Stranded With The Scottish Earl Read online

  She lowered the towel from her hair and regarded him with unreadable eyes. To his complete amazement, she dropped into a curtsy. “My name is Flora, sir. I’m a housemaid here.”

  With difficulty, he stifled a scoffing laugh. His intelligence mustn’t have impressed her. That lie wouldn’t convince the county’s greatest blockhead. Not least because she spoke with a clipped upper-class accent and her hands, while undoubtedly competent, were as smooth and unblemished as any lady’s.

  “Flora…” he said in a thoughtful voice, studying the wee besom and trying to make sense of this latest twist in their interactions.

  “Yes, sir,” she said, dropping her gaze with unconvincing humility.

  What the devil was she playing at, Sir John Warren’s beautiful only child? She’d kept him guessing from the first, which promised interesting times to come. Last week in his London club, her father had offered this girl to Lyle as his bride.

  Intrigued and faintly annoyed that she judged him daft enough to swallow this twaddle, Lyle decided to allow her enough rope to hang herself. Plastering an ingenuous smile on his face, he stepped closer. “I’m delighted to meet you, Miss Flora. My name is Smith. Ebenezer Smith.”

  Chapter Two

  * * *

  Charlotte Warren stared incredulous at the tall, commanding man who filled the Grange’s kitchens with sheer force of personality. Then she shut her mouth so sharply, her teeth clicked.

  “Mr. Smith?” she said, much as he’d said “Flora.” Flora was the first name she thought of when she decided not to reveal who she was.

  “Aye, that’s right,” he said with that sincere smile she didn’t trust at all.

  “But you’re Scottish.” She slipped out of her clogs, then was sorry she did because barefoot, she lost a good two inches in height.

  “Smith is a gey common name north of the border.”

  Whereas there was only one Ewan Macrae, Earl of Lyle, she thought grimly. She glanced toward the fine leather baggage piled beside the table. “That’s odd. The initials on your saddlebags are E.A.A.M.”

  To her satisfaction, chagrin flashed in those deep-set, dark blue eyes.

  Take that, Ewan Macrae, whatever that double A stands for. “Arrogant Ass,” I’m guessing.

  After she’d read her father’s insultingly brief note announcing that he’d chosen the perfect husband for her, she’d balled it up and flung it into the fire. Then she’d set out to ignore the absurdity, hoping that like most of her father’s crazes, it would go away.

  It hadn’t gone away.

  The proof that it hadn’t stood before her now, over six feet tall, black-haired, brawny, and with an insolent light in his cobalt eyes that made her want to pitch a copper saucepan at his gorgeous head.

  “That’s the monogram of the fine gentleman I serve, Ewan Macrae, Earl of Lyle.” He paused and subjected her to a sharp glance where she stood near the hearth. “Perhaps you’ve heard of him.”

  “I have no interest in society wastrels,” she said in a lofty tone, before recalling her humble alias. A housemaid shouldn’t criticize her betters. At least to the betters she criticized.

  “Is that so?” he asked with a suspiciously straight face. “If you don’t mind my saying, Miss Flora, you’re a haughty wee lassie for one so low in the domestic pecking order.”

  Although she thought herself too frozen and wet to blush, blush she did. But then she wasn’t used to telling lies, whereas this man lied as readily as Bill had flopped down before the roaring fire.

  “I beg your pardon, Mr. Smith. It was the pressure of the moment,” she said in the same intransigent tone. “With everyone away, I’m in charge of the house.”

  He had the most extraordinary eyes. Even when his expression was serious, a smile lurked in their depths. If her insane parent wasn’t so set on promoting the match with Lord Lyle, Charlotte might even find that twinkle appealing. Most women would.

  Which begged the question why the earl connived with her father to marry a woman he’d never met. Viewing him dispassionately—or at least trying to—she imagined such a spectacular man must have to beat admiring females off with a stick every time he stepped out his front door.

  He put on the guileless expression he’d tried on the front doorstep. It was no more convincing now than it had been then. “I promise I’m no burglar, Miss Flora.”

