are, I expect.”

He flushed even as he scowled. Papa came to flirt and dance and show off. He fancied himself a favorite of the ladies, and tonight he was dressed like a macaroni, in a striped yellow waistcoat and burgundy coat with diamond buckles on his shoes. “ʼTain’t the same! You ought not to be out.”

“Don’t tell me you’re as fussy and fretful as Jean.”

“Certainly not,” he scoffed in outrage. “But you can’t go about alone—”

“I came in a sedan chair,” she told him. “And if it’s not safe to walk the streets, how did you get here?” He scowled anew, and she smiled as she patted his arm. “I never thought you’d turn into a worried old woman, Papa.”

His mouth firmed—to stop the smile twitching at his lips. “Saucy wench. I do not approve, but I’ll see you safely home. And now that you are here, you must meet someone. By happy chance, Mr. Grant is in attendance, and he’ll be pleased to solicit your hand for the quadrille.” Without waiting for her reply, he towed her through the crowd and introduced her to the genial wine merchant.

From the polite surprise on Mr. Grant’s face, Ilsa was sure her guess had been correct. All interest in a union between them was Papa’s, and Papa’s alone. Still, she smiled at Mr. Grant and even agreed to dance with him later, when Papa shamelessly maneuvered the poor man into asking.

Ilsa did love to dance, and she had nothing against Mr. Grant. But she had higher hopes tonight.

The St. James girls were at the far end of the room. Ilsa’s eyes skimmed over the crowd, and finally spotted the captain. She had missed him, despite his height, because he was stooped over listening to dainty Miss Flora Clapperton, eldest daughter of a wealthy gentleman and rumored to have ten thousand pounds in dowry. Flora was flighty but sweet, and she could talk for an hour without drawing breath—especially if encouraged, as Winifred St. James appeared to be doing, standing beaming at her side and frequently drawing her brother’s attention with a hand on his arm.

Ilsa settled herself on a chair with a good view of the proceedings. There was no harm in that, she told herself, nor in taking some enjoyment from the baffled expression on the captain’s face as his sisters nudged him into marriage. She had no right to expect any other pleasures concerning him.

“You look pleased with yourself tonight,” said a familiar but unwelcome voice behind her.

And just like that, her good mood curdled. Ilsa resisted the urge to get up and walk away. “I was,” she said evenly, “until you appeared.”

Impervious, Liam Hewitt plopped into the chair next to her, folding his arms across his chest. He worked in her father’s shop, Papa’s most trusted wright, but Ilsa found him deeply annoying.

There were many reasons why. He was smug. He was arrogant. He had a braying laugh. He was handsome and clever, but not nearly as handsome or clever as he thought himself. And for some bizarre and horrible yet unknown reason, he regularly inflicted himself upon Ilsa like a bad rash.

“I beg your pardon, sir, that seat is spoken for,” she said.

Liam smirked. “No, it isn’t. You just sat down—alone, as usual.” He bumped her shoulder with his, causing Ilsa to frown at him and turn away. “Old Fletcher is trying to get you wed again, ain’t he?” He shook his head with a tsk. “That’s a fool’s errand. Who’s the victim?”

She opened her fan and kept her expression serene. Liam would only get worse if she gave any sign of distress or anger. “I will be sure to tell Papa you think him foolish.”

He barked with laughter. “Will you! I’ll tell him to his face. You’re bitter medicine to force upon any man. He ought to spare himself the trouble.”

“By all means.” She gestured with her fan. “Go now. He is over there.”

Liam squinted across the room, toward where her father was flirting with Mrs. Lowrie, a handsome widow half his age. “Not while he’s at pleasure. I could hardly deny the man some sport, could I?”

“No, by all means insult his daughter instead,” she said coolly. “He will be so grateful to you.”

He scowled. “You’re as tart as a lemon, ain’t you?”

“More like hemlock.” She smiled slyly at him. “Best keep your distance, Liam.”

