The Scot is Hers by Eliza Knight

5

Strong hands grasped Giselle’s as she clawed at the ground and hauled her quite ungracefully back from where she’d fallen. He lifted her onto her feet and whisked her several feet away from the area of impending death. The stranger set her on her feet, but her ankle would not support her, and she cried out, collapsing against him. Her fingers curled into tight muscles, the scent of male overwhelming.

She was alive.

Somehow, in this miserable storm, she’d been saved.

“Are ye all right?” His arms were tight around her, holding her up. With her clothes soaked and flattened to the contours of her body, the feel of the strong lines of his physique against hers was blatant.

She could not recall ever feeling so much of any male...not even when her idiot betrothed kissed her.

Giselle pushed away suddenly, determined to balance on one leg, for she didn’t know who this stranger was. And she didn’t like the way she was reacting to his closeness. Not even a shred of disgust, but instead the opposite.

Absurd!

“My ankle,” she croaked out in a voice she didn’t recognize.

His face was obscured in shadow from the darkened clouds, and rain pelting against her eyeballs blurred her vision. His hair flattened to his forehead, and what parts of his face that weren’t covered in a beard had been taken over by his locks. All she could make out was that he was incredibly tall and broad.

He stuck out his rather large hand to her, offering her help once more. “Come, there’s shelter over here. I promise no harm will come to ye.”

Giselle tucked her hands behind her. She wasn’t an invalid. And she still didn’t know if she could trust him. He might have plucked her from death for his gain.

“I’ve been walking since I was a bairn,” she said. “I do no’ need your help.” She tried to take a few steps forward, but her ankle wouldn’t cooperate, and her attempts to hop only had her sliding in the mud and falling to her knees with an embarrassed, “Oof,” once more headed toward the cliff that wished to consume her.

“Please, my lady, if ye will quit being so stubborn and allow me to help?” He held out his hands once more, and with a resigned sigh, she nodded.

She supposed death by his hands, versus falling over the side of the cliff, was probably better.

All at once, those strong arms enfolded her—one around her back, one beneath her knees. He scooped her into the air as if she weighed nothing. Giselle resisted the urge to curl into his warmth. How was it possible he could be so warm when soaked, and she felt as if she’d been drowned in a frigid loch in the middle of winter?

The pain in her ankle throbbed. And, oh dear God, she was covered in mud. Her once pretty yellow day dress had lost all its vibrancy, boasting now a mud-soaked brown hue.

Where should she put her hands? Seemed logical to put them around his shoulders to hold on, but that also felt too intimate. She opted to wring them in her lap as he carried her effortlessly through the storm.

“Ye’ve lost a glove,” he pointed out.

“Aye. Where are ye taking me?” she hedged, staring at the landscape, most definitely not wanting to talk about her gloves.

“The ruins.”

Giselle strained to see through the rain, her gaze finally settling on a pile of stone that lurched from the ground as if a giant coming awake from a long nap. Ruins indeed. This was not at all what she’d had planned when she made her escape. A little rain had seemed harmless an hour ago. Now she realized what truth her mother had spat when she said young ladies shouldn’t be riding in the rain.

She turned to stare at the man cradling her, but another crack of thunder had her jumping in his grasp. This time she did wrap her arms around his neck, but only to hold on for dear life. Lightning lit the sky, threatening to blind her. She squeezed her eyes shut, certain that the illuminated streak would stab her right through the chest.

What felt like only moments ago, she’d been telling herself how much she didn’t regret leaving the castle. Now she felt certain of her doom. She’d nearly fallen off the cliff while being trampled by a horse, and now she was being carried into the ruins with a strange man. Where was that horse anyhow? What was the stranger doing out here in the storm, anyway? Waiting for a distressed maiden to come by so he could ravage her under the pretense of saving her?

He was as mad as she was, and that was a dangerous combination.

Giselle shuddered as he ducked through the doorway of the ruins, and suddenly the rain that had been pounding against her head ceased. The roar of the storm dulled somewhat. The two sudden changes in her environment were jarring, and she drew in a long breath to settle herself. He carried her a few more feet and then set her down, so she could lean her back against the cool stone. But that bit of cold rock made her jerk forward, already freezing as she was.

The lighting inside the ruins was even worse than outside, and so when she looked up at him, what she mostly saw was a man as tall as a mountain, with absolutely no features.

“Thank ye,” she murmured.

Then she glanced through the doorway, just in time to see her mount come bolting inside. At least the poor animal wasn’t as stupid as she was.

“Ye’re welcome,” the stranger said, something about his voice familiar. “Allow me to feel your ankle.”

It wasn’t a question, and Giselle immediately bristled. “Excuse me? I do no’ think so.” She tucked her legs closer, wincing at the pain the movement caused.

“I need to assess if it is broken or merely sprained.” There was an edge of exasperation in his tone she chose to ignore.

“I will no’ allow ye to touch my ankle. ’Tis entirely improper.”

“And riding out in a storm alone is?” This, he said with quite a lot of sarcasm.

“Hmm. Ye do have a point. But my mother would have a fit if she knew I let ye touch me. So how about I feel my ankle, and ye tell me what I should look for?”

