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"I am sorry we have not had much of a chance to discuss your work, sir," she ventured. "I-I hope that you might be kind enough to send me a copy of your essays when they are published."

"You shall be the first to see them, I promise." A flare of emotion lit in his eyes before they strayed to the club in her lap. "I think you may leave off working on that, unless you intend on using it for a looking glass."

"Oh!" She gave a short laugh. "I guess I am more nervous than I care to admit." Laying it in the pile with the rest, she stood up and fumbled in the pocket of her breeches. "We had best be on our way. But first, sir, I wanted you to have this."

She held out her hand, revealing the thin silver chain cupped in her palm.

Attached to it was a silver charm in the shape of a thistle, its design and detail wrought with exquisite craftsmanship.

"It is the symbol of Scotland and it... well, it reminded me of you and your gift with gardens," she said with halting awkwardness, her voice barely above a whisper.

"It has always brought me good luck, so perhaps it will do the same for you. "

She looked away quickly after he took it up, wondering if he thought her ridiculous for such a forward gesture.

But Adrian did not seem to be put off by the gift. He slowly undid the clasp and put it around his neck, carefully tucking the chain in beneath his shirt and Belcher neckerchief. "Why, thank you, Derry."

She drew in an involuntary breath at the sound of her name on his lips. The sound turned into a slight gasp as he brushed a gossamer kiss to her cheek. Before she could react any further, it was over and he had drawn back, a strange expression on his features.

"I have always thought of Lady Luck as someone I would not care to have an acquaintance with, but recently I find I have changed my mind about that." Under his breath he added, "Indeed, I have changed my mind about a great many things since arriving in Scotland."

Derry quickly rose. "We had best be going."

The carved silver felt cool against his skin at first, then quickly took on a comforting warmth.

It was a bit like the young lady herself, Adrian mused as he followed her out of the shop.

Her quixotic moods seemed to run just as hot and cold regarding him.

At times, he was sure she was indifferent to his presence, if not outright annoyed at being forced to endure his company.

Yet once in a while, there was some hint of emotion on that lovely face that gave him cause for hope that her feelings were not altogether negative.

A team, she had called them. He suddenly realized he wanted nothing so much as to continue the partnership far beyond the coming few hours of the golf match.

What a complete ninny he had been to imagine he desired nothing more than a prim, well-behaved young lady whose thoughts never strayed beyond the borders of propriety!

Rafe had been right after all, sensing that as his own odd behavior bucked the rigid rules of the ton , a conventional match would never do.

But it had taken a delightfully different sort of female to show him how just how flat his life would have been, legshackled to someone who could not share his passions or his dreams.

He was tired of disguising his true self. He longed to share with Derrien the full range of his ideas, to hear her opinions, to engage in spirited debate—even to argue!

His mouth quirked in a grudging smile as he recalled some of their run-ins on the golf course.

Rather than finding the notion disturbing, he found himself once again admiring her courage, her grit in challenging the overwhelming odds against her, from her birth to her love of the links, to her desire to excel in a world deemed closed to those of her sex.

He understood her struggle, for he didn't accept Society's strictures any more than she did.

They were, quite simply, oddities in their own worlds.

They were, quite simply, perfect for each other.

The trouble was, Adrian was not certain of how to convince her of that. He stole a glance at her face as they hurried down Argyle Street. How the devil was he going to win her regard? Perhaps it was a start that she seemed to admire Mr. Chitley, but he wished for her to like Adrian Linsley as well!

The wash of the surf on the rocky strand warned that the golf course was just around the corner. With grudging reluctance he forced the conundrum of Miss Derrien Edwards to the back of his mind. Right now, he had better start concentrating on winning something other than a lady's heart.

The showers had already blown out to sea, and a faint hint of blue sky was showing at the horizon as they drew near the first hole.

Lord Hertford had not yet appeared, but Philp and Brewster were standing with their backs to the gusting breeze, along with a small group of spectators that included Rafael and Lord Bowmont, who had arrived in town the night before.