With a muttered oath he flung himself off the chair and into the crowd. Ilsa smoothed her skirts and tried not to give Liam the pleasure of ruining her evening. She was sure he disliked her as much as she disliked him, and her life would be vastly improved if he would have the courtesy to leave her be.

“How you put up with that man I shall never know,” whispered Agnes St. James, sliding into the seat as soon as Liam had disappeared. “What an oily little toad!”

Ilsa hummed in agreement. “He thinks himself more important than he is, which is never good for a man to think.”

Agnes glanced at her. “How can your father be so fond of him, when he’s so spiteful toward you?”

Ilsa shrugged. It was true, and she had no idea why. Papa called Liam his right-hand man, one of the most talented cabinet-makers in Scotland. Every time Ilsa said a word against Liam, Papa brushed it off and defended Liam. She had little choice but to put up with the annoying man.

She flicked away a bit of dirt from her glove, tired of discussing him. “Tell me something more intriguing. How goes Winnie and Bella’s plan to find your brother a rich bride?”

Finally a grin split her friend’s face. “Oh, splendidly. They’ve made him dance with Catriona Hill and Lady Erskine already, and now they’ve thrown him into Flora Clapperton’s clutches.” Agnes peered down the room, where Flora was still chattering away at the captain. “Drew will ask her to dance simply for peace and quiet.”

Ilsa laughed. “He’s very good-natured, then.”

“About Flora? Yes.” Agnes hesitated. “I think he might have liked Catriona, though.”

Ilsa kept smiling even as her stomach tightened. Catriona Hill was statuesque, witty, and intelligent. She and the captain would make a handsome pair. “If your sisters cannot have their Seasons in London, they could open a matchmaking service.”

Agnes laughed as Bella dashed up. There was a handsome young man on her heels, his cheeks flushed with drink or from dancing. Bella paused long enough to lean close to the two of them and whisper, “The hook is baited! Let’s see how long it takes him to bite!” before she whirled away in the arms of her partner.

Sure enough, the captain led out Miss Clapperton. She was still speaking, and as Ilsa watched—half amused, half unreasonably annoyed—Captain St. James looked up, right over Miss Clapperton’s head and into her eyes.

His beleaguered expression faded. For a moment their gazes caught on each other, his so fierce with pleasure that Ilsa felt it in her soul. Then the scoundrel winked at her before turning back to the girl at his side and sweeping her into the dance.

Her heart was jolting in her chest. Little shocks of anticipation tingled along her nerves. She plied her fan so hard her earrings trembled. How could he do that to her from thirty feet away?

“Good evening, Mrs. Ramsay. Miss St. James.” Barely a breath separated the names, but by the time Ilsa recognized the man in front of them, Agnes had shot to her feet.

“Good evening, sir,” she said coolly, and stalked away.

Felix Duncan watched her go, his eyes shuttered.

Ilsa also rose. “Miss St. James was just saying how thirsty she is,” she said lightly. “She must be on her way to find some punch.”

Mr. Duncan accepted the lie with a knowing quirk of his brow. “I wouldn’t dream of interfering with Miss St. James’s desires. I hoped I might beg the honor of a dance, ma’am.”

“Of course.”

Ilsa took his arm and they joined the long line of the Scotch reel. She loved a rollicking dance and soon was skipping down the set with her usual abandon. Mr. Duncan caught her and swung her around with cheerful vigor, and Ilsa grew breathless from exertion and laughter. When it ended, he offered his arm and they began a slow, meandering turn around the crowded room.

“I understand St. James has proposed an outing to Perth.” Mr. Duncan glanced at her. “He said you suggested I be invited.”

She gave a low laugh. “Goodness, he wastes no time. Are you displeased by the prospect?”

He grinned back. “Very much the contrary. I am in your debt.”

“Then I admit I did suggest it. I thought the captain might want support troops if he were to be confined in one house with his sisters.”

Mr. Duncan laughed. “Aye, he might! Not that he wouldn’t deserve whatever torment they inflicted.”

“Do they torment people?” She smiled artlessly at his guilty flinch. “You must know all three are my dear friends.”

