Secrets to Seducing a Scot

SIXTEEN

The day dawned gloomy and forbidding. Gray clouds blanketed the sky, bringing the heavens even closer to the earth.

Serena gazed out through the dining room window. It seemed there was always something around to dampen her mood. Today, aptly, it was the rain.

“You’re cross,” remarked Earlington over the breakfast dishes.

“Can you blame me? Look at the weather. The one day that there’s going to be a fair, and the weather turns anything but.”

“Hardly seems fair.”

Serena cracked a smile. “It isn’t funny, Father. This is a brand-new frock.” She ran her fingers along the delicate embellishments of her neckline, a detail she had ordered specially. Tiny green leaves were sewn along the yellow muslin, above the ribboned waist, and along the hem. It was a beautiful walking dress, and she knew that it would turn Malcolm’s head when he saw it.

“I wouldn’t worry overmuch. The sky should clear up soon.”

She set aside the bowl of oatmeal that she had quickly learned to despise, and spread some strawberry preserves on a piece of toast instead. She was upset that she hadn’t bothered to pack her yellow parasol when she left England. Certainly, the green parasol she brought down would match, but it was such a waste to ruin the breathtaking effect of the entire costume. Still, this was Scotland—she doubted anyone would even notice the departure from perfection, let alone bemoan it.

Zoe bounced in. “Are you still eating? Hurry up! Invergarry is still over an hour away. I don’t want to miss any of the Games.”

Truth be told, neither did Serena. This rustic fair that she had scoffed at had turned out to be the high point of her stay. She put down her toast, kissed her father on the cheek, and followed Zoe to the front door.

Their town coach was already waiting in the driveway. A groom stood holding the horses while a footman opened the carriage door. But something was missing.

“Where’s Mr. Slayter?” asked Zoe.

A thread of irritation snaked through her as the girl read her thoughts. All Serena knew was that Malcolm had not yet seen her in her new dress. “I don’t know.”

“Shouldn’t someone go find him?”

Serena perched a hand on her hip. “It is his job to follow me around, not I him.”

Zoe sighed. “Would you like me to run upstairs and call him down?”

“No need of that,” Serena drawled. “Just draw a pentagram on the floor and shout ‘I summon thee.’ That should do the trick.”

Zoe giggled. “Come now, Serena. I can see that you don’t dislike Mr. Slayter as much as you pretend. In fact, I would go so far as to say that you feel for him what I feel for Monsieur Leveque.”

“Don’t be absurd, Zoe. I feel nothing warmer than indifference to him. To either of them.”

Just then they spotted a horse and rider galloping down the path toward the house. Even from the distance, she could tell it was Malcolm—he was a man of singular size. But as the distance closed between them, she noticed something altogether different about him: his clothing. The man was wearing a kilt. A black one.

The horse skidded to a halt on the gravel behind the carriage. Malcolm threw one leg over its giant neck and slid to the ground. Serena caught a glimpse of a long, muscled leg, all the way up to the thigh, before the folds of his kilt draped back down to his knee.

Her heart began to flutter. Here she was, expecting to be upset at him, but all she could do was marvel at the change he presented. Until now, he had dressed in coat and trousers, even a cravat—clothes befitting an Englishman. The man standing before her now was completely alien to her. A coarse white linen shirt, a black woolen kilt, a black plaid draped over a wide shoulder, and a sporran made from brown hide resting between his legs. A head-to-toe Highlander.

He patted down the horse, soothing the great animal as she caught her breath. He gave instructions to the groom, who led the animal away. Finally, he turned his attention to Serena and Zoe, who stood in the doorway.

“Mornin’,” he said, touching a finger to his forehead.

Serena cocked an eyebrow. “Where, may I ask, have you been?”

He gave her a sidewise glance as he checked the harness on the two horses pulling the carriage. “Canvassing your path.”

“Canvassing it? For what?”

“Making certain it was strewn with rose petals. What do ye think, woman? I was checking it for brigands. Highwaymen. Cutthroats. Assassins.”

Finally, he turned around and gave her the full measure of his attention. He leaned against the horse and crossed his arms at his chest. Audaciously, he looked her up and down, which gave Serena satisfaction … and a secret thrill.

“Ye look fetching,” he said. “Ye both do,” he added with a nod to Zoe.

Against her will, Serena blushed. “Thank you,” she replied with as much archness as she could muster.

“Planning to find a champion at the Games?”

“Perhaps. Does that make you jealous?”

He cocked a smile. “Just stay out of trouble. That’s all I ask.”

It was not the answer she had hoped for. As if to echo her ire, a distant rumbling in the sky was followed by a spittle of rain. Serena ducked back farther into the doorway, opening her green parasol and raising it heavenward. Malcolm, on the other hand, was completely indifferent to the rain, the drops adhering his shirt to his body.

A look of consternation crossed Serena’s face. “Perhaps we should postpone our trip until the weather clears.”

“No!” cried Zoe piteously.

Malcolm shook his head. “Just a smirr of rain. Come over to the carriage with ye.”

The skies opened up, and the rain turned into a downpour in a matter of seconds. She gave her lace parasol a distrustful glance. The decorative accoutrement was useless.