Brewster graced Adrian with a barely perceptible nod.

"I see you, for one, are prompt, sir." He pulled a pocket watch from his waistcoat, and after a deliberate wait of thirty seconds, he continued with a loud announcement to the gathering.

"It is eight o'clock. The Marquess has exactly five minutes before he will incur a penalty?—"

"That won't be necessary," came a lazy voice from some distance off. Hertford sauntered over, followed by his caddie and several cronies. Handing his walking stick to the one of them, he removed his cloak with a theatrical flourish.

"It seems poor Marquand has trouble keeping a grip on his possessions—word around town is that he has just lost his intended wife to another man," he remarked to one of his friends in a voice clearly designed to be overheard by all present.

"A shame that he is about to lose his ancestral estate as well. "

A slight twitch of his jaw was the only reaction from Adrian.

"Gentleman, let us not waste time," interposed Brewster, seeking to keep things from heating up too quickly.

"The wager between the Marquess of Hertford and Viscount Marquand is to be decided by a round of golf," he went on to inform the spectators.

"It will be scored as match play—each hole shall be won by the man shooting the fewest strokes.

If the scores are the same, the hole will be deemed a tie.

He paused. “After 18 holes, the player who has won the greater number of holes shall be the winner. If there is a tie at that point, we shall play on until someone emerges victorious on a hole. Any questions as to rules or procedure shall be decided by me. Is that clear?"

Both gentlemen nodded their assent.

"Very well. Who shall hit first?"

A mocking smile spread over Hertford's lips. "As the nominal host, I cede the honors to Viscount Marquand," he replied smoothly, taking advantage of the opportunity to put the pressure on the other man right from the start.

Adrian ignored the other man's sneering tone and gave a nonchalant shrug. "Whatever you wish."

As Derry brushed by him in order to construct the mound of sand for his ball, she managed to murmur a bit of advice. "The best way to wipe that smirk off his face, sir, is to smack it right down the middle of the fairway. Forget there is an audience and let it fly as I know you can."

After a moment's wait, he stepped up to the new featherie.

His stomach gave a nervous lurch as he set his feet and waggled his wrists, but then he closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath, determined not to play into the marquess's expectation of seeing the ball slice out onto the rocky stand.

All was still as he drew the club back. With barely a pause, it began its descent, gathering speed until it was almost a blur as it made contact with the small orb of stitched leather.

A low murmur ran through the crowd as the ball lofted high and straight into the air, finally coming to ground a tad shy of 180 yards from where it had been struck.

"That should give the dastard something to think about." Derry reached for the long spoon and clapped it over her shoulder, flashing a big grin in his direction.

He couldn't help but grin back, and the twinkle in her eye caused him to add a quick wink.

A team, indeed.

Suddenly all the tightness seemed to ebb away, numbing fear replaced by calm confidence. He stepped aside to allow the marquess to hit, further buoyed by the barest flicker of doubt that passed over the other man's features.

Hertford's drive landed not far from his, on the left fringe of the fairway but well out of trouble. The two caddies exchanged scowls, then hefted their full complement of clubs and started off.

The match had begun in earnest.

The first few holes were a see-saw affair, with Hertford's experience balanced by Adrian's raw athleticism and Derry’s sage advice. Neither man could gain a clear advantage, and they reached the fifth hole tied at two, with two draws.

It was there that the first dispute arose.

Adrian's drive hooked into the light rough, but Hertford, anxious to take advantage of his opponent's mistake, made a bigger one of his own.

Overeager, the marquess jerked his arms through a fraction too fast, sending his ball much farther left than that of the viscount, right to the edge of a thick tangle of gorse.

With a muttered curse, he threw the club to the ground and motioned his caddie to be quick about mounting a search for the errant shot.