He hesitated. “I did know that.”

“There aren’t better young ladies in all of Scotland,” she added. Her vow had been to not interfere in Agnes’s affairs—but included nothing about stirring the pot a little.

“I agree,” he murmured.

Ilsa heaved a sigh. “I shall miss them so, when they have all moved house to England with the captain.”

Her companion stopped short. “England! The devil you say!”

Ilsa studied him closely. He hadn’t known. “Didn’t the captain tell you? He’s considering removing there, to be near his future . . . responsibilities. Winifred and Isabella are enthralled by the prospect of a Season in London, as well.”

All humor had leached from his face. “When?”

Ilsa looked at him in sympathy. “I don’t know. Perhaps you should ask him, as his dear friend.”

His brooding gaze skipped across the room. Near the windows, Agnes was in merry conversation with Sorcha White and two red-coated soldiers from the castle garrison. “Perhaps it doesn’t much matter,” he muttered.

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” she replied, watching her friend. Unless she missed her guess, Agnes was stealing peeks at them.

He must have suspected as much, too, for he inhaled deeply before turning a warm smile on her. “Only time will tell, aye? And as long as you don’t say you’re leaving Edinburgh, I shan’t mourn. St. James was gone for years and I never once missed a minute of sleep over it.”

Ilsa went along with it, arching her brows playfully. Let Agnes see someone else basking in his attention for a moment. “Is that right? Then perhaps you’ll ask me to dance again, Mr. Duncan.”

He swept a lavish bow. “I desire nothing else in life, madam.”

“Life is full of disappointments,” said a familiar voice beside her. “Go on, Duncan, inflict yourself on someone else.”

“I apologize for this rude scoundrel,” said Mr. Duncan, turning his back to Captain St. James. “Pay him no mind.”

“Let the lady decide.” The captain stepped around his friend and made a bow. “Good evening, Mrs. Ramsay.”

He was dazzling tonight, in a vivid blue coat and green plaid. His dark hair fell across his brow in a thick wave, and when he stepped closer, she almost moaned as the heat and size of him sent a hot thrill of excitement pulsing through her. His eyes glittered, as if he knew exactly what effect he had on her.

Friends, she reminded herself unsteadily. Friends who would soon be hundreds of miles apart, forever. “Good evening, Captain. How are you enjoying our assembly?”

“Very well.” He ducked his head and put out his hand. “I’ll enjoy it far more if you’ll dance with me.”

She had to say no. Ilsa knew that even though she wanted to put her hand in his and let him whirl her around as he’d done in the oyster cellar. And if he chanced to whirl her right out the door and pull her close, she would like to kiss him again . . . and again . . .

No, no, no. She had come tonight to show Jean she would not be cowed; to show her father she would not be minded like a child; to show herself how easily the captain would divert his attention to another wealthy widow or young lady, once he met them. That’s what she’d told herself when she put on her favorite gown that made her feel beautiful and confident. That’s what she’d told herself when she accepted Mr. Duncan’s invitation to dance and flirted with him.

All that time, she had been lying to herself. She had come because she wanted to see him. She wanted him to look at her with admiration and hunger in his eyes—as he was doing now. She wanted him to ask her to dance with him—as he’d just done. She wanted that thrilling, reckless kiss.

“I say, St. James, I asked first,” put in Mr. Duncan.

“And the lady will decide whom she wishes to accept,” replied the captain, his gaze never wavering from hers.

You. The word trembled on her lips despite everything.

Curse it all. She was in trouble.

Blessedly, she was saved by the approach of Mr. Grant, who had not forgotten their promised dance even if she had. With a smile, half relief and half regret, she bade the captain and Mr. Duncan farewell and let Mr. Grant lead her out.

It had been a close call. Nothing good could come of encouraging the captain; she did not want to spoil her friendships over a brief affair, and he was leaving for England in a matter of weeks. If only she weren’t so terribly, wickedly tempted . . .

Mind what you wish for, admonished a faint echo of Jean’s voice. It’s never exactly what you expect.