To Tempt a Scotsman Page 3

  That struck a little close to home. "You may be more right than you think."

  "Alex—"

  A soft knock on the door saved her from explanation. A young footman entered, toting her trunk as if it weighed nothing. Alexandra stood, put a smile on her face.

  "Don't worry, Lucy. I was only surprised to see him. I'll be fine. And next time I'll inquire before coming to visit."

  "But—"

  "No, no. Don't think of it again." She put her arm around Lucy's shoulders—an awkward task as the woman was several inches taller—and managed to steer her toward the door. "I'll see you at dinner."

  Lucy narrowed her eyes at the obviousness of the action, but she left, followed closely by the footman. As soon as the door closed, Alex stomped her foot hard into the carpet.

  She wanted to fly down the stairs and back to her car­riage, have the driver whip the horses on till she saw the gates of home. But Blackburn would know she ran from him. Would it still be obvious if she waited until morning to flee?

  A growl rose in her throat. She'd come here for refuge from her own thoughts and now she was confronted with the very cause of her turmoil. A cousin by marriage, indeed.

  Shock had rippled through her body at the sight of him, standing there where she least expected. Worse yet was the realization that she had not been entirely dismayed. In that first instant of recognition her body had responded with pleasure, then her brain had scrambled to catch up, and the thrill flooding her veins had changed to instant anxiety.

  Damn him, why did he have to be so appealing? His visit to her home had stirred up more than just the old night­mares of John and his freshly dug grave. Since then, she'd been haunted by dreams about a large Scotsman and un­yielding arms that demanded she soothe his hurt. More than once she'd awakened with that hot ache upon her body. The pain of her want seemed worse than her sorrow now.

  Clenching her jaw, she blew air through her teeth and sat down to await her maid. Danielle could get her out of this wrinkled dress and brush out the braid that now seemed woven just to give her a headache. Then she would prepare for dinner. Prepare to dine with the first man she'd found attractive in a long while. A man who looked at her and saw the death of his brother.

  Collin watched Lady Alexandra step from her room, brow furrowed with thought or worry as she turned to head for the stairs. When her eyes touched him they flew wide in surprise.

  "What do you want?"

  He pushed away from the wall. "I thought we should speak privately before dinner."

  "Why ever would you think that?"

  A maid stepped out of a room a few doors down and spared them a quick glance before rushing away. Lady Alexandra stared after her, tight-jawed, as if she wished it were herself escaping. "What do you want, Blackburn?"

  "I'm not here to torment you. My father's deathbed wish was that I find St. Claire and bring him back to England for trial. I cannot just forget about him, much as I'd like to."

  She finally met his gaze then, her eyes unreadable in the flickering light of the hallway. "It's not that I resent what you're doing. I'm sure I would not walk away from such a thing if my brother were killed, but that doesn't mean I enjoy your company. I can't pretend to feel comfortable with you just because I understand your contempt."

  He stared at her for a long moment, torn between the weariness in her voice and his anger at what she had done to his brother. This unexpected sympathy served to renew his rage. "My brother was in love with you," he finally said, "and your complete disregard for his feelings led to his death."

  The girl stared at him, expression seeping from wariness to horror before she shook her head. "That is simply not true."

  "Oh, please," he spat, lashing out against the softness of her reply.

  "No. John and I were friends. He was not in love with me."

  Those big blue eyes looked up at him, awash with confu­sion and innocence. My God, the woman was a consummate actress. How could she deny it right to his face? Everyone in London had expected them to marry.

  "He wrote me a week before his death, confessing his love for you, vowing to ask for your hand before the Season was out. He called you an angel, said you were kind and lovely and decent. I got that letter the day after I learned he'd been killed in a duel over your dubious honor. Just days after he found you mounting St. Claire."

  Her mouth fell open. No sound emerged. Collin ground his teeth together at the stark pain in her eyes. She couldn't be innocent, couldn't have been so blind to his brother's feelings.

  A tear fell, caught on black lashes, trembled there. He heard the wheeze of air straining in her throat and closed his eyes. God, please let her be acting.

