A Scot to the Heart Page 14

  “The duchess also suggested I stuff my head with English politics,” he said aloud, “leave off wearing a kilt, and purge the Scots from my speech. I’ll admit she had some reasonable points, like learning how to manage an estate ten times the size of Stormont, but she’s no’ my mither nor my keeper, lass.” He let his burr swell at the end. He was still a Scot, dukedom be hanged. “And I told you last night, you’re not mad.”

  “Kissing you was madness.”

  He scratched his chin. “I thought it was brilliant, myself. Do it again so I can study the matter more closely.”

  Her cheeks were turning pink. She put one hand on his arm. “Captain—”

  “Drew.” He caught her hand. “You canna kiss a man and refuse to call him by name. Andrew, if you dislike Drew, but ’tis mainly my mother who calls me Andrew now.”

  Her lips pursed, as if she was trying not to smile. “Drew, then. But there’s no good reason—”

  “Good reason?” He leaned toward her. “The very good reason I have is that I find you fascinating. And if you want me to stop, you’ll have to say so aloud, because the way you kiss me back is all kinds of encouragement.”

  “But your plans,” she began again.

  He dropped her hand and stepped back, spreading his arms wide. “Plans? I have no plans—nor any promises made. Let’s not worry about that. Let’s just . . . see how things go.” She narrowed her eyes at him. He grinned engagingly. “You’ve promised me nothing, either, and I won’t hold you to anything that might happen. ʼTwill all be at your desire, or not at all.”

  “You’re a devil,” she told him, now very obviously biting her cheek to keep from laughing.

  He winked. “Aye, but not a blackhearted, world-destroying one. Merely one of the minor, mischievous devils, more wicked fun than evil.”

  She stepped right up to him, a flash of exhilaration in her eyes. Oh, this woman set his blood on fire with just that look. “I know,” she said with a sigh. “And that’s what makes you dangerous.”

  Chapter Twelve

  To Bella’s delight, the maze was an excellent one, tricky and confounding. No one had made it to the center. The next sunny morning, she stood up from the breakfast table and raised her hands portentously.

  “I propose a game,” she said as everyone looked at her. “With prizes.”

  “Hear, hear!” Monteith tapped his spoon on his cup.

  “A race to the center of the maze,” blurted out Winnie, her eyes shining.

  “Winifred!” Bella glared at her. “A race, with teams and prizes, and eternal glory for the winner.”

  “Eternal glory?”

  “If I win, I shall never let any of you forget it,” put in Winnie, making everyone laugh.

  “If there are no objections, we’ll meet in the garden at eleven.” Bella grinned. “Wear sturdy shoes if you want to have a chance.”

  Drew had meant to review ledgers, but this was more appealing, especially when he caught the gleeful look Ilsa shot him.

  God save him. After twelve long years in the army, commanded by others, assigned to lonely barracks and constantly scrimping to send money to his family, the luxury he relished the most was freedom—to postpone a duty, to laugh, to follow a beautiful woman with her beguiling smile into a maze for who-knew-what frivolity. He spoke to Watkins, putting off him and the ledgers, and was one of the first to the garden.

  “We’ll draw partners so there’s no unfair advantage.” Bella climbed up on the low stone wall that edged the terrace. She turned her hat upside down, dropping in a handful of twisted slips of paper. “Each gentleman will draw a lady’s name.”

  “Unfair,” cried Winnie. “I won’t be handicapped by one of them! I want to win!”

  Monteith staggered backward, clapping a hand to his chest. “God above, now I’m frightened to be left alone with one of your sisters, St. James.”

  Bella chastised him loudly and shook her hat. “The prize is a bottle of aged whisky from this very estate, and a new hat from that charming little shop we saw in Perth.”

  Monteith nudged Kincaid. “Swords at dawn for the hat.”

  “And I’ll take the whisky, thank you kindly,” put in Agnes, making them both shout with laughter while her mother threw up her hands in dismay.

  “What if I don’t fancy sharing the prize?” drawled Duncan. “I like a good whisky, and I’ve not had a new hat in an age . . .”

