Susana and the Scot (39 page)

“Were you trying?”

“Nae.” She surveyed the shelf. “I never liked that book.”

Andrew sighed. “Did you come in here with the sole intent of peppering us with arrows?” It was hard to keep the humor from his tone.

“Of course not,” she said. “Mama sent me to tell you dinner is ready.”

With an exchanged glance, the two men rose and, with Isobel between them, headed for the dining room. Andrew took the precaution of confiscating her bow.

“Well, one thing is for certain,” Alexander said.

“What's that?”

“With that aim, she's definitely your daughter.”

“Aye,” Andrew said, something warm blossoming in his chest. “She is.”

*   *   *

Over dinner, it became very clear to Andrew that Hamish didn't have a chance in hell of winning Lana. She and the duke sat across from each other at the table and neither added much to the conversation. They did, however, have a conversation of their own. It involved steamy glances and, perhaps, the occasional touch of a toe.

Andrew knew this because occasionally Caithness missed his mark and found
his
foot instead.

Having been in a similar situation himself, and given the fact the duke was his overlord, when the man met his eye and went pink right to the tips of his ears, Andrew hardly smirked very much at all.

While Hamish was clearly put out, it occurred to Andrew that Lana and the duke were well suited. It appeared a Dounreay sister wasn't in the cards for his friend. Ah, well. One day he would find the woman of his dreams. There were many other fish in the sea, including the indomitable Saundra who, when she served dessert, eschewed protocol and served Hamish before the duke. Fortunately, Caithness was not paying attention.

He did pay attention, however—everyone did—when Susana shared the story of Andrew's arrival in Reay, rather gleefully revealing the fact that Andrew had mistaken her for a cattle thief. By the time her tale was finished, she had everyone around the table howling with laughter, even Andrew.

He countered with her resistance to his admittedly superior expertise in managing the defenses and their resultant feuds—including their duel. Although he did leave some bits out.

As the meal wound down, Andrew stood and, on a prearranged signal, Tamhas came to his side, carrying a long thin package wrapped in cloth. “Ahem,” he said. “I have a presentation to make. Isobel, can you come here, please?”

His daughter narrowed her eyes, but slipped from her chair and padded around the table. He knelt before her and stared into her eyes, struck again at how much they were like his. “I made you a promise, Isobel, and I want you to know, going forward, I always keep my promises.” He pulled back the cloth, revealing a small sword in a miniature sheath, complete with a leather belt that would fit around her waist.

Her breath caught; her eyes shone. She put out a hand and traced the line of the weapon with trembling fingers. “Is it … is this mine?”

“All yours.”

The look she sent him nearly liquefied hm. He'd never seen such delight. Never made one person so happy. He was glad he'd been able to do it for her.

“Do you … like it?”

“Och, aye.” She gently wrapped her arms around him—he was holding a sword, after all—and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “I love it. Thank you.”

“What is it?” Hannah, on the other side of the table, asked.

In response, Isobel took hold of the hilt, unsheathed her new weapon, and held it high.

“Oh, dear God.” Hannah paled. “You weren't serious about giving her a sword?”

“Of course.”

“She's a
child
.”

“She's verra skilled. And verra wise.” He turned to Isobel. “Do you remember the rules?”

Solemnly, she nodded. “No weapons at the table.”

He blinked. “Ah, aye,” he sputtered. “That is an excellent rule. But I meant, do you remember the safety rules?”

“Aye.” Her attention fixed on the blade. “Always keep it sheathed unless it's being used.” With great care and respect, she did just that.

“Excellent.”

“Always keep the blade lowered and turned away so I doona cut myself.”

“Very good. And?”

“And never point it at someone unless I am prepared to skewer them.”

The duke, who had just taken a sip of wine, spewed it across the table.

Hannah shook her head. She stared at Susana. “You canna be serious.”

For her part, Susana was beaming with something Andrew could only interpret as pride. “Verra serious.”

“B-B-But a sword?”