  Her lips tightened. “That’s just what a burglar would say.”

  He ran his hand across his head, leaving his black hair delightfully disarrayed—not that she noticed, she told herself—and responded with a hint of asperity. She could tell he didn’t like having his credentials questioned. Too bad. “Well, if I am a burglar, today I can only steal what I can swim away with.”

  “When the rain stops, the water will go down,” she said steadily, slipping her icy feet into an old pair of leather slippers.

  He regarded her with a concentration that had an odd effect on her pulse. Perhaps after all that running through the rain, she was coming down with a cold. “You don’t really believe I intend harm, do you?”

  If he intended to marry her, she considered that great harm indeed. But Flora the housemaid couldn’t say that. Bill rose and gave himself a good shake before he trotted forward to investigate the stranger’s boots.

  Bite him, Bill.

  Lord Lyle clicked his elegant fingers. And Bill, the rotten traitor, yipped in delight and rolled over to offer his pink belly for a scratch.

  “Nice dog.” He bent to rub the terrier’s damp white fur.

  Silly dog, she thought, but remained silent. Something about the way that elegant hand caressed her pet into bliss made her lightheaded. She raised a hand to her cheeks. She was unhealthily warm. A cold must be coming on.

  Lyle hunkered down to do a better job of turning Bill into his devoted slave. He looked up at her from under the black wing of hair that flopped over his brow. “If you really are worried about my intentions, I can try and get across the river. I’m a strong swimmer when unencumbered with stolen booty.”

  Charlotte stifled the urge to return his smile and wondered why she wasn’t scared. After all, they were alone, and she was at his mercy, should he decide to turn nasty. “It’s too dangerous.”

  “Then I can sleep in the stables.”

  Watching Bill squirm with pleasure, she summoned the words that would exile this unwelcome intruder from her personal Eden. It wasn’t as if Lord Lyle couldn’t manage out there. Her father housed his horses better than his tenants—and his tenants had no complaints. In the stables, however beneath his dignity, the earl would be warm and dry. And safely out of her hair.

  But her essential generosity prompted a completely different offer. “We have about a hundred bedrooms.” Only a small exaggeration. “And you look like a gentleman.”

  “Thank you, Miss Flora,” he said gravely. Odd how she was convinced he continued to laugh at her.

  He shouldn’t call a mere housemaid miss, but if she protested, he’d only find her more amusing. Strange the insight she already had into his character. “I’ll…I’ll show you to a room.”

  “Thank you.” He collected his steaming coat and stepped toward her.

  She retreated into the table, before remembering that she didn’t want him to know he made her nervous. Still, she gulped before she spoke. It was just that he was so tall, and he watched her with such attention. And that wet shirt stuck so lovingly to every line of his impressive torso.

  When she read her father’s letter, she’d pictured Lord Lyle as a weedy creampuff. The sort of milksop who let other people arrange his life. The man standing near enough for her to catch the delicious scents of rain and male was more roast beef dinner than fussy French patisserie.

  “Miss Flora?”

  Realizing how her eyes clung to his broad chest, she blushed to fire. She licked her lips, hoping without great optimism that the dimness concealed the color in her cheeks. “I’ll take you upstairs.” She paused, recalling that she was a mai
d. “Sir.”

  Charlotte hadn’t had this trouble staying in character when she’d played Cinderella. Perhaps because the play’s Prince Charming was Paul Carter, the vicar’s son. A perfectly nice boy, but a nonentity compared to Ewan Macrae. All her life, she’d pushed Paul around. She already knew she didn’t have a prayer of pushing Lord Lyle.

  Another reason to reject his suit. Since her beloved mother’s death ten years ago, she’d run the Bassington estate, and she’d discovered that she liked the world to march to her drumbeat. She’d bridle against any attempt to tame her, yet she couldn’t respect a man who let her walk all over him.

  Lucky for her, as the only child of a rich man, she could afford to claim her independence. Her indulgent papa always gave her her way, saying he appreciated having such a diligent chatelaine.