  “Be sure to order one that conceals your entire head, for our sakes!”

  Bella flapped her hand at them. “Enough, enough. I thought pairing a gentleman with a lady would make it fair. Two ladies together, of course, would triumph before any gentleman made the first turn. Mama agrees with me, no one will argue his way out of it. So draw a name, Mr. Monteith, and if it’s mine, not only had we best win, I shall indeed meet you at dawn with a sword to claim that bonnet.”

  With more laughing and teasing, the four men each drew a slip of paper from the upturned hat.

  Drew stole a peek at Duncan’s paper. The man wasn’t holding it very closely. He nudged his friend’s shoulder. “Trade with me,” he whispered.

  Duncan whipped around, closing his hand around the slip. “Why?”

  “I don’t like my draw.”

  Duncan wasn’t fooled. The scoundrel smirked and folded his arms. “You saw who I have.”

  “No,” said Drew, but Duncan scoffed.

  “You’re that desperate to explore with Miss Isabella?”

  “Anyone other than who I drew,” he retorted with a shrug, refusing to admit that he had seen and that he did only want to trade because of whom Duncan had drawn—who was not Bella. Casually he opened his hand, letting Duncan catch a glimpse of the name on his slip. “But if you won’t trade, perhaps Kincaid will.”

  His friend’s eyes narrowed. Drew turned to walk away. With a muttered oath, Duncan swiped the slip from his hand and replaced it with his own. “You owe me,” he said with a stern look. “And don’t be forgetting it, St. James.” He strolled off to where Bella had climbed down from the wall and was handing out her pages of instructions.

  Drew read the name on his new slip with pleasure and went to stand beside Ilsa. At her raised brow, he showed her the paper that bore her name.

  “What a coincidence,” she whispered.

  “Luck of the draw,” he murmured happily.

  Bella finished reading her rules and beamed at them all. “Has anyone got a question?”

  “Aye,” called Monteith. “Is wagering permitted?”

  “Yes,” said Bella at the same moment her mother cried, “Certainly not, Adam Monteith!”

  Everyone laughed, and Agnes said, very primly, “Not within my mother’s hearing, Mr. Monteith.”

  “And we shall have a large, fine tea here on the terrace after our exertions,” Bella added as the gentlemen began whispering among themselves and Louisa St. James threw up her hands again.

  “What are we to do?” Drew watched Ilsa skim over the rules Bella had written out.

  “Were you not attending? We’re to find our way to the center of the maze, where Mr. Watkins—who is, I believe, the only person who knows the way through—has deposited a blue ribbon, on Bella’s instructions. Then we must find our way out and absolutely lord it over everyone that we’ve beaten them.”

  Drew laughed. “And what are these rules we must obey?”

  She gave him an amused glance. “Are you and your friends known cheats? The rules are primarily things we may not do. May not climb the hedges. May not crash through a hedge. May not lift one’s partner onto one’s shoulders to get a view of the maze from above. May not speak to anyone other than your own partner. May not lie to anyone.”

  “That’s redundant. If I can’t speak to anyone, I can’t lie to them, either.”

  “You could point.”

  He scoffed. “As if I’d trust any one of them, or they me!” He shook his head. “I know for whom those rules are meant, and it’s not my friends. My sisters are fiendishl
y competitive. If we meet Agnes in the maze, I beg you will protect me from her tripping me or knocking me unconscious with a branch.”

  She was still laughing as they reached their spot. The maze was shaped like a five-pointed star, with entrances on the points. Bella had drawn a line in the dirt at each one and allowed the pairs to choose their place of attack. Winnie and Adam Monteith took off at a quick jog for the far left, while Bella and Alex Kincaid darted to the closest one. Agnes and Felix Duncan appeared to be arguing over whether to go left or right, and Drew steered Ilsa around to the back, choosing a point next to the one unoccupied. It was as alone as they could get.

  The hedges grew tall around them, a little higher than Drew could reach, and rustled gently in the summer breeze. It might as well have been a secluded bower.

  “Ready?” called his mother from the terrace. Distant shouts confirmed everyone was.