Susana sent him an adoring glance. At least, it seemed adoring. “Andrew has been giving her lessons.”

Isobel fixed a frown on her mother. “How did you find out about our lessons? It was supposed to be a secret.”

A flush rose on Susana's cheeks. Her lashes flickered. “I saw you.”

“You saw us?” He tried not to squeak.

“It was adorable,” she gushed.

“Adorable?” Hannah again. She gaped at her husband and threw up her hands. Alexander shrugged.

“She's quite good,” Andrew assured her.

Isobel preened. “He did it in exchange for advice on how to woo Mama.”

Susana blinked. Her gaze on him warmed. “You did?”

“Aye.”

“What kind of advice did you offer?” Lana asked with a smile.

“I advised him to kidnap her. It's what Scotsmen do, after all.”

“Do they?” the duke asked with a contemplative glance at Lana, one that made her blush.

“Of course they do,” Isobel snorted.

Lana forced back a laugh. She fixed her focus on Susana. “And, um, did he? Kidnap you?”

“No,” Susana said.

Andrew did not imagine the petulance in her tone.

*   *   *

He didn't kidnap her.

She kidnapped him.

She waited until after dinner—until everyone had found their beds. She waited until the dark shadows of the night had crept over Dounreay Castle, and she kidnapped him.

Granted, he was a willing participant in the escapade, but it was still a kidnapping.

She came to his room dressed in the cloak she'd worn before and took him prisoner—although to be fair, she'd simply told him to come with her and he'd obeyed. He would obey her every command, especially when issued in that tone.

“Come along, my prisoner,” she said, tugging him down the hall.

“Am I your prisoner?” He grinned at her.

“Aye. I willna release you until you succumb to my demands.”

That was promising.

He grinned at her. “And, madam kidnapper, what are your demands?”

He expected her to say something flippant or saucy. She did not. Her expression was fierce as she said, “Marry me.”

He stopped, stock-still, and gaped at her. “Are you proposing? To me?” Why a shaft of annoyance lanced him, he had no idea. Other than the fact that
he
had expected to be the one to propose to
her
.

She shrugged. “You doona seem inclined to do so.” The slight pout on her face was undeniable.

And oh, he was. He was inclined. “I
told
you I would woo you.”

“Wooing takes far too long. Isobel is right. Kidnapping is better.”

“So you intend to hold me prisoner until I give in to your evil desires?”

Her grin was wicked.

Excellent.

He planned to hold out as long as he could.

He followed her up the stone staircase to the third floor, to a room in a hall that was unoccupied. Unoccupied, aye, but not unprepared.

There was a large bed made up with fresh linens and a fire in the grate and a tray on the table. She'd thought of everything.

With a naughty expression, she pushed him into the room … and locked the door. Her eyes twinkled. “We doona want any witnesses,” she said, and he couldn't hold back a laugh. “Isobel does see all, you know.”

He blanched and glanced about the room. “I … ah … Where is Isobel?”

“Isobel is sleeping with Lana tonight,” Susana purred. “She doesna even know where we are. We have the whole night all to ourselves.”

Thank God for small favors. He wanted no witnesses for what he had in mind. But …

“My wound?”

Her eyes glimmered. “Doona fash yerself, Lochlannach. I'll be gentle.” She led him to the chair by the fire and sat him down. “I've missed you,” she said as she knelt beside him.

He threaded his fingers in her hair. “I've been here all along.”

She reached for the placket of his breeks. “You know what I mean.”

While he really liked where she was heading, he stilled her hands. “Susana…”

She peeped up at him. “Aye?”

“We should talk.”

Her frown was fierce. “We've already talked it all out.”

“Have we?”

“Aye. We've both accepted the past and let it go. We both want to be together…” She eyed him. “We do want to be together, do we no'?”

“More than you know.”

“So what more is there to discuss?”

“I wanted to tell you I love you.”

“You told me.” She was relentless with his placket. And his cock, so long denied, was rising. Still …

“Not in so many words.”

