A Scot to the Heart Read online

  A hesitation. “Yes.”

  “Agnes has heard me mention Mr. MacGill several times, and she never mentioned he was your family’s solicitor.”

  The captain cleared his throat. “He certainly is not. He’s the duke’s solicitor.”

  She nodded. “Then, as your friend, may I ask you something about him?”

  It had been festering in her mind, the way MacGill treated her. Aunt Jean had told her that she was the problem; she ought not to have gone to see him alone, or questioned his judgement, or tried to make decisions about her money at all. It put people off, Jean scolded. Papa waved his hands and said he would deal with MacGill, suggesting that she was unable to do so herself, and that she was probably being a hysterical female about it anyway. And Papa would most likely tell the solicitor simply to be gentler with her, not to treat her as any sort of intelligent, capable being.

  “Of course,” said the captain.

  Ilsa kept her gaze on the spires of town. “My question is this: What would you expect Mr. MacGill to do if you asked him to do something of which he did not approve?”

  He frowned. “Something unethical? Or illegal?”

  “No!”

  “Then I’d expect him to nod his head and do it.”

  “And if he protested?” she asked. “If he told you to wait six months and refused to do it sooner?”

  He blew out a breath and thought. “If he made sound arguments against the action, I would consider them, of course. One never wants to charge headlong after a stupid idea.”

  “But if he did not offer any,” she persisted. “If he said it was a silly whim, and refused to act until you came to your senses and changed your mind.”

  Now he was frowning at her. “Is that how he treats you?”

  “What would you do?” she asked again, feeling her face grow hot.

  “I’d sack him on the spot. I wouldn’t put up with that from another officer, let alone a man in my own employ.”

  Ilsa nodded, squinting at the sunlight glaring off the windows of the town as they drew nearer. “I thought so.”

  “I was told you had concluded your appointment that day,” said Captain St. James cautiously. “But I fear . . .”

  She gave a short laugh. “Oh, I suppose my appointment was over before it began. I’ve no doubt Mr. MacGill viewed your arrival as a gift from heaven above, offering him an excellent excuse for bundling me out the door as soon as he could.”

  “So he tossed you out.” Now the captain looked and sounded quite grim.

  Ilsa wiggled her shoulders to release their tension and took a deep breath. “Never mind about him. Thank you for answering my question, Captain.”

  He glanced at her, still frowning in that appealingly stern way he had. “Sack him, Mrs. Ramsay. I intend to.”

  She blinked. “Do you, now?”

  “As soon as I can do so, at any rate.” He sighed, then forced a smile. “Which might not be for many years.”

  He could do nothing until he was the duke. Ilsa still smiled. His outrage for her was more comforting than it ought to have been.

  “Your sisters are very curious about your future position,” she said on impulse. “If I may offer a suggestion, as a friend, you could win their hearts with a little effort.”

  “Ah,” he said, his mouth easing. “Agnes has spoken about it.”

  Agnes had railed furiously against any move to England and declared her brother could go alone for all she cared. But no matter what she said, Ilsa knew her friend would be despondent if the rest of her family went.

  “All of them have,” she told him. “Just this morning, in fact.”

  He heaved a sigh so weary, so afflicted, she laughed in spite of herself. “It is the greatest trial I could inflict upon my family, apparently.”

  He wouldn’t think that if he’d heard Winnie waxing eloquent about the parties and ball gowns she looked forward to in London. “Less than you might think. Once they realize the benefits and advantages it will confer, that is . . . Naturally, each will find something different appealing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ilsa didn’t even know why she was saying this. It was much more in her interest to keep her friends in Edinburgh. And yet. It was rare to have a happy family of siblings. The St. Jameses had not had it easy in all the time she’d known them. Ilsa loved the girls like sisters, and she wanted to see them happy. She hoped they would write to her from distant, elegant London.

  “Edinburgh hasn’t nearly the elegant sophistication of London,” she said, pushing aside her own wishes. “They are intrigued by it, but also wary of the unknown. Perhaps a glimpse of how things will be would help set their minds at ease and even make them eager.”

