Stranded With The Scottish Earl
The wind turned the rain into needles, and his booted feet sloshed through puddles that came up past his ankles. A huge stone building with a clock tower loomed ahead out of the gray. He hoped to hell it was the stable.
It was. Once they entered the vast, echoing space, a blessed calm descended. High windows lit the interior, even on a gloomy day like this. The scents of hay, leather, and pampered horseflesh surrounded them.
Lyle was yet to see much of Sir John Warren’s estate, but his impression so far was of a prosperous and well-maintained property. The impression now firmed to certainty, and that was deuced interesting. Thoughtfully he followed Cinderella and Saraband down lines of stalls, past bloodstock that wouldn’t disgrace his own stud, to an empty loosebox.
Before he’d set out on this knuckleheaded quest, he’d feared he’d fallen victim to a trickster. Perhaps Bassington Grange would turn out to be a rundown disaster in desperate need of an injection of cash via a gullible Scottish earl. Sir John had appeared plump in the pocket—not to mention the person—but he wouldn’t be the first fellow to make a show that he couldn’t afford in the bright lights of London.
But if these well-stocked stables were any indication, the ebullient baronet was exactly what he presented himself to be. Rich. Worldly. Respectable.
Which left Lyle puzzled on several counts.
A soft grunt from his fair companion pierced his musings. The lassie struggled to lift the heavy valise off Saraband’s wet back.
“I’ll do that,” he said, brushing her aside.
The white terrier settled in a corner, black eyes riveted on his mistress. Lyle couldn’t blame the dog for watching her. The saturated shawl slid down, revealing that breathtaking face. Cinderella was a bonny sight, and there must be magic at work, because she got bonnier by the second.
Lyle even found her managing air enticing. Clinging vines had never appealed to him. Both his sisters were clever and independent—and fully capable of putting a mere younger brother in his place. He’d missed that Scots snap in the demure Sassenach lassies he’d met in London, even the ladies lauded as diamonds of the first water.
To his mind, a diamond worthy of the name needed to have a flash of fire.
Ignoring him, the lassie was untying a couple of smaller bags from the saddle. He was piqued that she’d made more of an impression on him than he’d apparently made on her.
However, that didn’t absolve him of his obligations.
Setting down his valise, he ripped off his leather gloves. He dropped the sodden gloves on top of his luggage and swung his greatcoat off, scattering drops of water everywhere and making Saraband snort in protest.
“Here.” He slung the heavy woolen garment around the lassie’s straight shoulders.
Surprised, whisky-colored eyes widened as they focused on him, and her hands clutched the coat closer. It was warmer in the stables than outside, but not much. “Thank you,” she said in an uncertain voice. “But you’ll be cold.”
“I’ll live. For pity’s sake, go back to the house and dry off. I’ll follow once I’ve settled Saraband.”
He waited for her to object to the order, but her attention had already shifted from him to the bay. “She’s yours?”
“Aye.” He’d ridden down from London in easy stages to avoid having to trust to hired hacks.
“She’s a beauty.” She stroked Saraband’s silky nose. The horse extended her neck for more attention. “Far too fine to stay out in the rain.”
His lips twitched. He’d offer Cinderella half his fortune if she’d describe him in similar terms. “She’s part Arab.”
The lassie’s knowledgeable air as she surveyed the horse betrayed the identity she concealed under her humble costume. “You can see that in her head.”
Lyle patted the mare’s rump and praised her in soft Gaelic, for she’d done more than her share through today’s heavy weather. With care, he lifted the saddle from the bay’s back. When he raised his head, Cinders regarded him with an oddly arrested expression.
“There’s no need to wait,” he said in a mild tone. “I’ll see you inside.”
Her eyes narrowed. This time, Saraband wasn’t going to save him from Cinderella’s displeasure. “You’re very free giving orders in another man’s house.”
He shrugged and bent to grab a handful of straw to rub his horse down. “As you please.”
When he looked up again, the girl had gone. “She’s a gey odd lassie,” he murmured to Saraband. “I’m not sure what to make of her.”
The horse shifted and whicke
red as if in agreement. He lifted a currycomb from a hook and continued the grooming. After the difficult journey, the familiar task was soothing. “Definitely an odd lassie. But bonny. Aye, dashed bonny.”
“I’m glad you think so,” a familiar voice said from behind him.