Stranded With The Scottish Earl

“You’re wasting your time.” She wanted to sound resolute, but her declaration emerged as a whimper.

“It’s my time.” He studied her as he stood up. “And I’d hardly say it’s wasted. I can’t remember enjoying anyone’s company as much as I have yours.”

“You must lead a very dull life, then,” she snapped, grateful to sound more like her forthright self.

“Hardly, but today has been exceptional. We’ve had natural disasters and revelations and kisses and laughter and arguments and a shared meal, delightful for both fare and conversation. I feel like we’ve already shared a lifetime, yet it’s only midnight on our first day. I’m agog to discover what tomorrow holds.”

“With luck, the rain will stop and I can send you back where you came from.”

He didn’t take her seriously. She couldn’t blame him. “Och, but you’re a stalwart lassie.”

“No, I’m a tired lassie,” she retorted. “It’s late and I’m going to bed.”

“Sleep well,” he said and reached for her.

She jumped like a frightened rabbit. “What are you doing?”

He collected a candle from the sideboard behind her. “I’ll light you back to your room.”

“How…polite,” she said, wanting to insist she could manage. But when she met his urbane expression, the churlish response shriveled to nothing. She turned to bank down the fire, cursing the weather, stranded Scottish earls, and her own weakness.

“Miss Warren?” He gestured toward the door when she’d finished.

He’d called her Charlotte. Once. Without her permission. That soft Scots lilt turned her name into music. Despite everything, she couldn’t help regretting the decorous “Miss Warren.”

They crossed the cavernous hall, Bill’s nails clicking on the ancient tiles, then climbed the imposing stairs. Silence and shadows loomed about them. Not threatening. She’d lived in this house all her life. Any ghosts at Bassington Grange were friendly. But the air vibrated with a strange expectation, as if with every breath, something significant inched closer.

When they reached her room, Lyle waited as she brought out a candle for him to light from his.

“Good night, Miss Warren.”

Was that it?

“Good night, my lord,” she whispered. Of course she wouldn’t succumb to seduction, but it was lowering to realize that there was no seduction to resist.

Breathless, surprised, humiliatingly frustrated, she lingered outside her room and watched him disappear down the endless hallway, the light of his candle melting into the darkness.

For very good reasons, she’d placed him in the bedroom farthest from hers. How perverse now to feel forlorn that he was so far away. “Lord Lyle?”

He glanced back. Did she imagine his sudden alertness? “Aye, Miss Warren?”

“I want to ask you something.” This delay was risky, but she wasn’t quite ready to let him go.

“Anything.”

She struggled to think of a question that wouldn’t end with her flat on her back with him on top of her. “What does the A.A. stand for?”

“What?”

“In your monogram.”

An attractive note of self-mockery deepened his laugh. “Oh.”

“Well?”

“Alexander Ardmore.”

“Grand names,” she said softly, meaning it.