  A thoughtful frown knit his brow. “So . . . if I were planning to visit a ducal estate not far from here, to make certain it’s in good order?”

  “If it’s a fine, elegant house, likely to impress and please, you might make a party of it,” she suggested.

  He gave her a look so warm with admiration and gratitude, it nearly bowled her over; her knees felt weak. “A splendid thought. I’m in your debt, Mrs. Ramsay.”

  Heart thudding, she waved one hand. “A trifle!” And then, before she could stop herself, she added, “Invite Mr. Duncan, too.”

  He stopped short. “Why?”

  Ilsa cursed herself for a meddling busybody who ought to stay out of Agnes’s personal affairs. “You have the look of a harried stag when your sisters swarm you. Another man might deflect some of their teasing. I thought only of your comfort, sir, in suggesting it.”

  Now his gaze was searing. “Did you, now?”

  “What else?” She blinked at him artlessly.

  The slow smile that crept over his face sent a ripple of heat through her. “I’m grateful for every moment you’re thinking of me.”

  “The only gratitude I want is for your sisters to be pleased with their future.” She was gazing back at him like a coquette; she knew it and somehow still couldn’t stop herself. Friends friends friends . . .

  He laughed. “Then we want the same thing.”

  “How fortunate,” she murmured, knowing what he meant.

  Each other. They wanted each other. Saints above, how they wanted each other.

  Good Lord. What had come over her? She closed her eyes for a moment, giving herself a brief mental scold. “Here is where we must part, Captain. Good day to you.”

  He accepted the dismissal; with a lingering warm look, he bowed and turned away. Ilsa slowly let out her breath, covertly admiring his legs even more than Mr. Duncan’s.

  After a few steps, the captain turned around. “I’ve been wondering about one thing for some time . . . What you said to me that night in the oyster cellar.”

  Another flush of arousal went through her. That still felt like a moment in time too vivid to stare directly at, as if doing so would cause it to dim or fade, and she was just barely keeping to the safe side of the line she mustn’t cross with him as it was. Friends, she sternly told herself. “What any woman would say, in the midst of such a crush,” she replied lightly. “A polite thanks for your assistance.”

  He came a little closer. “Then I seriously misheard. I thought you said . . .” His gaze dropped to her mouth.

  For a moment she felt again his arms around her, his fingers in her hair, strong and commanding. She tasted his mouth on hers, hot and seductive. She felt again the wild spike of longing that it could mean something . . .

  “What?” she said, hating that her voice had gone breathy. “What did you think I said?”

  He was an arm’s length away; her feet were rooted to the ground. “Whaur hae ye been aw ma life?” he whispered in a deep Scots purr.

  Her lips parted. Her knees almost buckled. Saints help her, she wanted to kiss him again. She wanted him to swing her into his arms and hold her close and laugh with her before he kissed her senseless.

  “But if I heard wrong,” he went on, his voice even lower and ro
ugher, “’tis right sorry I am.”

  He gave a very proper bow and strode away, his drapes swinging with every long-legged stride. And Ilsa could only cling to Robert for balance, speechless and breathless with wanting.

  Chapter Seven

  He was on Duncan’s doorstep before his heart stopped pounding.

  God above, he liked that woman. And she might just drive him mad, with her sly glances and subtle comments that sent his mind tumbling down wickedly erotic paths. That sparkle in her eyes when he said there was nothing wrong with naughty . . . the way her gaze turned hot and lustful when he said they wanted the same thing . . .

  Each other. God above, she wanted him as much as he wanted her, and he hadn’t been wrong about her whispered words in the oyster cellar. His skin seemed to burn with wanting.

  There was, however, a possible fly in the ointment, and he attacked it head-on, having no patience to wait.

  Duncan was sprawled on the sofa reading. It must be a legal document, because he wore his spectacles, and Felix was too vain to wear them any other time.

  “You didn’t tell me you knew her.”

  Duncan flushed dull red. “Why should I? It’s not a crime to know someone.”

  His defensive attitude took Drew aback. “You might have mentioned it.”

  “There was nothing to tell,” muttered Duncan, his jaw set and his eyes fixed on the papers in his hand.