  Which made this lunacy her father cooked up with Lyle even more inexplicable. She stifled the familiar pang of hurt that struck every time she recalled that cheerful letter disposing of her future.

  “Follow me,” she said, turning with a swish of her meager skirts toward the steps. The Cinderella costume was a blessing when it came to a disguise, but it was cursed flimsy. She was starting to shiver. Changing into dry, warm clothing became imperative—especially if this strange other-worldly feeling portended a cold.

  “You’re very kind,” he said in a neutral voice, shouldering the valise with an ease that sent an unwelcome thrill through Charlotte.

  Goodness. If ever one needed to fight off dragons, this was the man to enlist. Any sensible dragon would take one look at that powerful form and scurry back to its cave.

  With Bill at his heels, Lyle followed her up the stone stairs. In the constricted space, she was preternaturally aware of his size compared to hers. She should have kept her clogs on. She’d never thought of herself as a fragile woman, but something about the earl’s large, strong body made her feel ridiculously tiny and defenseless.

  They stepped into the great hall, the core of the original medieval building. How vast and empty the manor felt when it contained only her and one too-handsome man.

  Lord Lyle paused at the top of the steps and glanced around the massive space with its hammer-beam roof sporting angels with the Warren shield—three gold swans on a blue background. His expression was a mixture of awe and amusement. “Good Lord, lassie, I feel like Henry the Eighth.”

  She bit back the impulse to say that even if he took six wives, Charlotte Warren still wouldn’t count among their number. “It’s very old, fourteenth century.”

  She’d resented Lyle’s constant attention. Now, stupidly, she resented that he forgot about her. He performed a slow turn, whistling in admiration. Those clever eyes took in the ancient patterned tiles and the tall heraldic south window, which even on a grim day flooded the enormous space with light.

  “It’s impressive.” His attention settled on the makeshift stage beneath the window. “Cinderella’s parlor, I take it? I’d have thought Sir John’s daughter would play the leading role. I was told she lives here.”

  Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. “Miss Warren is away at present.”

  “While you run the Easter play.”

  “I’m a mere participant, sir,” she said. “I do what I’m told.”

  The glance he directed at her indicated disbelief. “That must be difficult.”

  She lowered her eyes to hide her stirring temper. “I know my place, Mr. Smith.”

  The name stuck in Charlotte’s neck. But if she admitted she knew who he was, she’d have to confess her own identity. Her impulsive adoption of an alias sank her deeper in subterfuge by the minute.

  Above her, the rows of Warren angels stared down in silent condemnation. They clearly didn’t approve of her leading the noble earl up the garden path.

  “I’m sure you do, Miss Flora.” Something in his tone caught her attention. Surely he hadn’t guessed who she was. She wasn’t dressed like the lady of the manor, and he had no reason to doubt her.

  “The…the bedrooms are upstairs.” The words vibrated between them like an invitation from a courtesan to a patron.

  The light faded fast as evening drew in, but even so, she caught a flash of pure sapphire in his eyes. “Please lead the way.”

  In the flurry of activity, settling his horse, and bringing Lord Lyle inside, and most distracting of all, maintaining her disguise, she’d been conscious of him as a man, but not afraid. Now her precarious position, stranded with a stranger, struck her like a blow. When she thought of him as the enemy, she was sure she could hold her own. When she recognized the unwelcome attraction flaring between them, her confidence faltered.

  All mockery fled that compelling face with its chiseled jaw and arrogant nose. “What’s wrong?”

  What was wrong was that all of a sudden she realized that Lord Lyle posed a genuine threat. Something at her deepest level insisted that physically she was safe—perhaps his kindness to his horse and her dog, or that moment when he’d given her his coat despite being soaked and frozen himself—as far as she wanted to be.

  But how safe did she want to be?

  That was the niggling question she couldn’t answer. A gaping chasm of uncertainty opened beneath her feet. Raising her chin, she concealed self-doubt beneath a show of bravado. “Follow me.”

  She started up the grand oak staircase, but her shaky legs stumbled on the first step. Quicker than lightning, Lyle grabbed her arm, steadying her.