  One deep breath, and he opened his eyes to find her face frozen, closed off, impassive. Her hands were behind her, fumbling blindly for the doorknob as she stared at him. Fingernails clawed over the wood, searching, but the knob eluded her grasp. Her skin paled to an alarming white.

  "Lady Alexandra?" he managed.

  "No. Just leave me alone."

  He heard the rattle of her hand closing over the door­knob, the sound quickly swallowed by her gasp of relief.

  Collin watched as she pushed the door open, as she spun in an awkward turn, moving as though her legs refused to budge. Before he could think to catch her, she fell to her knees on the carpet, amber skirts crumpling like paper.

  "Christ," he muttered, and reached for her. Ignoring her slight struggle and her panted "no," he lifted her easily in his arms and stepped into her room. He'd barely made it to the wide expanse of white coverlet when she thrashed and rolled from his grip, landing on her knees on the bed. He expected her to sob. She glared.

  "Do not touch me again." Her lips drew back in a snarl. "Do you know what it's been like for me these past days? You come to my home, tell me that Damien used me as a weapon, as a tool to murder John. Now you tell me John loved me?" The last words rose to a shout, but the tears were finally there. Collin found he now had no wish to see them.

  "I was frustrated," he said with care. "I shouldn't have put it so bluntly."

  She held her breath, silent in an obvious attempt to con­trol herself. Tears pooled in her eyes, turning them liquid.

  Collin shook his head. "I just. . . I need to know what happened. Why he died. Why St. Claire wanted him dead."

  She did not answer for long minutes, only breathed steadily and slowly, ribs rising and falling in silent strug­gle. He'd begun to think he should call for Lucy when she swallowed and spoke.

  "I can understand that." She blinked, and two fat tears snaked down pale cheeks. She ignored them. Collin won­dered if he should give her a handkerchief, wondered if she would strangle him with it.

  "Your brother gave me no indication of his feelings. We were friends, John and I. He would tease me about the men I danced with, make a game of always having sordid infor­mation about a suitor." A shudder of air left her lungs, seeming to deflate her. "He never, ever told me of his feel­ings. I would not have led him on, not if I knew. We were friends. I thought him in love with Beatrice Wimbledon. He let me think that, I swear."

  The line of her neck stayed straight and tense as she sank down to sit on the mattress. Collin realized he had no reason not to believe her. His brother had been young and perhaps not confident enough to declare his love to a girl like Lady Alexandra. Hell, many grown men wouldn't be. He was reaching for her arm when she began to shake.

  Flinching in shame, he laid a hand on her elbow and felt her freeze at his touch. "I assumed the worst of you and I had no right to."

  "Go away. I don't want to talk to you anymore."

  "I was wrong. I'm sorry. Again."

  "Again." Her small body trembled, but she sneered at his words before she turned away from him, curling onto her side to face the wall.

  Collin's gut burned with sharp regret. He'd meant to wound her, thinking she deserved it. In truth, he hadn't wanted to see her as a victim. It interfered with the easy idea of her guilt. But p
erhaps she wasn't guilty of anything more than reckless lust and the indiscretions of youth.

  Now he wanted to comfort her, knew he must, just as he knew he should not touch her.

  "Hush," he breathed in the same voice he used to calm frightened horses. "Dinna cry."

  "I don't cry," she hissed.

  "Of course not." But he reached out to touch her just the same. His fingers moved over the silken curl of her hair, smoothed the waves of black. She stiffened, ready to lash out, but even when he repeated the touch, she did not move away. When he cupped the back of her head in his palm, her body softened.

  "I'm sorry about John. I am."

  "I believe you."

  "Do you?" She rolled toward him, onto her back, and Collin found his hand trapped beneath her. "Do you be­lieve me?"

  He watched her for a long moment, exploring her eyes and her mouth and her creamy skin in the dim light of the room as he leaned over her like a lover. He was surprised at the truth of his answer. "Yes, I believe you."

