Caught by the Scot Page 3

Sadly, he hadn’t taken into account that the main springs were completely ruined, so that each bump in the road had been more of a thud, while the cracked leather seats reeked of hen droppings and moldy hay. Lance had unwittingly explained these unfortunate circumstances when he’d mentioned that the creaky contraption had been abandoned in the barn “for some time” until he’d “revived” it.

  Judging from the odor wafting from the seats, Theodora could only imagine that “for some time” was well over a hundred years, and his “reviving” had not included a thorough airing out.

  Yet another reason to drink. She took a bigger sip and realized she was already woefully low on whisky. If she kept this up, she’d have to fetch more from the decanter across the room, which would make her ankle ache even more. Besides, if I continue to drink, I’ll be too bosky to walk out of here on my own.

  As kind and well meaning as Lance was, there were times when he seemed oblivious to simple comforts. Conner would never be seen in such a curricle. He would have brought his new cabriolet, or that sleek blue coach he bought in Bristol just a year ago—

  She caught her thoughts with a grimace, her heart sinking. As if he would ever plan an elopement. He’d abscond with someone’s wife without a thought, yes. But marry? Never.

  Which was why she was here now.

  Though Conner came from one of Scotland’s leading families, by the time he was twenty he’d already established himself as a societal outcast. Theodora wasn’t certain which escapade had finally stricken his name from the eligible bachelor list for most of England’s acceptable families. She’d heard whispers of scandalous affairs, misty-dawn duels, outrageous wagers, bare-knuckled brawls—the list was long. One of the more repeated stories held that, recently returned from a privateering mission and punch-drunk over an outlandish haul of casks of jewels and silks, he’d seduced a popular, sought-after actress who’d been under the protection of the Marquis of Cheswick. Cheswick had naturally taken exception to such an insult and, in the middle of the Duke of Devonshire’s ball, passions had flared. Impervious to propriety, the two men had fought a duel right there in the Grand Ballroom much to the delight and dismay of onlookers. The Marquis was injured (although not fatally), a mirror shattered, and a precious antique suit of armor dented, with ladies fainting at the sight of Cheswick’s blood. It had been an unmitigated disaster.

  Naturally, Cheswick was soon forgiven, for he had the superior title and birth, while Conner—his position marred by his Scottish name and his scandalous endeavors—was banned from most guest lists forthwith.

  There were countless other stories, even wilder than that, and none to Conner’s credit. If only half of them were true, she didn’t wonder that society had struck his name from their invitation lists. To them, he was a complete rakehell.

  But to her, Conner Douglas was her brother’s best friend—and the man she’d been in love with since she’d been a young, starry-eyed girl of fourteen.

  They’d met when her brother Derrick had brought Conner home as they’d traveled north to a prizefight. She had been a leggy, flat-chested, awkward girl, while Conner had been a twenty-year-old, handsome, athletic, piercing-gazed rogue. She’d been lost the second he strode into her mother’s sitting room—his dark hair falling across his brow, ice-blue eyes framed by thick black lashes, a lithe grace as intriguing as his smile was charming. He’d bowed over her hand, murmuring a polite greeting. She’d been mesmerized, and her heart had jumped when he’d brushed his lips across the back of her fingers.

  Sighing, she curled her fingers into a fist. That is how a young girl falls in love—instantly, and with no more reason than a handsome face and broad shoulders. Of course Conner never paid her the slightest heed, for he never saw her as anything more than his best friend’s young sister. She saw him often, for he visited her family at their various posts in Europe and he spent many holidays with them. Sadly, she didn’t see him often enough to tire of him or grow disenchanted, so her feelings had grown, unchecked by reality. Truly, it had been the worst of all circumstances. Over time they’d gradually fallen into a casual friendship, which she treasured far more than she should have.

  Oh, how she’d dreamed of him, and the what-ifs and perhaps-could-happens. But by the time she was twenty-five, Theodora had reluctantly realized that their friendship would never be anything more than platonic. Their casual closeness had slowly ended any hope of a romance, foolish as the idea had been to begin with. Yet the realization had done nothing to alleviate the strength of her feelings, and she’d had to fight to free herself from their grip.

