Stranded With The Scottish Earl
* * *
They waited in the byre until the lamb was feeding, his tiny tail making frantic circles as he sucked greedily at his mother. Smiling, Lyle went outside and used the rain to wash. To his surprise, that wasn’t quite as easy as it would have been an hour ago.
“It’s stopping.” Charlotte stepped up beside him, her hood shielding her lovely face.
He wiped his hands down his sides, although given his sodden state, that didn’t accomplish much. “It’s lighter to the west. I predict a spectacular sunset in an hour or so.” He paused, almost not wanting to know. Although he couldn’t remain in glorious isolation with his lady love for the rest of his life. More was the pity. “How much time have we got?”
She passed him his oilskin and started walking back toward the house, now visible across the fields. Another sign of improving weather. “The bridge should be clear some time tomorrow. The path through the woods behind the house will be usable early in the morning.”
Lyle struggled to interpret her tone, but all he heard was the cheerful practicality that had made her such a staunch companion through the day’s vicissitudes. Damn it, he wanted her to sound sorry that he had to go. He wanted her to sound bloody heartbroken.
As he observed the jaunty sway of her hips and her confident step across the saturated grass, he faced the grim possibility that this unconventional wooing might have failed. She’d been more relaxed with him today, and he’d basked in the trust developing between them. But did that mean she wanted him in her life?
His longer legs made catching up easy. A line of light lay along the horizon, and the rain had softened to a sprinkle. “I’ll go at dawn,” he said glumly.
“That would be best.” Her glance was too fleeting for him to read her expression, but much as he tried, he couldn’t hear any regret in her voice.
* * *
Back at the house, Lyle’s odd valedictory mood persisted. He’d give half his fortune for a long, hot bath. He couldn’t remember feeling this tired. Or this sore. The riding and fencing that formed his usual exercise paled to insignificance, compared to maneuvering livestock through mud. Now the thought of lugging overflowing canisters through the house didn’t appeal, so he heated some water over the fire and made do with the washstand in his dressing room.
There was something to be said for being clean and changing into fresh clothing. As he shaved, he considered his reflection in the dressing room mirror. In his rumpled state, he might lack London polish, but he looked presentable enough for a country evening.
How odd, not to hear the rain. He’d become accustomed to its incessant pitter-patter in the last two days. The rain had dictated the progress of his wooing. It had given him these glorious hours alone with Charlotte. Now that it had stopped, he had to leave.
So how should he play these last hours? Charming? Seductive? Romantic?
He wanted her. He loved her. He had no idea where he stood with her. The thought of riding away tomorrow felt like someone scraped out his liver with a blunt knife.
Lyle bit back a sigh and leaned over the basin to rinse off the shaving soap. At least if she meant to break his heart, he’d hear the news looking like a gentleman.
He slid his dark blue coat over his shoulders. There were a couple of clean neck cloths in his bag, but he decided to leave his shirt open.
Not such a gentleman after all, it seemed.
He slipped the small leather case that had started all the trouble into his coat pocket, ran a comb through his thick black hair, and stared into the blue Macrae eyes. He wasn’t used to seeing uncertainty there, but he saw it tonight.
“Come on, laddie. Time to face up to your future and find out if she’ll have you.”
The blood of warrior chieftains flowed through his veins, yet he quailed at the idea that this woman, this unexpected, perfect, passionate treasure of a woman, might refuse him.
Squaring his shoulders, he wished the man in the mirror good luck. Then he went through to his room and slammed to a stop on the threshold.
An unfamiliar object lay on the four-poster bed’s red and blue counterpane.
“Well, paint me pink and call me an Englishman,” he whispered aloud, triumphant joy sweeping away his doubts.
In the middle of the mattress sat a single white satin slipper. A delicate shoe useless for anything but dancing at a ball. Satin ribbons curled across the counterpane toward a sheet of paper with two words upon it.
From Cinderella.
Chapter Ten
* * *
Charlotte had hoped for an enthusiastic response to her brazen invitation, yet when her door crashed open, she gave a skittish start.
“Do you mean it?” Ewan demanded, brandishing her dancing slipper like a trophy.