  And he no longer felt comforting. The clean smell of her, the warmth of her neck on his fingers, her breasts pushing high against the smooth amber-gold bodice of her dress— these things crystallized in his mind and pricked sharply at his senses. Fighting the urge to jerk away, he disentangled his fingers from her hair and slid his hand from under her heat.

  "Can we start over, do you think?" Her voice came soft and husky now, and he wondered if she'd felt the change in him.

  Could he start over? Treat her as if she were a friend of his cousin's and not an accessory to a crime? She was only a girl, after all. And it was true that she'd been used as a weapon. She'd been hardly more than a victim herself, it seemed.

  "For the sake of our hosts," he agreed, glad when she smiled at his paltry joke.

  "You are a hard man, Collin Blackburn,"

  He choked, for she was very nearly right. To his horror, a blush crept up her cheeks, warming her skin into a temp­tation. He stood and stumbled a step back from the bed. "I'll see you at dinner."

  Her blue gaze burned into his back as he fled, slamming the door behind him.

  Chapter 3

  "Collin."

  Collin nearly tumbled down the stairs, heart in his throat. Catching the banister, he turned to see George step­ping down from the other wing of the house. "George," he said too loudly.

  "I'd like a word with you, if you don't mind."

  Christ, surely George couldn't know that he'd just snuck out of Alexandra's room. Unless the maid had alerted him . . .

  George stepped heavily down the oak steps, but his face was weighted by sadness, not anger. "Would you come to my office for a moment?"

  "Of course."

  "I know we already spoke of this, but . . ." George glanced about as they descended, nodded his head to the right when they reached the bottom of the stairs. Collin followed him into the study, ducking beneath the low hang of the crooked little door. The study was spacious, but worn and oddly shaped, one wall stretching on for twenty feet, the other angling, following the line of an older sec­tion of the house. George paced to a large chair and leaned against its back.

  "I feel I didn't adequately express myself earlier . . . regarding Alexandra."

  "George, I—"

  "No, I was shocked when she arrived and I wanted to explain. You said you're convinced St. Claire was out to murder your brother. I did not speak plainly earlier, but I feel the need to defend my cousin. You have every reason to dislike her, or resent her, but please bear in mind her youth."

  "There's really—"

  George held up a hand, eyes pleading, and Collin fell silent.

  "All I ask is that you try to feel some sympathy for her in this. If St. Claire did arrange this incident, think how dreadfully he used my cousin, a young girl just out in society. My God, she very likely loved the man and he abused her in the worst possible way."

  "George, I understand that."

  His friend sighed, his thin chest seeming to collapse. "I'm glad to hear that. I know she must seem mannish and bold to you."

  "Mannish," Collin croaked, thinking of her delicate beauty, but George nodded solemnly.

  "She grew up nearly without a mother, eventually with­out a father too. And Somerhart was left to raise her alone, though he didn't have to. He could have sent her off to an aunt or some such but preferred to keep her close."

  "An ideal brother."

  "Perhaps, but not an ideal parent, you understand. And after this happened . . ." He waved a circle to encompass the tragedy. "He was concerned for her. She was not really herself, and even a duke could not make it right."

  "No, I suppose not." Collin thought of the stiffness in her face when he'd wounded her.

  "So you may look at her and see a hoyden, an unnatu­ral girl who works her brother's estate and attracts scan­dal like a magnet, but she is more than that. She is . . ." He waved again, frowning as he searched for words.

  "George. You don't have to defend her. I won't deny that I thought little enough of her when I arrived here, but you're right. She's young. She did not mean to injure John."

  "No. No, I can assure you of that. She's a kind girl and always has been. A bit spoiled, mind you, but we're all to blame. Motherless child and all that."

  He smiled at the gruff love in George's voice. "I should like to see a portrait of her as a child."

  "By God, I'm sure I have one around here some-where." George turned to scan the dozens of bookcases lining the long wall, relief sinking his shoulders. "Somerhart must have sent us a new miniature every half-year."

  Collin smiled as he recalled the great Duke of Somerhart—an icy, intelligent man with a razor-sharp wit. Who would have thought the duke such a soft touch for an orphaned child?

