When a Scot Loves a Lady (9 page)

But this honest conversation was going no better.

Distance. Sanity. Alvamoor, where his son awaited him to celebrate Christmas. His son. Nearly six now, his appearance no doubt altered since the previous year, as always with the swiftly growing young. But Leam knew the boy's face well. Better than his own.

Without bidding the lady adieu, he grabbed his coat and gloves and retreated once more into the wild out-of-doors. The cold without could not touch a man with a soul of bleak barbarism like his.

K
itty folded linens. She had not performed such a domestic task in an age. Permanently residing with her mother in her brother's town house, she left the housekeeping to Alex's capable London staff. But Mrs. Milch had complained again of the lack of the serving girl, and Kitty's brain was good for nothing more taxing this afternoon.

By the stable Lord Blackwood had spoken perfect English to Mr. Yale. Nary a hint of brogue or tumbling roll had marred the cadence of his deep voice speaking clearly and smoothly the king's own English.
Better
than the king's.

She'd heard it by accident. She had opened the window to release from the parlor a cloud of smoke a hard wind had sent down the chimney. But she had tarried there in the frigid air to spy on him. She would deny it to herself if she could, but she had no wits to now.

Perhaps he had been putting on airs to tease Mr. Yale, like an actor employing a false voice to mimic another. But he'd sounded like a gentleman. Quite nicely. So nicely that Kitty was barely able to find words when he had stormed through the door.

But why would he feign otherwise? And what sort of renowned flirt backed away from a woman so obviously wishing to be kissed, on such slight discouragement?

An honorable one. An honorable one who teased a lady about the suitability of her gown?

Kitty released a tight breath.

“Two horsemen have come into the yard, Mr. Yale and a stranger with a portmanteau.” Book in one hand, Emily peered out the window. “Mrs. Milch, I believe you are to have another lodger.”

“It'll be mutton sausage for him too.” Mrs. Milch stacked Kitty's linens and headed toward the kitchen.

The innkeeper met the gentlemen at the door.

“Welcome back, sir,” he said to Mr. Yale. “I see you've found another lost traveler.”

“Yes, indeed!” The newcomer gave the room an open smile that creased his attractive face into an attitude suggesting sheer pleasure at being stranded. His gaze met Kitty's and his blue eyes brightened. He drew off his hat, revealing close-cropped gold curls and fashionably long sideburns.

“Ma'am.” He bowed, then to Emily. “What good fortune to find such company upon such a road. I should not have dreamed this luck.”

“Where have you come from, sir?” Emily asked.

He offered another charming smile. “Cheshire, ma'am.”

“I meant just now.” She turned to his companion, who was removing his coat and hat. “Mr. Yale, where did you find him?”

“At the pub.” He moved toward the hearth and held forward his palms.

“I'm afraid I had a nasty time of it last night,” the gentleman said with a light air of regret. “Stuck upon the road, the most frightful winds howling, my horse terrified. I found this village when I was nearly dead with cold, but I'd no idea of an inn until this good gentleman informed me of it minutes ago.” His regard shifted to the stair, and his brows lifted. “Ah, your party grows augustly.” He bowed. “My lord, it is an honor.”

“An who might ye be?” The deep voice shivered through Kitty. She had to look. She could not in point of fact prevent herself from doing so. He was far too handsome, far too unnerving, and far too confusing. She wanted to look without ceasing.

“Cox, sir. David Cox.” The newcomer affected a martial snap of his heels. “A Lloyd's man. Shipping insurance of late, but before that Wellesley's army. Fact, I am already acquainted with you of a sort, if I may be so bold. I knew your brother, James, back in the dragoons. He was a bruising rider, a favorite amongst his men. You have quite the look of him, and he always carried a cameo portrait of each of his siblings, just as I do of my … dear sister.” His brow lowered handsomely. “My condolences, sir. I understand you were quite close.”

Lord Blackwood nodded, his gaze hooded.

“Well now, sir,” Mr. Milch said cheerfully, “I've got all my chambers spoken for upstairs. But that pub is no place for a fine gentleman such as yourself. If you don't mind it, there's the garret. It's got a grate, so you'll find it suitable warm, and my Gert has made up the mattress with a good woolen quilt. Can I tempt you to remain?”

Mr. Cox's smile flashed once more. “You could not tempt me
away
from such company.” His appreciative gaze returned to Kitty.

She curtsied. “Mr. Cox, did you by chance encounter a carriage and four on the road yesterday or today?”

“Fact, I did, ma'am.” He moved to her. “Last night near Atcham I spotted a very fine carriage, pulled up before a farmhouse not far from the road. It seemed out of place, but any port in a storm will do. Quite literally.” He chuckled, deep enough to be pleasingly masculine. “Are you lacking members of your party?”

“Our servants, sir.”

Lord Blackwood came to her side. He extended his hand to the newcomer. Mr. Cox passed his gloves into his other palm and shook hands.

“It is excellent to finally meet you, my lord. It must be six years since I had the pleasure of your brother's companionship in arms.”

“Seiven.” The earl released him. “Take a dram of whiskey afore denner, Cox?”

“Thank you. Don't mind if I do.”

“Whiskey?” Emily furrowed her brow. “May I have a dram as well, Lord Blackwood?”

The Scot's mouth curved upward. “Aye, miss. If ye wish.”

If you wish
.

He was too close now. Memory of the sensation of his hand on her face, his caress on her lips, weakened Kitty, and it felt at once thrilling and horrid. He welcomed this tradesman as though he were an equal. He acted like a ruffian and occasionally spoke words that rendered her perfectly breathless. He was the most peculiar nobleman she had ever been acquainted with, and he made her heart race merely standing beside her.