"The hole is yours, sir," said Derry with some satisfaction as she and Adrian started down the fairway. "I saw where it landed—not even a ferret would manage to find a ball in there, even with considerably more time than the allotted five minutes."

It was with great surprise, therefore, that several moments later that they heard a cry ring out from the other caddie.

"Here, milord, I've found it!" He waved to Hertford and pointed to a spot at his feet, several yards to the right of the hazard, where sure enough, the stitched featherie sat, not only free from any entanglement in the bushes but in a perfect lie, atop a short clump of grass.

Derry said a particular word that would have caused the viscount to choke with laughter had the situation been different.

"If that is the marquess's original ball, I shall eat it for supper, along with a dish of haggis," she added with barely contained rage. She fisted her hand on her hip as she waited for Brewster and the others to draw near.

"Sir, I tell you I saw quite clearly where Lord Hertford's shot landed, and it was nowhere near that spot," she protested.

Brewster's slight frown indicated he was thinking much the same thing. He hurried over to the ball and bent down to check the marking.

"An 'H' with a dot below the crossbar—that's our mark," said Hertford's caddie, shooting a sly smirk in Derry’s direction. "You may see for yourself, sir."

The judge straightened after a moment. "Yes, it appears it is," he said grudgingly.

His eyes narrowed with the suspicion that he had just been played for a fool, but since no one had witnessed any transgression, he was forced to allow the discovery to stand.

"In the future, both lads will wait for the rest of us to help with any search. "

The caddie bobbed his head in mock contrition. "Yes, sir."

Adrian brushed a bit of sand from the sleeve of his jacket. "How extraordinarily lucky, Hertford," he remarked dryly as the marquess make his way toward the spot. "But then again, luck seems to have a way of appearing around you at the most opportune times."

Several voices in the small crowd sounded in muted agreement with the not so subtle implications of the taunt. Hertford's face darkened but he made no reply. His next shot landed close to the green, and as Adrian also recovered from his spot of trouble, the hole ended in a draw.

"Luck my arse," muttered Derrien when play was finished. "It is no coincidence that Jimmy wears long trousers rather than breeches," she added.

"Ah, is that how he did it?"

"Aye, I should have kept a closer watch, knowing what a weasel he is. But from now on, he won’t get away with any more tricks." Her jaw set. "You failed to win the hole because I didn't do my duty well enough."

Adrian wished he could hug her to his chest and tell her how much her plucky loyalty meant to him, but all he dared was a quick pat on the shoulder.

"Don't fret on it, Derry," he said rather gruffly. "I have seen that look in a man's eye on enough occasions, both in the ring at Jackson's and facing the targets at Manton's, to know what it means." His lip curled upward. "Trust me, Hertford is beginning to get a little nervous."

The match moved on to the seventh hole, where the marquess edged ahead by sinking a long, snaking putt of over twelve feet.

Adrian squared it on the next with a wonderful chip to within a foot of the hole, allowing him an easy tap in for par.

No blood was drawn on the ninth, and both the players and the spectators sensed the tension mount as the turn was made for home.

"Your friend is giving a good account of himself," murmured Bowmont to Rafael as both Adrian and Hertford paused for some refreshment at a wooden crate set out with several earthenware jugs.

"Aye," replied Rafael, noting that the viscount sipped water while the marquess took a long swig of ale. "But I don't trust Hertford by half, Jamie. He has already cheated Adrian out of one hole and no doubt he has more tricks up his sleeve—or trouser leg."

"We will have to hope that his caddie is a sharp lad, then, for?—"

"You need not worry about Derry." Philp came up beside them.

"You asked me to give Lord Marquand my best, and so I have.

" He sucked in a breath, then slowly let it out.

"Between the two of them, I have every confidence they'll sort out the wheat from the chaff.

" With that enigmatic statement, he moved off to answer a query on strategy from one of the other spectators.

Neither gentleman had much time to dwell on the master's meaning, for Brewster called in a loud voice for play to begin on the inward nine.