  It had taken her time, but over the last two years she’d ruthlessly tamed her unruly sentiments, and now she could firmly say that she saw Conner as a friend and no more. And if her heart sometimes fluttered a little too much when he looked at her, well, that could be explained by the unconscious sensuality of the man. It was a simple fact of nature that couldn’t be changed.

  And so time passed, but no other man caught her attention with the same fervor, and she hadn’t felt the slightest inclination to marry, perhaps longing for the same heady reaction she’d had whenever Conner was near. Lately, she’d realized she’d been foolish to hope for passion. At her age, compatibility and the ability to hold pleasant, reasonable discourse were reasons enough to marry.

  Thus last week, when Squire Fox had surprised her by dropping to one knee and in the most romantic way imaginable, begged her to elope, she’d found herself tempted. The squire was a worthy man, his affection genuine, his character flawless. She could do worse.

  Much, much worse.

  Feeling fluttery over the idea of breaking free from the constraints she’d always lived under, and giddy as a romantic miss of seventeen, she’d accepted. And now, here she was—wet, bedraggled, bruised, and well on her way to being bosky.

  The best reason of all for another sip. She finished the glass and then sourly eyed the distant decanter and wished her ankle didn’t ache so much.

  The worst outcome of this horrible day was that after such an uninspiring start to her elopement, Conner seemed more attractive than ever. Perhaps she’d been foolish in expecting that to change. He was one of those rare men who could just walk into a room and every woman would turn his way and wonder. It wasn’t just his looks. No, it was something dark and dangerous, a make your heart pound until you beg for me sort of thing. He was the kind of man women dreamed about, but never admitted to.

  Even now, as she stared out the window, Theodora could almost imagine that the gentleman who’d just ridden into the inn yard was Conner. He swung down from his horse, a big black gelding with a long, flowing mane. The man was every bit as tall as Conner, his shoulders just as broad, his hair the same deep chocolate brown and slightly long. He was even dressed in a kilt—though kilts were probably to be expected, as they were traveling the North Road.

  As she sighed, the man raked a hand through his hair and turned, the afternoon sun touching his handsome face—

  Her empty glass dropped from her suddenly nerveless fingers as she jerked upright. “Conner?”

  4

  Theodora bolted to her feet, grimacing as her ankle protested the sudden move, her gaze locked on the man outside. What is he doing here?

  It had to be an unfortunate coincidence, since her parents wouldn’t know she’d eloped until next week, when they returned home and found her letter. She couldn’t let him discover her—he’d want to know why she was here, and she had no plausible story to cover her elopement and precious little time to think of one. But he was already striding toward the inn door, the sun limning his shoulders as if the sky were happy to see him. Heart thundering, she looked frantically around the small parlor to find a place to hide—but the sound of his deep, lilting voice in the hallway put that faint hope to rest.

  She’d have to face him. Cursing feverishly, her heart sinking, she limped to the mirror, horrified to see the bloodied scrape on her jaw and the way her thick, light brown hair, only partially dry, had
curled in a horrifyingly Medusa-like manner. Good God, where is a comb when one needs it?

  Before she could do more than pat her curls one quick time, the door flew open and Conner strode into the parlor escorted by the maid, a young lass with red hair who couldn’t stop staring at the Scotsman, her eyes full of longing.

  Theodora couldn’t blame the poor girl. The striking Douglas looks were hard to resist. Broad-shouldered and startlingly handsome, with dark brown hair that curled about his neck, a piercing light blue gaze that changed with his moods, and a smile as blinding and wild as a pirate’s, he was the stuff of fairy tales and dreams.

  His gaze flickered over her, taking in her wet, muddied gown, her bedraggled hair, and then the scrape on her jaw. His gaze, so bright on seeing her, instantly turned icy. “If that fool has laid one finger on you—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Her voice was sharper than she meant it to be and she took a second to calm herself, realizing with a sinking stomach that, judging by his comment, Conner must already know of her elopement. At least now I don’t have to hide anything. “We had an accident—the wheel on our curricle broke, and I was thrown out.”