  “Do you also like to win?” Ilsa asked.

  Drew winked. “You mean, do I savor outmaneuvering my sisters and showing up my friends? What do you think?”

  She raised her brows, grinning. “And what are you prepared to do for it?”

  He clasped her hands in his and rested his forehead against hers. “Anything,” he whispered. Including losing this damn race through the maze, if it meant he could stay here and kiss her. That was worth more than winning a silly race. This was rare, this connection and attraction, and he was loath to let go of it even for a moment.

  Ilsa’s eyes gleamed, and she squeezed his hands. “Anything?”

  “Aye.” He dipped his head, his lips a breath away from hers.

  From the terrace, Mr. Watkins blew a blast on the hunting horn.

  “Then we’d better run,” she whispered. For a brief, searing moment, she rose up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his. “I also like to win.”

  The world reeled around him. He’d already won, it seemed—but he let her pull him by the hand into the maze.

  Ilsa was having the time of her life. Accepting this invitation had been the most brilliant thing she’d ever done.

  She had ridden out three times now with him, and relished every moment. Not only was it a joy to be in the saddle again, but the estate was large and beautifully kept. They could ride for an hour or two along the paths and roads or following the river where otters frolicked in the water and beavers tended their kits. And then they’d dismount and walk the horses back, sometimes talking, sometimes in companionable silence, even in a light morning mist. He was the first man she’d met who didn’t need to hear himself talk or require her to support his opinion on everything. After her father and Malcolm, it was a shock and a relief and marvelously appealing.

  Today they were running like children, sprinting up and down the twists and turns of the maze. The hedges muffled sound, but occasionally a far-off shriek or laugh was audible. Ilsa couldn’t help wondering how Agnes and Mr. Duncan were getting on. They’d been arguing bitterly before the start, but Ilsa had a strong suspicion that Mr. Duncan had traded names to be paired with Agnes.

  Or . . . She stole a glance at the captain. Had he traded to be with her?

  “Which way?” he asked as they confronted another junction.

  “Left,” she guessed, starting down it, only to catch a glimpse of blue through the leaves. “No, no, no,” she gasped, turning and pushing him back the way they’d come. “Right! Go right!”

  “Who was it?” he asked as they jogged along another curving path.

  “Agnes and Mr. Duncan, I believe.”

  He gave her a glance. “I heard no arguing or cursing. Are you certain?”

  Ilsa paused. She was quite sure that bright blue could only have been Agnes’s dress, but the figure had been silent—and motionless, not darting along as they were. “Perhaps they found something better to do.”

  Drew stopped so suddenly she cannoned into him. He caught her in his arms and lowered his head. “Something like this?” he whispered, his hands sliding down her back to pull her tightly against him. The swing in momentum almost upended her, and Ilsa gripped his coat to keep her balance—and then kept holding on because she didn’t want to let go of him.

  “Perhaps,” she gasped.

  “God, lass,” he rumbled in her ear, his lips on her neck. “I can’t think straight around you . . .”

  Neither could she, and it was becoming a problem. “If we keep this up,” she said over the hammering of her heart, “we’ll come last.”

  “It would be worth it. That was better than any whisky or new hat.” But he took her hand again and they started off once more, darting up and down paths.

  After several minutes, he stopped. “Have a look from above.” He put his hands on her waist.

  “That’s cheating!”

  “Aye, so don’t be caught.” He gave a roguish wink. “Just peek over and see how far from the center we are.”

  Choking on laughter, she nodded, and he boosted her to his shoulder with impressive ease. She clutched at his head, her fingers digging into his dark hair. He turned his face into her stomach and a shiver went through her. She could swear he kissed her there . . .

  “How close?” he murmured, his lips moving against her belly.

  Ilsa started—this must be madness; she’d completely forgotten about the maze, the race, the other people—and cautiously peered over the tops of the hedges . . .

  Only to meet Bella’s startled gaze, from the far side of the maze. Obviously they weren’t the only ones ignoring the rules. With a wild burst of laughter she twisted, sliding down Drew’s body until her feet hit the ground. “This way,” she told him, clinging to his arm and barely able to get the words out.