“Lady Katherine, will you take a glass as well? Join us in celebrating Christmas early?” Mr. Yale handed Emily and Mr. Cox glasses. Kitty welcomed the opportunity to cross the chamber, away from the earl's unnerving presence.

“Capital idea.” Mr. Cox lifted his glass in salute. “We shall be in this village until the snow melts, I suspect. In Shropshire for the holiday!”

“Some of us were intended in Shropshire for the holiday already,” Mr. Yale said, offering a half-filled glass to Kitty. She sipped. It burned, then invaded the place behind her breasts with heat. She drank again, deeper.

“Then you are not of a single party?” Mr. Cox glanced with interest about the group. “I had imagined these elegant ladies in your company, my lord.”

“'Tis a sorry disappointment.” Lord Blackwood raised the glass to his mouth and looked directly at Kitty.

“Lord Blackwood and Mr. Yale are on their way to no admitted destination, Mr. Cox,” she said in impressively measured tones given her quivering insides. His hand around the glass was beautiful, strong, and long-fingered. She could still feel it upon her. “Lady Marie Antoine and I are intended at her parents' home not many miles distant.”

“Ah, then I am sorry you have not reached your family, Lady Marie Antoine.” He looked truly contrite. “But, I say, we shall make a party of it here instead.”

“What do you have in mind, sir?” Mr. Yale lounged on the sofa, his glass full to the brim.

“Lady Katherine and I were to bake bread tomorrow,” Emily said. “Perhaps we could find the ingredients for a pudding and make one of those instead.”

“Have you any idea how?” the Welshman drawled.

“Have
you
?”

He offered her that slight smile Kitty now recognized, and took a long quaff of whiskey.

“No doubt Mrs. Milch will know a recipe,” Emily said.

“Then pudding it shall be.” Mr. Cox appeared all contentment. He turned to Kitty with a glimmer in his very blue eyes. “What else shall we have, my lady?”

“Ned plays the fiddle. We'll have music.” Mr. Milch set plates atop the lace covering. “Gert! Where's the boy? He must play for these good folk before dinner.”

“The boy?” Mr. Cox lifted a brow. “Why, he is seeing to my horse, of course. I gave him a penny for it.”

Lord Blackwood met Kitty's gaze. His mouth curved into the barest hint of a smile. A private smile, meant for her it seemed. Her breath faltered.

“We canna lack a bonfire.” He spoke as though to her directly.

“A bonfire?” she said. His gaze seemed to caress her lips as his thumb had in her bedchamber. “Whatever for, my lord?”

“Scots believe evil elves hasten down the chimney on Christmas to spirit away little children,” Mr. Yale supplied, staring into the flames now. “We must build the hearth fires high lest we be invaded by sprites.”

The earl's grin tilted up at one side, and his gaze upon her mouth did not falter. Kitty swallowed. She felt dizzy and feverish again. From the whiskey, certainly. Or from the heated regard of the rough-hewn, superstitious Scot across the chamber.

“I have read that Scots like to drink quite a bit at Christmastime.” Emily spoke in a singsong voice. She looked into her empty glass, then handed it to Mr. Yale. He stood and refilled it. “Is that true, Lord Blackwood?”

“Scots drink all the time,” Mr. Yale threw over his shoulder.

“We're nae alone in that.”

“Scholars and great drinkers,” Kitty murmured, and before she could school her tongue, “Which are you, Lord Blackwood?”

The larger dog pressed to his master's side. The earl's long fingers stroked the beast's shaggy brow. “A'll be letting ye guess that on yer own, lass.”

“Lord Blackwood.” Emily's voice slurred slightly now. “I am ever so grateful for the volume of poetry you lent me this morning. It is difficult to be without one's books, is it not?” She sighed uncharacteristically. Mr. Yale laughed. Kitty blinked.

Poetry.

“Why, how long have you been waylaid here already, my lady?” Mr. Cox inquired in surprise.

“A day,” Kitty said in the hazy grip of the effects of very little drink and a great deal of perplexing, enthralling man. “A single day.”

L
eam smiled. Lady Katherine Savege was apparently unaccustomed to whiskey. So too her young friend. Yale was already disguised, although hiding it well as always. On the other side of the chamber, the inn's proprietor whistled a jig, several fingers of the Welshman's brew under his belt as well.

That left Cox, the man with gloves lined in brown cashmere who had shown up to join their little party in the midst of a snowstorm. Cox was drinking too; his eyes were bright. Far too often they rested on Kitty Savege.

He dressed like an agent in shipping insurance might, in a nattily tailored coat and waistcoat, expensive and flattering to his athletic build. He enjoyed the advantages of charming address and winning good looks, the sort of pleasing fellow an untried girl like Leam's young sister Fiona would admire.

Cox turned to Lady Emily and offered her light flattery as though she gave a damn for that sort of thing, a smile of sheer earnestness on his face. Yale mumbled a comment and Cox chuckled, no doubt gratified to imagine himself privy to the joke. But every few moments he cast Lady Katherine another admiring glance. She returned his smiles, but her attention was scattered, occasionally on the others, occasionally on the glass in her hand, but most often on Leam.

He was having the devil of a time looking away.

Curse Yale. Drink had not been wise tonight, at least not for him.

He set his glass on a table.

“My lord, it is a great man who shares poetry with others,” Cox said with unexceptionable deference. “Tell me, who do you admire more greatly, Byron or Burns?”