Stranded With The Scottish Earl
Chapter One
* * *
Bassington Lea, Hampshire, March 1823
A week before Easter, Ewan Macrae, Earl of Lyle, rode through a raging storm to reach Bassington Grange—only to discover Cinderella guarding the door.
“Good afternoon,” the lassie in the ragged brown skirt said coolly, holding the door open just far enough to speak to him. To keep the rain out? Or to fend off unexpected earls?
At twenty-eight, Lyle wasn’t a green lad to stammer in a lady’s presence. Still, he needed a few seconds to catch his breath and dredge some response from the mush that used to be his brain.
Cinderella was very pretty.
He swallowed, shifted on his feet like a yokel, and located a word or two. Hardly original. “Good afternoon.”
Cinderella had creamy skin and rich honey-colored hair, tumbling loose around her slender shoulders. Symmetrical streaks of dirt adorned high, slanted cheekbones. Half a dozen freckles set off a sweet, straight nose.
She really was a peach. Not even the half-closed door could hide that.
“You need to turn around and go back,” she said after an awkward pause. From the depths of the house behind her, a dog yapped to warn off the intruder.
“But I’ve only just arrived,” he said, trying a smile. Despite his hat and thick greatcoat, a trickle of water traced a chilly path down his neck. “I’d love to come in out of the rain for a wee while. It’s hurling it down in buckets.”
To confirm his statement, a gust of wind spattered raindrops across where he stood beneath the unreliable shelter of the portico. Damn it all, this weather was cold enough for Scotland.
He was used to his smile melting the frost off unwelcoming lassies. Cinderella was made of sterner stuff. Under gracefully arched eyebrows darker than her hair, the amber eyes remained wary. “No, you really need to go back.”
He struggled to appear harmless. Difficult given his devious plans for the next few days. The distant barking built to a crescendo. “I have business with Sir John.”
“The master isn’t in residence,” she said firmly, her grip tightening on the door’s edge.
He was well aware that Sir John wasn’t here. Last night, he’d left the portly baronet happily ensconced in his luxurious townhouse in Mayfair.
Lyle reached out with one gloved hand to catch the door before it closed. Although surely she couldn’t mean to shut him out on such a dreich day. He wouldn’t consign his worst enemy to this downpour. “I’ll wait.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Sir John’s in London.”
And warm and dry, Lyle would lay good money. Sir John Warren had immediately struck him as a man who ensured his own comfort.
“Look, perhaps we can have this discussion inside.” Lyle wrapped his arms around himself and gave a theatrical shiver, only partly put on. It was as cold as a polar bear’s parlor, more January than March. “It’s perishing out here. I’m starting to turn into an icicle. I swear I haven’t got my eyes on the family silver.”
No, he had his eyes on something much more precious.
“You don’t understand.” Her uncompromising expression didn’t soften. “In heavy rain, the bridge goes under, and you’ll be marooned here.”
As he’d ridden across, he’d noticed the wild water gushing high under the stone arches. Well, at least that might explain her lack of welcome. She feared she’d be stranded with a stranger.
The last thing he wanted was to frighten her. However difficult it was to imagine this indomitable creature afraid. He bit back the impudent suggestion that he should come in anyway. Already he could see he’d got off on the wrong foot with Cinders, although God knew why.
“Perhaps I should go back to the village.” What a letdown after the day of uncomfortable travel. Nothing had gone as planned, not least the weather, and his immediate and powerful reaction to seeing this lassie for the first time.
“That would be best.” She’d closed the door before he reached his horse. Poor Saraband stood on the graveled forecourt, sopping, head down, as miserable as a cat in a washtub.
Cursing, he swung into the saddle and set his tired mount to a canter. But when he came to the end of the lime-tree drive, he saw that he’d lingered too long at the house. The river gushed over a bridge that, mere minutes ago, had been clear. Cinders hadn’t exaggerated about the speed of the rising water. For one reckless moment, he contemplated setting Saraband to swim the flood, but the sight of a half-grown oak tree barreling down the torrent swiftly dissuaded him.
It seemed he and Cinderella were fated to have another chat.
“Sorry, my bonny. It’s back we go. And no dawdling.”
Saraband’s ears flickered, and she answered his urging with a willing burst of speed. Like most lassies, she was happy to cooperate with the Earl of Lyle. Despite the rain whipping into his face and the freezing wind, he smiled. He could already see there was one exception to that particular rule.