Secrets to Seducing a Scot

FIVE

“Scotland? What the hell is there to do in Scotland?”

In the editor’s office of the Town Crier, Archer Weston leaned against the four-foot stack of newspapers that formed his seat back. It was his trophy, that stack, and his goal was that when it got as tall as he was, he would start his own paper.

Serena chuckled at Archer’s response, which echoed her own words to her father. “I told you I had unfortunate tidings.”

Archer bolted out of his chair, his lean frame shaking loose his compact energy. “Unfortunate I expected. Not catastrophic.”

She sighed. “Don’t be so hysterical. Mine is just one column.”

“Just one column?” Archer cocked his blond eyebrow. “Allow me to illustrate.” He turned and pointed to a spot on his stack about a foot from the top. “This is where you started writing for this paper. And this,” he said, about an inch from that point, “is where we finally started to turn a serious profit. Your column is the reason that women—and not just men—buy the paper. The ‘Rage Page’ has launched for us an entirely new readership—ladies of the upper classes. And more importantly, it’s the reason a whole new segment of businesses have started advertising in our paper. We are finally starting to emerge as a threat to the other major London papers. Two months ago, the Times launched a column similar to yours. But it had no cleverness, no sparkle, and it was so disparaged by the readers that they discontinued it. The public loves your writing. You can’t stop now.”

She was a kaleidoscope of emotions. From one moment to the next, she felt flattered, proud, needed, wanted, and disloyal. It seemed as if she was abandoning not only Archer but also the many readers who followed her work. She looked into his pleading eyes.

“What can I do?”

Archer folded his arms in front of his chest. His navy-colored tailcoat set off the windswept blond locks that were just a shade darker than her own. “You must stay in London! You can’t make observations on what happens in Society from the remote hinterland of Scotland.”

Serena worried her lip. “Maybe Scotland’s social set is more interesting than London’s. Maybe I can expose a new set of stories to the readers.”

Archer tossed his hands in the air. “London readers don’t want to hear about who is seen at the caber tossing. They don’t know Lady MacWhatsit. And they don’t care what she’s up to. They want to hear about people they know, people they admire or admonish. They enjoy guessing who you’ll be talking about next. You are their eyes and ears among Society’s elite. If you’re gone for too long, you’ll lose touch with all those people. You can’t leave London. You mustn’t.”

She covered her face with her gloved hands. “I can’t let my father go alone. He needs me, Archer. He’s not well, and I know he hides the truth from me. If he goes to Scotland by himself and anything happens to him …” She dared not even finish the thought.

Archer went to her side and took her by the arms. “I’m sorry, Serena. Come here.” He enfolded her in his arms. “I shouldn’t make you feel accountable for our paper’s profits. Of course you must go with your father. You’d only worry yourself sick if you let him go on his own. In fact, help him. The faster he brings order to that savage country, the sooner you’ll come back, and the less the readers will miss you.”

Serena gazed into Archer’s caramel-colored eyes. Handsome and energetic, Archer was to Serena an exceptional man. At almost thirty, Archer was well aware of his power to change the world, one word at a time. His boldness and rapier-sharp intelligence excited her, and their conversations sometimes lasted hours. Of all the men she knew, only Archer made her toes curl. Maybe it was not her column or London that she’d miss the most. Maybe it was this embrace, and the gentle kiss he now placed upon her lips.

“Bugger the readers. I’ll miss you.”

She smiled into his cravat, her heart thrumming with excitement. “You’ve been absolutely horrid to me today. I won’t miss you at all.”

“Then I’ll leave you with this to remember me by.” He took her lips in a solid kiss that made her giddy with delight.

“If my father saw you kiss me like that, he’d have your head on a stack of your own newspapers.”

“I’ll cherish that thought,” he said with a wink.



Serena contemplated that kiss as their town coach rumbled through the English countryside bound for an unfamiliar northern destination.

She looked across the seat at her father. He had been reading a sheaf of diplomatic papers until he quietly dozed off. He slept more and more, weak as he had become following his heart seizure, yet he was more determined to return to office. Nothing could keep her father from his duty to king and country.

Although her father was headed toward his destiny, she was moving away from hers. Not only was London her home, it was her delight, and each mile that she pulled away from it was a physical pain. It was as though an invisible thread tied her heart to that great and bustling city, and it grew tauter and tauter the farther away she drove. Until, she suspected, the cord would finally snap.

Now it became evident just how far she had traveled from the glittering London ambience. The landscape began to change as she traveled over the rugged terrain of Scotland. Gone were the vast manicured gardens and majestic mansions of England. Now she could only see the ruins of ancient castles and tiny crofts on the edges of farms. There were endless lonely miles between villages. Even the weather seemed to belong exclusively to this bleak country, as she left the summertime sunshine behind and entered a world grayed out by mist and rain.

And as they drove past a solitary croft enclosed on all four sides by a mossy stone dyke, only one thought filled her head.

How soon can I get back?



The woman leaned against the doorjamb of her tworoom croft. Beyond the mossy stone dyke, a quarter mile from her farm, a beautiful black carriage rumbled down the lane.

There had been a time when she had thought she, too, might be riding a carriage like that one. But that was long before. Before she had married too young a man too old. Before the shine in her copper hair had tarnished to a dull bronze.

The good Lord had seen fit to deliver her of eight beautiful bairns, but now she wished she’d been barren. The crops hadn’t come in yet, and there wasn’t enough in the house to feed those who lived in it. The sheep had been sold off last year, and that money was long gone. And her a widow with no man in the house to look after them … It was a losing battle each day to keep body and soul together.

She lifted the lid on the cupboard she used as a larder. She counted its contents out into her apron. One leek, four potatoes, and maybe a pound of liver. She stared at the assortment in dismay. Nine people had to be fed on this.

Maybe if she had some oatmeal or flour, she could bulk up the meager offering, even make a crude haggis. But grain had become way too dear. The tax on it was beyond her ability to pay.

If only she had a bit more, her children might not cry in the night again. The old ones were used to the rumblings of their tummies, but the wee ones only knew to wail. To hear them cry was a physical pain for her, and her exhausted embraces were not enough to soothe their emptiness. She swept an alarmed glance down onto the ingredients for their supper, as if somehow wishing would make them multiply. But this was all there was. The liver, the five vegetables … and the apron.

An idea germinated in her desperate mind. She unfastened the apron from her waist. It might work. After all, the apron was made of soft cotton, loosely woven. If she tore it into strips, and ran it through the meat grinder together with the liver, it just might do. Minced together with the leeks and potatoes, and browned on the griddle over the fire, she might be able to turn a meal for four into a meal for nine.

At least she’d be able to fill the little ones enough for tonight.

But what would she do about tomorrow?