  “Hmph. She specifically named you, idiot, and said I should invite you to visit Stormont Palace with us.”

  “She did?” His friend’s face came alive with wild, sharp pleasure—before going carefully blank.

  His hands clenched. “Good God, Duncan, if you had an amour with her, you ought to have told me when I asked about her the other day! Acting like you hardly knew her name and teasing me about catching her interest.”

  Duncan’s expression froze. “Ilsa Ramsay!” he exclaimed. “Of course. Ha ha, St. James, have you been tormenting yourself imagining me making love to her?” He laughed, once more the careless scoundrel Drew knew.

  “Who did you think I meant?”

  Duncan pretended not to hear. “We’re going to Stormont Palace? Excellent. What, and where, is Stormont Palace?”

  He raked one hand through his hair. “The ducal property near Perth I’m to inspect. Mrs. Ramsay suggested I make a party of it, invite my family and even you. Why would she do that?”

  “Did she?” Duncan brightened. “I knew I liked her. Such intelligence and wit, not to mention a splendid figure.”

  Drew glared at him. “Why would she want to invite you?”

  “Perhaps she fancies an amour with me.” Felix draped his arms over the back of the sofa and looked smug. “I trust you’re going to invite her to this impromptu house party, too. I’d be very grateful.”

  “Not so you can flirt with her.”

  “Planning to flirt with her yourself?” His friend gave him an evil grin. “I told you that little book would be helpful.” He wagged one finger playfully. “She’s one of the finest catches in all Edinburgh. I’ll expect your profuse thanks at a later time.”

  This time Drew managed to ignore the images Duncan’s words conjured up. “If not her, then who?” he demanded as Duncan threw aside his reading and sprang to his feet.

  “Who what?”

  “Whom did you think I meant, when you looked so elated to think you were invited to Stormont?” persisted Drew.

  “Hmm? No one,” said the fellow airily.

  “No.” He stopped, nonplussed. “Not Winifred?” He’d been startled by how beautiful his younger sister had grown. Duncan must have noticed, too.

  His friend paused in the doorway. “No,” he said over his shoulder, “not Winifred. Until later, St. James.” And he was gone, banging the door behind him.

  Which left Drew annoyed, puzzled, and somewhat startled to realize that he had, in fact, planned to invite Ilsa Ramsay to Stormont Palace.

  After the exhilarating walk with Captain St. James, when her mind had filled with wild, irrational fantasies of what might happen between the two of them, it took only a few words from Aunt Jean to send her thoughts crashing back to earth.

  “Oh my dear, there you are! Heaven above, I’ve been so worried.” Jean was waiting just inside the door, ready to close it behind her. “The streets are not safe these days.”

  “What has happened? I walk every morning and you don’t complain.”

  Jean clicked her tongue in reproof. “Haven’t you heard? There was a robbery at the goldsmith’s shop near Parliament Square!”

  “This morning?” exclaimed Ilsa. Her walk home had brought her very near Parliament Square.

  “No, lass, last night! Mrs. Crawley and Mrs. Douglas were here with the news!”

  “Oh.” Ilsa tried not to sigh impatiently. Mrs. Crawley and Mrs. Douglas were two of Jean’s humorless gossipy friends. Wearing one’s hat at the wrong angle set the two of them off in a frenzy of censure. “Then the thieves were long gone by the time I ventured near.”

  Jean gave her a sharp look and shot the bolt on the door. “Don’t make light of it! Thieves, within feet of our front door!”

  Almost a quarter mile, thought Ilsa. “Robert was with me,” she told her aunt. The pony had already ambled back into his room and could be heard nosing about his bucket of oats.

  “Robert!” huffed the older woman. “That pony is no protection!”

  “And the Misses St. James were as well, before their brother fetched them,” added Ilsa, partly truthful. “I was not alone until I reached High Street, which was filled with people.”

  “Thank goodness.” Jean exhaled in genuine relief. “But you mustn’t risk it again. First these brigands breaking into shops. Next it will be houses, where someone is sure to be home, and before you know it murder will be done.” Aunt Jean dogged her heels all the way to the drawing room.