“Even a sheep bleats in complaint when it rains. It’s not my fault if you haven’t its sense.”

Zoe tugged on Serena’s sleeve. “If we make a mad dash, we won’t get too wet.”

“No, Zoe. These are new shoes.”

Malcolm stamped over to her. “Och, woman, ye do get yeself into a state over naught.” He took the parasol from her and set it on the floor. He slipped the plaid from his shoulder and, unfolding it, wrapped her in the wide swath. It was a thick wool cloth, resistant to the dampness.

“Thank you, Mr. Slayter, but I’m afraid—” The next thing she knew, she was bent forward over his shoulder like a sack of barley.

He carried her in that ignoble manner all the way to the carriage, and tossed her through the open doorway. She clambered to the seat just as Zoe ran inside, and Malcolm ensconced himself on the opposite seat.

She stared at him, her mouth open in affronted pride.

“No thanks necessary,” he said. “It’s reward enough that yer shoes are still dry.” A knock on the carriage roof signaled to the driver that they were ready, and with a lurch they were off.

In the seat opposite her, Malcolm ran a hand through his wet hair, which spiked chaotically. He seemed entirely unaffected by the rain on his skin. She, on the other hand, found the look of it on him quite irresistible. As he adjusted the plaid back in place over his shoulder, Serena stole a long look at him. Rainwater glistened on his face, giving his complexion a bronze sheen. His eyelashes became tiny black daggers as they fanned across his wet cheek. The damp shirt turned invisible now that it stuck to his chest and arms. For the first time, Serena could see the well-defined bicep that mounded over the crook of his arm, and the thick pads of muscle on his chest. He was a stallion of a man, all hard curves and beautiful lines. A rivulet of rainwater fell from the hollow of his throat, and Serena watched as it slowly caressed the valley of his chest and disappeared behind the open shirt.

Serena looked away. The vistas of rolling hills and lush greenery became nothing more than a languid blur as her thoughts wandered to the man in the opposite seat. Her skin still tingled from where he had handled her. Breathlessly, she began to imagine what such a man would feel like wrapped around her entire body. To feel those knotted forearms wrapped around her waist, that hard chest pressed against her exposed breasts, those lean hips spreading her thighs …

She pulled a frilled kerchief out of her reticule and dabbed it upon her reddening cheeks. How heavenly it would be not to have to be so strong, so proper anymore. If she could cease to be Serena Marsh, the ambassador’s daughter, and just be Serena, an ordinary woman? Maybe then she would be able to give vent to the desires that consumed her.

Malcolm sat back in the seat and peered out of the window. What a mystery he was to her. He was always present, but never there. Close at hand, but inaccessible. Beautiful to look at, but unavailable to the rest of her senses.

If only he would touch her first, then perhaps it would be easier to reciprocate. But he never made any overtures toward her. After he’d checked her room last night, he’d never come back in, even though she’d secretly hoped he would. It was almost painful knowing that his bed was so close, his nearness tempting her like a forbidden sweet. There, through that secret door in her bedroom, slept a healthy, gorgeous man. If she had dared to go to his room to steal a kiss, no one would ever find out.

And yet, she was forced to wonder if he would even welcome her attentions. Malcolm was the most inscrutable man she’d ever met, and even when she could read him, he seemed so hard and unyielding. The only time she’d seen him less than self-assured was the moment she discovered the brand on his hand. That scar seemed to be his private shame, his Achilles’ heel. The thing that made him most human.

“Your gloves are wet,” she ventured. “Perhaps you ought to remove them to let them dry.”

He shot her a warning look. “No’ the now.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’d forgotten about your scar.”

Zoe’s ears perked. “You have a scar?”

“Aye.”

“May I see it?” she asked.

“No.”

Zoe blushed. “That was rude of me, wasn’t it?”

His eyes bore into Serena’s. “No ruder than Miss Marsh was for bringing it up.”

Serena stiffened. “I was only trying to pass the time.”

“Find some other topic of conversation.”

She wanted him to be the topic of conversation. “Very well, then. I’m glad to see you’ve finally decided to identify yourself with the costume of your heritage.”

“Costume of my—? Ye mean the kilt?”

“Of course. And the—” She pointed to the black cloth pinned to his shirt.

“The fly plaid?” He chuckled. “This is no’ a costume of heritage. It’s a very practical garment.”

“In what way?”

“It kept the rain off yer backside, didn’t it?”

Zoe giggled. Serena flicked her a withering glance.

“Nevertheless, it is a costume, just as my dress is a costume. Does one wear anything under that?”

A twinkle in his eye signaled his amusement. “May-hap ye’d like a wee keek?”

Serena felt a blush zooming up her neck. The answer to that question was embarrassingly yes. “Hmm. Thanks all the same, but I fear that, in the words of William Shakespeare, it may be ‘much ado about nothing.’”

There it was again. That smile. It transformed his dangerous face into something quite delectable, dripping with sexual charm.

“Please yerself.”

She’d love to, but he was making it very hard. She would have to find a way to make him very hard. Who knew … perhaps her next column would be all about his column.