To Tempt a Scotsman (Somerhart 1)

She shook her head automatically. "No, I've only had a lot on my mind." His hand came up to cup her cheek, and Alex fought back the urge to confess her obsession with Collin Blackburn.

"Pet, you know that you are free to marry at any time. All I ask is that you inform me of any suitors. There are always those men who'd pursue you for your fortune, Alex, and I would look into anyone who caught your interest."

"Don't—"

"But you are a lovely woman and you are sure to find someone. I worry that you're lonely."

Oh, I am lonely, she wanted to cry out, but she only swallowed and shook her head in the dark. "There have been no suitors, Hart. But I think that's probably best for a while, don't you?"

"I would see you happy."

Really? she stopped herself from asking. Would you bring me a large Scotsman then, to be my lover? "I am happy, if only because of my indulgent big brother."

"It is not indulgence. This will all be yours for as long as you want it, Alex. Somerhart is your home as much as mine."

She loved him so much, she thought, wrapping her arms around his waist so she could press her cheek to his beating heart. "I love you, brother. You're the only man for me. Now let us get back to our guests."

He held on a moment longer, his chest expanding as if he would speak, but he did not. Instead, he pressed a hard kiss to her head and led her back toward the doors. Before they'd even stepped through, she watched him transform himself back into the perfect host. He was painfully handsome and the most elegant man she'd ever known. No one suspected that beneath his aloof exterior lurked a caring man.

The thought brought a smile to her mouth. Surely someday he'd fall in love. She couldn't wait to see it. The smile froze on her face. Love. Was that what she suffered from? Surely not. No. Absolutely not. She would not let it be love.

The second day of the party tumbled by, rushed and seemingly endless. Alex discovered that she'd grown quite used to her solitary life in the country. Having so many people underfoot overwhelmed her when it had seemed a delightful thing a few years ago.

But now . . . Now it was just too much. Breakfast, then riding, then luncheon. A stroll around the grounds, teatime, a short rest in her room. Finally, dinner and a small musical show. She managed to avoid a private con­versation with Robert Dixon, though he made every effort to edge her away from the crowd. She could not imagine why she was avoiding him.

Hadn't she kissed every man who'd ever caught her eye? Well, perhaps not every man, but given the opportunity, she hadn't shied away from the excitement of a flirtation.

Confusion weighed her down by the time she fell into her bed at two in the morning. She was exhausted, but her mind buzzed with the remnants of meaningless conversa­tions, so she lay in bed and played absently with the end of her braid, trying to puzzle out her new attitude.

Collin Blackburn had to be the cause. What else could it be?

She pressed her hands to hot cheeks. Collin. She had hoped her reaction to him had only been something to do with her own body, some new maturity that gave her greater pleasure in men and their touches. But that couldn't be the case. Just being near Collin had felt different than being close to other men. He'd tainted her blood.

She knew Robert Dixon to be attractive, but he did not attract her.

So she wanted only Collin, and he lived God knew how many miles away and was determined not to be had. He'd only written once after all, and not a personal word to be found in the whole letter. And perhaps "letter" was the wrong word altogether. Paragraph. That was it.

He eluded us again, by mere minutes. If he suspects you, he likely won't write again. My appreciation for your help.

"Blackburn," he'd signed it. No closing. Not one per­sonal word. She'd spent ceaseless nights fantasizing about him and he'd revealed nothing.

He was not pining for her, why should she waste her time? Time to set thoughts of him aside.

But at night. . . At night, she couldn't help remember­ing his mouth, his hands, the silky steel of his body. She relived that tension and that release, that release that noth­ing in life had prepared her for. She wanted more.

It was beginning to annoy her, really. Why did it have to be him? Or maybe she had an affinity for Scotsmen. Maybe she should travel north to explore the possibility. The thought pulled her eyes open.

Scotland. Hmm.

No, she told herself, absolutely not.

Alex punched her pillow several times, laid her head back onto the lumpiness, then groaned in frustration. The pillow hit the far wall with a soft thump which was fol­lowed immediately by a delicate scratching.

Scratching? Alex sat up and stared at the white shape of her pillow on the floor. Had it grown fingers? The scratch­ing again, not from that direction. The door, not the pillow.

She slid from the bed and padded to her door, aware now of the shadow of feet beneath it. "Yes?"

"Mr. James, missus," a girl whispered. "He says to tell you that the mare is taking food again."