  Ilsa put on her smock. She’d bought more green paint on her way home and thought she would finish her painting of Calton Hill. “Thieving is one thing, murder another—far more effort and trouble. I’m sure the thieves wouldn’t want to bother.”

  “Ilsa!” Jean inhaled so hard, Ilsa feared she might faint. “You are too careless. It’s only a matter of time before the thieves turn to violence. We must ask your father to put a guard at our door. We must bar every window and make certain Mr. MacLeod loads his flintlock. And you—! Promise me you will not go out at all until the villains are caught.”

  Ilsa had been only half listening to her aunt’s tirade, but at this she put up her hand. “No, Aunt. Pockets are picked every day in the streets, and still we go to the shops. I shall be careful, but I am not staying in every night.”

  Jean stiffened. “You must,” she charged. “For your own safety.”

  “I shall not be careless of that,” Ilsa promised, “but how can we let fear of these thieves keep us trapped at home indefinitely?”

  “’Tis not fear if ’tis sensible! What would your father say, if something happened to you on my watch?”

  “Aunt Jean.” Ilsa leveled a firm but loving look at her. “I am no longer a child under your watch.”

  “Yes, you are! If anything were to happen to you, your father—”

  Ilsa felt a growl rising in her throat; it must have been loud enough for Jean to hear, for her aunt fell silent, although her eyes flashed and her mouth was a flat line.

  “Ye’ve become such a headstrong lass since Malcolm died,” she said with withering reproach before she marched out.

  Alone in the silent room, Ilsa regarded her pot of paint. Under Jean’s watch. She should have guessed as much, when her father persuaded her to have her aunt to stay after Malcolm’s death. You can keep each other company, he’d said. Ilsa had reluctantly agreed. Aunt Jean was the closest thing she’d known to a mother, and though Jean had been strict and protective, she’d also been loving.

  Ilsa had thought Papa meant well, putting together the widow and the spinster, two women without childr
en to occupy them. She’d thought Papa wanted a bachelor’s residence again. But no; Papa had meant the child and the guardian, keeping a close eye on her again now that she had no husband to do it.

  She set down her paint and noticed for the first time the drapes, hung again in front of the drawing room window. The view was once more narrow, the room once more shadowed.

  Stay in, bar the doors, curtain the windows, post a guard. It was too much like Malcolm’s edicts. Now that she’d had a few months of freedom, it felt like being buried alive.

  That night she put on her favorite gown, a glorious emerald silk with silver spangles and miles of lace. It fluttered when she walked and made her feel like a butterfly, capable of soaring wherever her fancy took her. Malcolm would have hated it, for the brilliant color and low-cut bodice. She would not be held captive by her aunt’s rigid rules, nor by her father’s manipulations. She ignored Jean’s furious protests and stepped into the sedan chair Mr. MacLeod had summoned for her.

  The Assembly Rooms were full when she walked in. Obviously no one else in Edinburgh was huddling behind their doors in fear of thieves. In fact, her father met her almost immediately. “Ilsa! What are you doing here?”

  She kissed his cheek. “The same thing you are, I expect.”

  He flushed even as he scowled. Papa came to flirt and dance and show off. He fancied himself a favorite of the ladies, and tonight he was dressed like a macaroni, in a striped yellow waistcoat and burgundy coat with diamond buckles on his shoes. “ʼTain’t the same! You ought not to be out.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re as fussy and fretful as Jean.”

  “Certainly not,” he scoffed in outrage. “But you can’t go about alone—”

  “I came in a sedan chair,” she told him. “And if it’s not safe to walk the streets, how did you get here?” He scowled anew, and she smiled as she patted his arm. “I never thought you’d turn into a worried old woman, Papa.”

  His mouth firmed—to stop the smile twitching at his lips. “Saucy wench. I do not approve, but I’ll see you safely home. And now that you are here, you must meet someone. By happy chance, Mr. Grant is in attendance, and he’ll be pleased to solicit your hand for the quadrille.” Without waiting for her reply, he towed her through the crowd and introduced her to the genial wine merchant.