Secrets to Seducing a Scot

TWENTY-SEVEN

Earlington had spent the better part of the day shivering with cold. The stone walls gave off a bitter chill, and though his nightdress had dried, it gave him no protection against the damp, fetid air. The cot smelled of sweat and fear multiplied over the course of decades. Never had he imagined an existence so tortured.

The injury to the back of his head had stopped bleeding, but it left a thick ache in its place. Added to that, worry about Serena plagued him. What if she had been captured? It made him miserable to think of her in a place such as this. But what if they had done unconscionable acts against her? What if they had raped her, or worse—what if they carried out their threat and mutilated her face? Pain pierced his chest and he clutched his heart. Both the pain, and the fear of the pain, locked upon his heart like a steel trap. Many anxious minutes passed while he held a hand to his heart. He grimaced, breathing through the constricting ache. Finally, the pain abated.

He tried to clear his head of the awful thoughts. But awful thoughts were like the foul smell that clung to these ancient stones … there was nothing to take their place.

Perhaps Malcolm had been able to protect her. Perhaps it was not Serena they were after. Maybe the threatening letter had been only a ruse to distract him. Perhaps he had been the real target after all.

But to what end? He could not envision His Royal Highness bowing to the will of his captors just to get an ambassador returned. Parliament would not negotiate with revolutionaries, and the Crown would not be coerced by rebels. Otherwise, the government would be at the mercy of every radical who abducted an official. If he were in London and someone else was in this cell, he would advise the Prime Minister to call the rebels’ bluff.

Of course, that did nothing to console him. But it did clarify his thinking: It was completely up to him to get himself out of this predicament.

Though faint, he heard a sound beyond the thick stone wall. He wasn’t tall enough to see out of the window, so he overturned the waste bucket and placed it below the narrow opening to stand upon.

The window was still too high, but he managed to steal a glance. In the courtyard above, hundreds of men, maybe even a thousand, gathered. Someone, he couldn’t see who, was giving them instructions. He couldn’t make out any of the words, but the speech was punctuated with cheers from the assemblage, which, he noted, was armed with both swords and firearms.

Earlington sat back down. It was a soldiers’ parade, except that these weren’t soldiers. They were militia and mercenaries, just like the one who had abducted him. This group was organizing for its defense.

The turning of the lock reverberated across his chamber. The old man with the white beard appeared in the doorway, flanked by two armed guards.

“Ye’ll put this on,” he said, handing Earlington a shirt and a black woolen kilt. He was secretly grateful for the warm garments. But he would not be manipulated into thanking his captors for giving him the barest of essentials.

“It is an outrage for you to keep me here. I demand that you release me at once.”

“Keep yer breath. Put on the clothes and then follow me. The McCullough will see ye now.”



The frightened horses had galloped over the broken road and into a field. They would have easily run for miles had not an ancient stone dyke cut short their panicked dash.

They seemed miles away as Malcolm hobbled toward them. The grays were still harnessed together, with reins and straps dragging behind them. On one side, they were still dragging a broken shaft that remained wedged in the tug loop. He had to get to them, if for no other reason than for the humane purpose of removing their bindings.

When he finally reached them, the horses were still wide-eyed and their ears were tipped back. He cooed softly as he approached, inspecting them for injuries from all angles. Miraculously, they didn’t seem to be hurt, with the exception of the horse whose rein had pulled him out of the crevasse. The edge of her mouth was torn and bleeding.

He made quick work of removing her bridle and unbuckling the harness. But he kept a hold on both the horses’ halters, and he led them quietly but firmly back to the road.

About a mile from where their carriage had dropped upon the loose rocks, the road had begun to wend downward until it united with the river. Malcolm let the horses drink before turning them back in the direction they came from, this time walking along the riverbed.

Finally, Malcolm came upon the shattered carriage at the foot of the rocky outcropping. He looked up: The crumbling slope was being held up by the remaining valiant trees, but it wouldn’t hold out much longer.

“Serena!”

No answer.

He shielded his eyes from the late-afternoon sun as he scanned the slope. He’d give anything to be able to see a patch of blue fabric or a hint of blond hair.

“Serena!” he yelled louder. His voice reverberated across the canyon.

“Stop yelling,” came a voice behind him. “I’m right here.”

He turned, and there was Serena, smiling at him. He hugged her tightly, filling his arms with the feel of her, and spun her around.

“God be praised! Ye’re all right! How did ye get down here?”

“I climbed down!” she said triumphantly. “Did you take me for a frail milkwater maid?”

His jaw tensed. “Ye’ve far too much confidence for yer own good. Didn’t I tell ye to stay where ye were?”

“You said you were coming to get me.”

“So I was!”

“You took your time about it.”

“I had to fetch the horses.”

“Where did they get to … Norway?”

He pinned his fists to his hips. “I’ve a good mind to kiss ye.”

She smiled at him. “Well, what’s keeping you now?”

He seized her by the arms and snapped her to a hairsbreadth away from his face. A fierce grin cut across his face. “Why do I get the feeling that any road I share with ye will be fraught with danger?”

“Don’t worry,” she said with a wry smile. “I’ll protect you.”

Her lips touched his, and he melted all around her. His arms wrapped around her back as he feasted on her lips. She snaked her arms around his neck, putting his body in full contact with hers. They fit together so perfectly, wholly and in every possible way. What foolishness was it that taught her men wanted only showpieces on their arm? Malcolm not only wanted to keep her all to himself—he wanted to erase every lowly, contemptible man from her memory.

She exhaled contentedly. “My goodness! You are … That was …”

He chuckled. Now he knew how to rob her of speech. “Next time, ye’ll think twice about daring me to love ye.”