Stranded With The Scottish Earl

“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.