  “What happened?” His brows shot up. “Were you seen?”

  “Aye,” she said with a wicked grin, “by your sister, obviously cheating herself. Come!”

  This time they ran around a long curving bend, into and out of a dead end, dodging left, then right, and then right again. Drew squinted at the sky and tried to judge their direction, while Ilsa closed her eyes and concentrated on the view of the maze from the dining room windows before pulling him off to the right again, around several switchback turns, and finally—

  And finally they burst into the clearing at the center of the maze, where the blue ribbon still hung from the raised hand of the stone statue of Vesta. Ilsa gave a whoop of delight; Drew snatched the ribbon in one hand, and then snatched her in his other arm.

  “We make a good team,” he whispered, and then he was kissing her, hot and deep and utterly unabashed. Ilsa threw caution to the wind and kissed him back. Something vital deep inside her came alive when he held her. She speared her fingers into his hair and held his face to hers, kissing him as if she could devour him and somehow keep the glowing warmth he inspired burning in her chest.

  She had no idea how long they stood wrapped around each other, but someone coughed loudly and ruined it. Ilsa’s head was spinning and her balance was off—she would have staggered and fallen if not for Drew’s arm around her waist—but she was still able to recognize the people who had discovered them: Mr. Monteith, looking smug, and Winnie, her eyes wide and her jaw slack.

  Flustered, she stepped back, smoothing her hair. Drew seemed to have no such self-consciousness. He fluttered the ribbon in the air, and called, “I’m going to enjoy that new hat. Although I suspect it’s to be bought on my own account, aye?”

  “Mrs. Ramsay, I do hope you’ll share the whisky,” drawled Monteith. “Since I wouldn’t be seen in the same room with any bonnet St. James might select.”

  They all laughed, though Ilsa could feel her face burning. Bella and Mr. Kincaid darted into the clearing, and Bella set about scolding her brother for nefarious cheating. Drew asked what proof she had, which made her turn red, and then he laughed and tied the ribbon around Ilsa’s wrist with a large bow, giving her a smacking kiss on the hand. There was much laughing and teasing and indignant protest before they turned and began making their way out of the maze as a
group.

  The gentlemen led the way, heaping abuse on each other for their senses of direction, or lack thereof. Winnie and Bella fell behind, whispering furiously to each other. Ilsa felt awkward, walking alone in the middle. She tried not to wonder what they were saying. Winnie had seen her kissing Drew—Winnie, who was determined to find her brother a wealthy Scottish wife who would sponsor the St. James girls in London.

  Ilsa acknowledged she might fit the first two requirements, but she knew nothing of London and had no desire to go there, and that was what Winnie yearned for: a stunning new wardrobe, a dazzling debut, the chance to dance and laugh and sparkle at any number of eligible gentlemen.

  Well. She sighed, plucking the ribbon on her wrist. Hopefully the girls would believe it was an impulse, the momentary thrill of victory—and not tell their mother, who already regarded Ilsa with disapproval.

  As they emerged from the maze and started toward the house, someone called her name. Ilsa turned to see Agnes hurrying after them, flushed and missing her hat.

  “There she is,” cried Bella. “You came dead last, Agnes.”

  Agnes waved one hand. “I expected nothing less, when Mr. Duncan drew my name.”

  Everyone but Drew laughed. “Where is he?”

  “I shoved him into the river for making us lose,” she retorted. “Bella, didn’t you promise us tea after the maze? I’m half-starved.”

  “Yes!” Bella bounded away, calling out to her mother, who was helping Mrs. Watkins with a large tray on the terrace.

  “Did you drown him?” Drew asked Agnes in a lower voice.

  She sighed. “Of course not. He’s fine—sulking, most likely. I neither know nor care.” She saw the ribbon on Ilsa’s wrist. “Did you win, then? Despite Drew’s poor sense of direction? Let’s not be last to tea, men have fiendish appetites and won’t leave us a crumb.” And she pulled Ilsa toward the terrace, without a single glance backward for her partner.