Sinfully Yours (Hellions of High Street 2)

“Oh, look!” As if reading Anna’s thoughts, Caro pressed her nose to the rain-spattered windowpane and peered up at an ancient stone fortress. Perched atop a craggy cliff, it overlooked the gray-as-gunmetal waters of a broad loch, looking like a silent, solitary Highland warrior keeping a watchful eye on the surroundings. “Isn’t that romantic!” she exclaimed.

Anna leaned over for a look.

“Surely there are deep, dark dungeons cut into the ancient rock,” went on Caro. “And no doubt there are subterranean passageways that wind down and down to the water’s edge.”

Anna repressed a smile as her sister added, “One can’t help but imagine all sorts of interesting stories taking place within a Scottish castle.”

“Indeed,” she replied.

Lady Trumbull gave a mock shiver. “Really, Caro, how you can wax poetic over a pile of moldering stones is puzzling. And Anna, please don’t encourage such girlish fantasies. I sometimes think that reading all those horrid novels is too overstimulating for a young lady’s sensibilities.”

“On the contrary, Mama,” assured Anna. “Even so high a stickler as the dowager Duchess of Kirtland agrees that such stories are a harmless source of amusement.”

Just as she suspected, mention of Society’s most influential arbiter of style quickly caused their mother to revise her opinion.

“Oh, well, of course I agree with Her Grace that there is nothing wrong with enjoying a diverting tale. I simply meant that they ought to be enjoyed in moderation, especially by someone just out of the schoolroom.”

Caro scowled, though she took pains to hide it.

“It is, after all, an impressionable age, and your sister has not yet gained experience in the ways of Society.”

“I have learned a great deal just by listening to Olivia and Anna,” protested Caro.

“You would do well to emulate your sisters.” Sensing she was on the defensive, Lady Trumbull cut short the conversation by patting back a yawn. “I think I shall take a nap. Let us hope we arrive before suppertime.”

Devlin hunched low and angled the brim of his hat in a vain attempt to keep the chill rain from dripping beneath his coat collar. Swearing under his breath, he turned in the saddle and surveyed the soggy moors. The low, leaden clouds were thick as porridge and with the mists pooled in the low-lying heather, it was impossible to make out anything but a gray-green wash of blurry color.

“Are you enjoying Scotland, Lord Davenport?” The burred voice held a slightly sarcastic note. Alec McClellan, a Scottish baron who had reluctantly agreed to serve as a guide for an afternoon ride, had chosen to halt on a high knoll where the gusting wind hit them with its full force. He was, noted Devlin, wearing an oilskin riding cloak and wide brimmed hat designed to withstand the elements. As for himself, he was soaked to the bone.

“I can’t say that I will echo Robert Burns’s rapturous odes to your country any time soon,” he replied.

“Like our national dish, haggis, our weather is an acquired taste.”

“Sorry, but I find both equally foul,” muttered Devlin.

“That’s not surprising. Few Sassenachs appreciate the unique charms of Scotland or its people.”

Sassenach was the Gaelic term for people from England. And Devlin knew it was not meant to be flattering.

“Shall we ride on to the coast?” asked McClellan. “The nearby cliffs offer a superb vista of the North Sea.”

The mocking tone had become more pronounced. The fog rolling in from the ocean was now so thick that Devlin couldn’t see the ears of his stallion.

“Or have you had enough of the local scenery?” went on his guide.

The baron had arrived at the castle the previous evening, and from his sullen demeanor and abrasive comments to the guests from south of the border, it was clear he had no love for the English. The Germans he had simply ignored.

The countess had murmured a discreet apology for his behavior, explaining that he held strong views on the subject of Scottish independence. Or to put it less politely, her cousin was a flaming radical nationalist, mused Devlin. Which raised the question…

Is he merely a boor who lacks social graces? Or something more dangerous?

“The scenery is splendid,” replied Devlin. “By all means, let us continue on to the cliffs. I look forward to you pointing out all the local landmarks.”

That drew a bark of laughter from McClellan. “You’re not as soft as you look, milord.”

“That depends.”

“On what?” asked the baron