  Concern darkened his eyes. “Bloody hell. Are you injured elsewhere, lass?”

  She thought of her knee and ankle. “No.”

  His eyes narrowed as if he knew she was lying. “You’re soaked. Have you nae dry clothes?”

  “My portmanteau was thrown into the same ditch as I. My gowns are being cleaned and dried, but it will be hours before one is ready.”

  “What a mull! I’m glad you were nae seriously injured.” His gaze moved over her in a way that felt as intimate as a touch, and she couldn’t hide her shiver.

  His expression softened. “Puir lass, you’re cold.” As he spoke he stalked across the room, tugging off his overcoat. He swung it about her shoulders, instantly enveloping her in warm wool and the heady scent of his sandalwood cologne.

  She tried to push off the coat. “Please, I don’t—”

  “Pssht.” He tugged it back in place. “Wear the damned thing; you’re shaking from the cold.”

  It wasn’t the cold that was making her quiver, but she didn’t have the energy to argue. She pulled the coat more snugly about her, and was instantly warmer. While the long woolen coat only reached Conner’s calves, it pooled at her feet.

  The soothing warm weight comforted her, and as her shield of irritation eased, the stressful events of the morning hit with fresh vigor. Theodora had to swallow the desire to both burst into tears and throw her arms about his neck.

  To prevent herself from doing either, she turned to the maid, who watched with palpable interest. It took several hard gulps, but Theodora managed to say in a voice that only trembled a little, “We would like some tea, please.”

  The maid struggled to rip her gaze from Conner, who was oblivious as usual to the attention being paid him. With a lingering sigh, the maid bobbed a curtsy. “Yes, miss. We’ve lemon cakes fresh from town just this morning. Shall I bring some for the squire, too?” The maid sent a secretive glance at Conner to see if he was surprised to hear Theodora was not at the inn alone.

  Conner’s scowl deepened the faintest bit.

  Thea wet her bottom lip nervously. Why is he so upset? He wouldn’t care if I eloped, I’m sure. She said to the maid, “The squire is seeing to the curricle; I doubt he’ll return anytime soon.”

  The girl looked disappointed at Theodora’s aplomb but bobbed another curtsy and, with a last longing gaze at Conner, left.

  You poor girl, Theodora thought. He looks like every hero you’ve ever imagined, yet he’s far, far from it.

  “You dropped something, lass.” Conner nodded to the floor near her chair.

  She looked down and saw her glass lying on the rug. Irritated, she scooped it up. “It must have fallen when I stood. The coach ride made me ill, and I was trying to soothe my stomach.”

  His blue eyes, as changeable as the weather, flickered over her, resting for a long moment on her face. Without a word, he took her chin between his fingers and turned her cheek. He tsked and pulled a kerchief from his pocket and gently pressed it to her wound. “Och, Thea, what have you done to yourself?”

  He murmured the words more to himself than to her, and his use of his pet name set her heart aquiver. The agony of the day, her disappointment in an event she’d secretly hoped would prove romantic, and her frustration with the squire not heeding her advice, along with the plethora of aches and pains stabbing her, threatened to overwhelm her.

  She desperately longed to lean into Conner, but she wasn’t so foolish as that. I must remember why I’m here; I’m starting anew. Putting wasted feelings behind me while eagerly embracing my future. She straightened her shoulders and forced a smile she didn’t feel. “I’m quite all right, as you can see. Just wet and chilled, but the fire is quite warm.”

  He took in the grass stain on her skirt where it showed between the folds of his coat, concern darkening his gaze. “You said you were nae injured elsewhere.”

  She started to shrug, but the ache on her left side forbade it. “A few scrapes and a sore ankle, that’s all. A soak in some hot water and a good sleep, and I’ll be as good as gold.”

  “Or too sore to walk.” Conner’s brows lowered. “Had you been seriously injured by that fool’s ham-fisted driving, I’d have killed him.”