“Your mother is likely already having a fit since ye rode out in the rain, lass. Why do ye no’ let me assess your bloody ankle and be done with it?” His irritation was palpable.

“Tsk, tsk, ye broody beast. Ye know ye catch more flies with honey than vinegar, aye?” Giselle frowned at him, though he probably couldn’t see it.

“Ye are a pest.”

Giselle gasped. “Rude. Ye hardly know me.”

He made a snorting sound of disgust. “I know enough.”

“Fine.” She thrust her leg out. “Feel my ankle, but ye touch one inch higher, and I will retaliate.” With what she would retaliate, Giselle had no idea. She supposed her fists would do but judging from the size of him compared to her, he wouldn’t care too much.

“Whatever ye say, princess.”

Now it was Giselle’s turn to scoff, but she didn’t have a chance to respond as his probing fingers reminded her of the pain of her injury.

“Ow! That hurts,” she accused.

“Aye. I’m no’ doing it on purpose.”

“Well, stop.”

Again a little snort of annoyance. “Almost done.”

Giselle bit her lip until his pinching and prodding ceased, and he gently set her foot down on top of a stone.

“Keep it elevated like this, lass. ’Tis no’ broken, but the swelling indicates a rather nasty sprain.”

Giselle wiped at the water dripping into her eyes and glanced at him again. His face was still mostly obscured in shadow. A neatly trimmed beard covered his jawline and chin. It was hard to tell the color in the shadow, but it was not too dark. Despite his gloomy temperament, there was something kind about the man. Well, at least for now. In the next five minutes, he might still try to kill her, and then she change her mind.

“Thank ye. Tell me, sir, how many maidens have ye rescued lately?” Or ravaged?

He seemed taken aback by her question as he stood and crossed his arms, staring down at her. “Pardon?”

Giselle leaned her head back against the wall so she could gaze up at him. “Well, ye seem quite adept. I assume I’m no’ the first. Perhaps ye’ve an operation ye run around here.”

“Ye are, in fact, the first. But let’s explore that option. I’d have to take control of the weather and your horse. So ye’d name me a warlock of some sort?” Lord, but the sarcasm was strong within this one. “Accusations like that can get a man killed, lass.”

The way he said “lass” struck a chord within her. She could swear she’d heard it before. “Well, then, ye should know ye did well. As long as ye do no’ plan to ravage me, I’ll send your compliments to wherever they might be shared.”

He let out a short snort. “No compliments necessary. I do no’ plan to ravage ye. Nor begin some sort of female rescue operation. It would no’ due for a lass to die on my lands anyway.”

She didn’t know if she should be offended by that or not. “Am I no’ ravage-able?”

“I’m no’ certain that is even a word, lass. And I am no’ in the habit of ravaging anyone, no matter how ravishing they are.”

“So ye find me ravishing?” she teased, uncertain what made her so bold. Despite his being a stranger, he’d yet to kill her, and so she felt she could trust him a little.

He let out a growl of frustration that was so familiar it was right on the edge of her brain to say his name if only she could tug out what it was. For she was certain, she’d me him before.

“Do I know ye?” she asked, squinting into the shadows.

He sauntered toward the dismantled wall several feet away to stare out into the storm. He faced away from her as if he wanted to hide his identity. “I’ve met most of my neighbors, and I canna say as I’ve seen ye here before.” His tone had taken on a bored note.

“I’m no’ from here.” Giselle grasped a handful of her skirts and started to ring out the water. Her dress felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds.

“Oh. Where are ye from, then?” Though there was a note of interest in his tone, still he didn’t face her.

“Edinburgh.”

“Och.” He sounded very disappointed, and even from where she sat, she could see his body stiffen. “Why were ye alone out in a storm? Did ye no’ bring an escort to the castle? And who bloody hell rides a horse from Edinburgh? Ye’re lucky no’ to have fallen to your death miles ago.”

She chose to ignore how helpless he seemed to find her. And how did he know she was from the castle? “My parents escorted me to the castle.”

“And where are they now?” He poked his head out of the ruins. “Should I go in search of them?”

“They are likely at the castle.”

“They left ye alone to ride in this weather?” Then he paused, and in a tone that sounded more than a little accusatory, he asked, “Better question, why were ye no’ in a carriage?”

Giselle let out an irritated humph. “I’ve nearly died, and hence, I am excused from having to explain myself to ye.”

He crossed his arms in front of him and stared down at her. If she’d been able to see his face, she was fairly certain he would be glowering. Giselle squinted in the dim light. She wished she could see his face better. She hated that it was hidden in shadow and that he was so darn tall. Here she was huddled against the wall like a small, wounded animal while he towered over her. It wasn’t that his stature or the dark intimidated her; it was irritation that wended its way through her limbs. Curse her bloody ankle. She wanted to stalk away, to not have his judgement so readily in her face.

As if hearing her wish, another spark of lightning lit up the moors and flashed within the ruins enough that she saw the wicked scar coming down the side of his face before it buried itself in his ginger beard. A blaze of fierce blue—no green—eyes.