  At his touch, her heart leaped, stealing her breath. She stared wide-eyed up at him, giddy and unsure.

  What on earth was wrong with her? One would imagine she’d never been alone with a man, when her duties on the estate had her dealing with males of various degree from morning to night. None made her feel the way she felt dangling off Lord Lyle’s elegant hand.

  She swallowed, her throat so tight that it hurt. Dear heavens, she was in trouble. And for once in her life, she felt helpless to rescue herself.

  “Watch your step,” he murmured.

  Was he referring to more than just her ascent to the upper floors? “I’m…I’m fine now,” she said jerkily. “The light is—”

  “Going, aye. Should I fetch a candle?”

  She shook her head, telling herself to pull away. But delicious heat radiated up her arm from his long fingers. How the devil did he do that? The day was cold, miserable early spring, but Lord Lyle’s touch promised sweetest summer. “There are candles upstairs.”

  “Very well,” he murmured.

  His deep voice made her shiver. Mere inches away, that velvety baritone with the exotic, beguiling burr made every hair on her skin stand up.

  If only she was getting a cold, but what was the point of lying to herself? For the first time in her twenty-five years, her body reacted without reference to her head. She mightn’t want to marry Ewan Macrae, but he was the most breathtakingly appealing man she’d ever met. And she suspected that nothing she did would save her from tumbling headlong into his thrall. However lunatic that made her.

  She’d seen this madness strike in the village. She’d seen this madness happen, masked in society manners, to her friends. Her reaction had always been amused tolerance. She’d been smugly immune, too sensible for such silliness.

  Fate paid her back. Now she had an inkling of how powerful the impulse to sin could prove under the right influence.

  Except Ewan Macrae wasn’t the right influence.

  Common sense insisted she break free, run for the hills, no matter the weather.

  But astonishingly, Charlotte didn’t shift an inch. The desire to press herself against his hard, imposing body, and beg him to kiss her kept her captive. How she hated to admit that she was just as pudding-headed as any other susceptible girl in a spectacular man’s presence.

  For a fraught moment, Lord Lyle studied her face. Then he straightened. Keeping hold of her arm and balancing his bag on the other shoulder, he escorted her upstairs with the ceremony he’d devote to a duchess.

  “You’r
e cold,” he said, and she realized he’d mistaken the cause of her trembling.

  “Yes,” she said, denying the heat that pumped like a furnace in her blood.

  At the top of the stairs, she retained enough wisdom to direct him to the chamber farthest from hers. She hoped it was far enough away. Her instincts told her that he too felt this odd attraction, although to do him credit, he’d minded his manners. But she couldn’t mistake the firmness of his hold or the spark of interest in his eyes.

  What a wicked libertine.

  Even if she could stomach an arranged match, she categorically didn’t want a husband who dallied with the servants.

  The craziest part of this crazy scenario was that she was jealous of herself.

  She flung open the door to the blue room. Bill trotted through ahead of them as Lyle let his bag slide to the floor.

  “I’ll light your fire for you.”

  Oh, for pity’s sake, what was wrong with her? Squirming, she waited for him to mention the fire burning between them, a fire that needed no kindling.

  He merely gave her a brief smile. “No need. I can look after myself.”

  “Very well.” At last she found the gumption to pull away. Terrifying quite how much will that required. Then she hesitated in the doorway, bereft because that capable hand no longer touched her.

  She needed to get away. Now. The large four-poster bed near the window loomed, a threat and a lure.

  She swallowed, sent him a wild look, and rushed out. The slam of the door echoed through the empty corridor as she collapsed breathless against the wall outside his room. In a futile attempt to quiet her galloping heart, she pressed one trembling hand to her heaving chest.

  What in Hades must Lyle make of her bizarre behavior? He must think her raving mad.

  Right now, she was inclined to agree.

  Charlotte forced herself to straighten and walk at a sedate pace toward her room. She’d change into dry clothes. And she prayed that in the process, she’d locate the sanity that so catastrophically deserted her.