  “How do you know he was driving?”

  Conner’s expression softened. “Over the years I’ve seen you drive many a cart and curricle. You’d never take a corner on a wheel like a greenhorn.”

  She had to agree. “Though I’d never admit it to the squire, he’s a sadly wretched driver.”

  “And you’re an exceptionally guid one.”

  There was no ignoring the admiration in Conner’s gaze. Warmed by it, she found herself smiling. “I was much more ill from the swaying of the curricle than I was bruised by the fall. Which is why I helped myself to the whisky.”

  “Did it help?”

  “It was beginning to.” She eyed him curiously. “Why are you here?”

  “Ah, yes. That. I’ll tell you, but first return to your chair. ’Tis closer to the fire and will burn away some of that chill.” He tucked a hand under her elbow and assisted her to the chair she’d left.

  Her ankle already protesting how long she’d been standing, she sat down with a grateful sigh and placed her empty glass back on the table.

  Conner pulled a chair close to hers. “Your boot is off. Let me see that ankle.”

  “There’s no need. Lance—Squire Fox offered to send for a doctor, but I didn’t think it necessary.”

  Conner bent, lifted the edge of her skirt, wrapped his hand about her calf, and lifted her foot so that it rested on his knee.

  He did it so quickly, all she could do was gasp. “Conner! I said—”

  “I heard you.” He kept a firm grip on her calf so she couldn’t move, his fingers strong but gentle. “I’m going to move your ankle. Tell me when it hurts.”

  Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned her ankle in a circle.

  “It’s fine, just a little— OW!”

  He stopped. “ ’Tis only a sprain. But you should have it oop.” He pulled the footstool closer and gently rested her foot on it. “There. Now dinnae move it.”

  Her ankle was instantly cool where his warm hands had left it, and she tugged the coat more closely around her. “How did you know I’d—” Eloped. The word stuck in her throat like a two-day-old piece of toast.

  His clear blue gaze rested on her face, questions lurking. “I stopped by your home earlier today. Your family had just read your letter.”

  “Family? Derrick was there, too?” When he nodded, she grimaced. “My parents were supposed to be in Edinburgh until Friday. They must have returned early.” She bit her lip. “I hope they weren’t too upset. I take it they sent you after me.”

  “Nae one sent me. I came on my own.”

  The blackness of his gaze made her say
sharply, “You shouldn’t have bothered. It’s a good match. The squire is kind and good and—”

  “Do you love him?” Conner asked abruptly.

  She blinked. “That’s not—”

  “Do. You. Love. Him.” Conner’s gaze locked upon her face with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.

  Don’t mistake friendly concern for love. You’ve done that far too many times before. “Love has nothing to do with it.”

  Conner’s expression eased, and he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers under his chin. “Which means ’tis a marriage of convenience.”

  “What else could it be?” she asked crossly. “If you spoke to Derrick and my parents, then you must have heard I’ve only known the squire a short time.”

  “Aye. Why did you do this, lass? If ’tis nae love, then what did you hope to gain?”

  “I’m ready for a change, and this seemed the best one available.” She was seeking more than a mere change, but she couldn’t tell him the truth—that she wanted her own home; one where she was free from the constraints of being an ambassador’s daughter whose every word was weighed for meaning. But even more than that, she wanted freedom from the hopes she’d held out for winning his love.

  But she could say none of that to Conner, so instead she shrugged. “I wanted an adventure of my own.”

  “Adventure? You’ve done naught but travel your whole life.”

  “Which was more of a chore than else. I’m done with changing houses as if I were changing into a fresh gown. I want—” She looked down to where her hands were clutched together in her lap so tightly, her fingers ached. She loosened them and said carefully, “I want my own life, my own adventure.”

  “You are tired of your family and their travels. That’s understandable, to be sure. ’Tis boring as hell to be tied to the same people, the same faces, all the time.”

  Her heart sank, although she wasn’t surprised to hear him utter such an inane stupidity. It was further confirmation she’d made the right decision in attaching herself to the squire. “I fear our ideas of adventure differ.”