  The real Alexandra Huntington made her debut in the formal dining room. Here was the confident woman who'd enchanted the ton; the sparkling, dark beauty the men spoke of, some with wistful looks, some with lust. Collin had not fully understood their admiration, not until this night.

  She flushed a little as they greeted each other, but with each course that passed over their plates, Alexandra re­laxed a fraction more. She did not seem selfish or thought­less. She did not even seem particularly spoiled. And she had freckles on her nose.

  Ridiculous, of course, but as Collin sat there in the yellow-walled dining room, eating goose and salmon and Yorkshire pudding, he stared at her—at her wild, dark curls and big eyes and those nearly invisible freckles sprin­kled across her nose—and he realized: This woman is no whore.

  And more surprising than that? He wanted her.

  Impossible. She was only nineteen. She was English. And the sister of a duke. Practically a damned English princess, for God's sake. Regardless of her past, she was not a woman to have a tryst with. She was royalty.

  His torturous thoughts were interrupted by George's sigh. "Women and their money talk. It quite makes my head spin."

  Alexandra stopped her chatter about expenses and grinned at them, wrinkling her nose at her cousin before she turned back to Lucy. "And Hart has given permission to expand his stables, so I'll no doubt spend some time at the horse fairs this summer."

  "Perhaps Collin can assist you."

  Collin caught the confused glance she threw in his direction.

  "He breeds horses," Lucy added helpfully.

  "Oh, I didn't realize. Blackburn?" Brow furrowed in thought, she looked again to Collin. "I don't think I've heard of you."

  George chuckled, obviously enjoying Collin's anonymity. "Collin does not use his title. He is Baron Westmore."

  "Oh? Oh, of course!" Her face brightened. "The West-more stables. Your horses are coveted."

  He smiled at the sheer regard in her voice. "They are fine animals."

  She nodded at that, but her grin faded, the frown re­turned. Collin could almost hear the click of her mind turn­ing over some troubling detail. "Your surname is different than John's . . . I'd assumed you had a different father, but you
said something—"

  "I'm a bastard."

  Her eyes widened at the blunt words, and Collin caught George's cringe at the edge of his vision. He waited to see what the duke's daughter would think of dining with a bas­tard. Blue eyes narrowed and Collin felt his eyes narrow in turn, but then she smiled—a smile that widened as the sec­onds ticked past.

  "Oh, my. A bastard. However did you become a baron?"

  "My father purchased a Scottish barony in a fit of guilt. I'm not the least bit respectable."

  "Well, you are in good company then. A bastard, a harlot, and a witch. I'm afraid that George is the only truly respectable one at the table."

  Lucy tried to smother a laugh and snorted instead.

  Collin raised an eyebrow at the indiscreet sound. "Cousin, I had no idea you were a witch." Lucy's eyes flew wide and her husband's chuckle ended on an alarmingly choked cough. Collin's brow tightened at the feeling he'd misstepped.

  Dessert arrived in the form of glazed berries and cream. The servants retreated. Silence hung heavy over the room.

  Then Alexandra smiled sweetly across the table, adding to Collin's unease. "Now, my dear Lord Westmore," she said, hands spreading to gesture around the table, "who­ever said that I was the harlot?"

  The air grew stifling and drew heat that spread in a tin­gling burn over his cheeks. Christ, he'd just called the woman a whore at the supper table. His mouth fell open of its own accord; nothing emerged. He closed it, tried to think of something—anything—to say. Alexandra's mask of innocence suddenly dissolved into a fit of laughter.

  Lucy snorted again. "Really, Alex, that was quite cruel."

  "His face." She gestured toward Collin.

  Surely he couldn't get any more red. The heat spread to his ears. "I suppose I deserved that."

  "Oh, you did!" she laughed, leaning toward him. De­spite everything, the shadow of her cleavage still caught his attention. He clenched his teeth, wondered if it would be bad form to flee the room as he'd fled her bedchamber. He grabbed his wine instead and raised the glass toward her before draining it.

  "Oh, that was well worth any grudge you may hold against me now."