Secrets to Seducing a Scot

THIRTEEN

The clock downstairs chimed nine, reverberating through the empty house.

Serena put down the hairbrush. Gazing out of the window that was behind her mirrored dressing table, she sighed audibly. Light still filled the sky even though practically the entire household had gone to bed. This was what the Scots called “the gloaming”—the twilight time between sunset and dark. Outside, the sky had no moon and no stars—none of the beauty that night brings—but the sun had long since departed. It was a strange purgatory. All was suspended as day had given up, but nightfall refused to come.

Suspended. That was how she felt, too. Gone was the familiar life she had so enjoyed and reveled in, and still to come was … she knew not what.

A hollow knock startled her. It came from the wall at the foot of her bed, where her wardrobe had once been. On the other side of the larkspur wallpaper was the place Malcolm had made his bedchamber.

“Come in,” she said on instinct, even though she was only in her dressing gown.

The secret door opened, and there stood Malcolm holding a candlestick aloft. “I’ve come to check ye’re all right.”

Despite their tense exchanges, she found herself glad to see him. “Quite well, thank you.” She said it before she could stop herself: “Would you care to come in?”

“Aye.”

He had to dip his head to be able to walk through the six-foot doorway. But once he was inside, the candlelight from her bedside table brought a completely new look to his face. His weathered features softened, and his black hair came alive in shades of blue. He had on a cream-colored linen shirt and black trousers, but there was no cravat or coat on him. Also gone were his gloves. But more interesting were his eyes, which danced down her peignoir before riveting themselves to the floor. “I’ll just check on the door. To make sure it’s been locked properly.”

His timidity beguiled her. “I assure you I’ve done so. But you may put your own mind at ease.”

He went to the doorknob and tried it. Absently, he tucked the back of his shirt into his trousers.

“Do ye have everything ye need for the night?” he asked.

Not everything. “I believe so. And you? Are you comfortable behind the wall? It seems awfully cramped inside that little passageway.”

“I’ve slept in worse places.”

“Oh?”

“Hmm,” he assented. “I once had to make bed inside four feet of snow just to stay out of the frigid Highland wind.”

“What were you doing out in the wilds overnight?”

He cocked his head. “I have not always enjoyed the pleasure of a warm home.”

“You mean you were a vagrant?”

He chuckled. “Ye make it sound as if it were a profession. I’m no Gypsy, if that’s what’s in yer head. My father owned a vast tract of land, with many tenant farmers. But after he was … that is, I left home, I found myself a vagrant, as ye put it, for a short time.”

Interesting, she thought. This Mr. Slayter hails from a family of landowners. “Why did you leave home?”

He was silent a few moments. “Circumstances.”

“I see,” she said, though she really did not. “Well, are you certain you wouldn’t feel more comfortable in the bedchamber next door?”

“Sure I am that I would. But it would delay me coming to yer rescue. An intruder could always blockade yer door against me. Besides, as I said before, if an intruder did come in, the last thing he’d expect is someone coming through the wall. Surprise is key to victory.”

Her eyes traveled down his long, lean legs. “And what’s to keep you from surprising me during the night?” She found the idea shot a secret thrill through her.

He shook his head, spilling a lock of black hair down his forehead. A sidewise smile dimpled one cheek. “More sense than ye just showed in suggesting it.”

An embarrassed flush heated her cheeks. She almost threw the hairbrush at him. “I-I only meant that I must rely on your honor to keep that door fully closed in the night. Because if I so much as catch you peeping into my rooms—”

His palms faced her in a defensive posture. “Sacred, I assure ye.”

She should have been relieved to hear it, but she wasn’t. In fact, it made her quite cross. She raked the hairbrush through her hair.

“I shall want an outing,” she stated archly. “The Saint Swithin’s Day Festival in Invergarry is tomorrow. Zoe and I will be attending. Make your preparations early, or we shall leave without you.”

“I shall be ready. But make bet, ye’ll no’ be leaving without me.” He turned on his heel and opened the secret door.

His high-handedness galled her. She was not about to let him leave with the last word, let alone the last command.

“You may take your leave now. But first, fetch me the milk.”

It stopped him in his tracks. “Eh?”

She didn’t even look at him, instead peering into the mirror. “The tray on the table beside the bed. Fetch it to me.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she sensed him go to the night table and collect the pot of warm cocoa. Dutifully, he placed it on the dressing table.

But he didn’t move.

After a few tense seconds, she couldn’t stand it anymore. She looked up into his face. Amusement danced in his eyes.

“Shall I pour it, too, milady?”

This was worse. Now he was laughing at her expense. She should have slapped the mischievous grin off his face. But truth be told, she was mesmerized by the handsomeness of his features when something pleased him.

“You may.”

His eyes became mere slits as he studied her, and she grew uncomfortable under his penetrating gaze. His hips were mere inches from her head. But he did as she asked. He righted the overturned teacup, and placed it in the saucer. Her gaze feathered down his arm as he picked up the teapot. It looked like a toy in his large hand. Briefly she wondered what such a large hand would feel against her cheek, her shoulder, her breast. Her own hand would be swallowed up in one of his. As the cocoa filled the cup, twin tendrils of steam swirled upward, like two people waltzing. What a treat it would be to dance with a man as large as this. She gazed at his heavily muscled forearm. How heavenly it would feel against her back!

As her gaze drew downward, she saw something shocking.

The skin on the back of his hand was hideously distorted.

Impulsively, she grasped him by the wrist, making him spill the cocoa onto the saucer. “What’s happened to your hand?”

He jerked it away and set down the teapot. “It is nothing.”

“Show it to me at once!”

His lips thinned. He flattened his hand on the table before her.

She leaned the candle closer. Sliced across his hand was a most horrible scar. It covered the whole of the back of his right hand, the skin lifting whitely in the shape of what appeared to be an S.

“Is this why you never appear before us without gloves?”

“Aye. I don’t allow anyone to see my burn.”

“That’s no burn. It’s a—a brand.”

His jaw tensed. He could not meet her eyes. For the first time since she’d met him, he registered something she’d never seen before. Shame.

Her forehead twisted. “Who did that to you?”

“No one. It was a long time ago. Leave it be.”

“Did you do something wrong?”

“I said leave it be, woman!” He seized his candlestick, nearly extinguishing the small flame, and ducked through the opening into the passageway.

The air fairly pulsed with the fury of his departure. She hadn’t just touched upon a sensitive nerve … she had stomped all over it.

She expelled a heavy sigh. There was so much Malcolm wouldn’t speak of, so much she wanted to know. But his lips were a vault, and he himself a fortress. Perhaps a softer touch was needed.

She lay her head upon the pillow, wondering what horrible chain of events had led to that scar upon his hand. What did the S stand for? Slaughterer? Slave? Sexual Deviant?

As she considered the array of crimes that her protector might have been guilty of, she realized that life in Scotland had just become a lot more fascinating.