In an instant, she was all too certain of who it was that stood before her—the Beast of Errol: Alec Hay. That was why she’d felt safe with him. The man might have been cantankerous, but he wasn’t dangerous.

“Oh my goodness,” she said, rubbing her eyes and gaping up at him.

He let out a low growl, throwing up his hands. “I know, I’m hideous. But my mother assured me all the eligible maidens would no’ care. I suppose ye cared more for coin and position than truth. Typical, and no’ at all unexpected.”

“What?” She frowned, then shook her head. “Ye’re speaking nonsense. I know nothing of your mother, other than when I met her a couple of years ago. And unlike ye, I’m no’ willing to pass judgment so quickly.”

His hands settled on his hips. “Then what were ye doing heading to my castle?”

Again, how did he know where she was headed? Giselle touched her forehead, wondering if somehow there’d been a sign placed there. Lass, in desperate need of refuge, headed to your castle. But she drew away her cold, wet fingers, not having found one, and frowned once more in his direction.

“Ye’ve no’ changed a bit, my lord.” My time didn’t seem to heal all wounds, did it?

There was a moment of stunned silence before he said slowly, “We’ve met before?”

Giselle let out a deliberate sigh; the kind one did when the conversation was moving interminably slow. One she was certain he’d made several times already in this, their second meeting. “Aye.”

This time he didn’t hesitate. “I do no’ remember ye.”

Giselle shrugged. It wasn’t her fault he had a flawed memory. “I’m no’ that memorable, I guess. But if it makes ye feel any better, I’ve no’ thought about ye a day since our last meeting.” That was, of course, a lie. She’d avoided him at all costs, which had been unnecessary since he’d disappeared from society.

The man snorted. “Yet ye were headed to my castle.”

And therein lay the crutch. Giselle shook her head, mostly to herself, and mumbled, “Why I thought to escape to your castle is beyond me.”

“What do ye mean, escape?” He started to laugh. “Ye’re no’ doing a good job of it.”

Giselle narrowed her eyes. The broody Beast of Errol was becoming quite tiresome. “On the contrary, I have eluded those I wished to avoid.”

He stretched out his arms as if to present himself. “But I’m standing right here.”

Giselle let out a guffaw. “Lord, but ye’re arrogant. I never said it was ye I was trying to avoid.”

He grunted. “Then who?”

Giselle wiggled her brows and said in a nearly singsong tone, “If I tell, promise to keep it a secret?” After all, why shouldn’t she have a little bit of fun while being so miserable?

“Nay.” He crossed his arms over his chest.

Well, that wasn’t what she expected. “Fine.” She crossed her arms over her chest too, as standoffish as he was.

“Are ye going to tell me anyway?” he asked.

The nerve. “I suppose it is no’ going to hurt me anymore than I already have been to enlighten ye. I am escaping Sir Joshua Keith, your neighbor to the north.”

There was a moment of silence that seemed to stretch on for an eternity. Perhaps the Beast of Errol didn’t know who Keith was. That was possible, she supposed, though unlikely given their proximity to each other and the fact that he’d said he knew all of his surrounding neighbors. So why was the earl so quiet? The silence was thick and charged. Made her a little bit nervous.

“Och, that bastard,” Alec growled at last, as the true Beast of Errol she knew him to be.

“Ah, so I take it the two of ye are acquainted.” She shifted slightly, her arse becoming numb from sitting on the stone floor, and then winced at the pain in her ankle the movement caused.

“Indeed.” Alec’s hands fell to his side, fisted. She could practically feel him seething; as if his breathing controlled the pulsing air. How intriguing. There appeared to be a history between the two men. “I loathe Sir Joshua Keith. What’s he done that has ye escaping him and coming to me?”

“If ye must know, I am being forced to marry him.” Even saying the words aloud made her nauseous.

“That is truly awful.” Alec’s voice softened as he spoke, erasing some of the broodiness she’d come to recognize in him. Perhaps he was more than his grumpy self, after all.

Giselle pressed her lips together, recalling the brief exchange she’d had with her nasty betrothed, and then said quietly, “Ye have no idea.”

“I’m failing to see why ye would leave him and seek me out? How did ye suppose I would be able to help ye? What did he say about me?”

“What? He’s no’ mentioned ye. I saw your castle on the way…” Giselle shook her head, flicks of water stinging her cheeks. “I’m no’ certain, only that I hoped—” She bit her lip. “I have no idea what I hoped. To tell the truth, I left rather impulsively, and ye were the only one in the vicinity that I knew. And...I can see now that it was a mistake. I’m sorry to have involved ye.”

“Ye say we’ve met before. And yet, I do no’ know ye.” He took a few steps forward, leaning down, and she wondered if he could recognize who she was.

In the dim light, she made out the shape of his eyes as he studied her. Despite the rain, she swore she could smell a spicy scent on him. Something like cinnamon. He took his time perusing her face, but there did not appear to be any sort of recognition on his part.

No doubt being soaked, and her face streaked with mud, was quite the disguise. She’d probably not recognize herself if she happened to peer into a looking glass.

“We’ve no’ been formally introduced no,” Giselle mused. “But as I said, we have met before.”