“Well, for heaven's sake, then say it.”

“I love you.”

“Excellent.” She released the fastenings and took his cock in her hands. “Mmm,” she murmured, bending close for a taste.

Though his heart—and his cock—pulsed in anticipation, he stopped her once more. His deeper need was far too essential to deny. He tipped up her chin so he could see her face. “But Susana…”

“What?” she said, perhaps a little impatiently.

“
You
havena said it.” It was a measure of his true insecurity that he needed the words, but he did. He ached to hear them.

Though he'd come into himself on this journey—proved himself to Alexander, proved himself to himself, proved himself to
her
—he very much needed this confirmation.

She sighed gustily. “Oh, all right. Andrew Lochlannach,” she said, staring into his eyes. “I love you. More than anything—”

“More than your bow?”

Susana stilled. She appeared to think about this. For far too long.

“Susana?” A warning tone.

She sent him a smile that was both mocking and sincere. “Aye, Andrew, my darling. I do love you, even more than my bow,” she said.

“And will you marry me?”
And be my love? My life? My everything?

“Aye, Andrew. I will.”

He pulled her up for a long and lingering kiss that he was loath to end. But when he released her, she gazed adoringly at him for a moment … and then bent her head and took him in her mouth.

This time, he didn't stop her.

Why on earth would he?

 

Read on for an excerpt from
Sabrina York
's next book

LANA
and the
LAIRD

Available in June 2016 from St. Martin's Paperbacks

 

Lachlan collapsed on his pillow, gasping for breath. He hated these visits.

They always occurred deep in the night, waking him from a sound sleep, leaving Lachlan mentally exhausted and physically drained, as though the spirits had taken their energy from him and left him but an empty husk. He knew he would not fall asleep again. He rarely did.

He didn't know why the spirit kept tormenting him. He'd come. He was in Scotland. Attempting to do what his father asked, even though it was probably an impossible task. He was determined to try, even with the little time he had left.

He threw back his covers and set his feet on the floor. He had to wait until he stopped shaking to stand, and even then, his legs were limp. When he could, he stumbled to the wardrobe and found a pair of breeches and a simple shirt. After a fright like this, he needed to walk, to clear his mind, his soul, of the terror.

He didn't wake Dougal. He never did. It was unfair to ask his cousin to bear the onus of his curse. Lachlan made his way through the deserted halls of Lochlannach Castle, down the grand staircase, and headed for the terrace that overlooked the crashing sea below. There was a moon tonight. The view of Dunnet Bay would calm his soul. And if it did not, there was always the option of stepping over the edge and into oblivion.

But as he emerged into the cool velvet night, it wasn't oblivion that awaited him.

It was Lana Dounreay.

She sat on the seawall staring out at his coveted view, dressed in a diaphanous froth that had to be her nightdress. Her hair, turned silver by the night, hung down over her shoulders, glimmering in the moonlight.

His heart pattered, but for a very different reason.

She was so lovely, so serene, it made his breath catch.

He came to stand beside her without a word, tucking his hands in his pockets and staring at the sea. She glanced up at him, but without surprise, as though she had expected him. Together they gazed out at the dark ripples of the water, the shards of light dancing over the surface of the blackness.

A gentle breeze wafted by, bringing with it her scent. It made him dizzy.

Ah, how he wished …

He wished he were another man. A man not cursed. A man not haunted. A man not doomed to an early death.

A man who could have kissed her once.

How magnificent would that have been?

He must have sighed because she put her hand on his arm. It was warm. Soft. Alluring.

“Can you no' sleep?” she asked in a soothing timbre.

He glanced at her and his gaze was snared. Her eyes were so wide, so blue, so deep. He wanted to drown in them. “No. I … had a visitor.”

Her brow rumpled. “A visitor?”

“Yes.” He turned back to the sea. Though he was loath to discuss this with anyone, lest they think him mad, he knew she would understand. “My father.”