Page 12 of Lyon of Scotland (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

For weeks, she had worked at home to design royal armorials with appropriate Scottish emblems for the king’s coronation.

She had not told Sir George about them, fearing he might take the work and assign it to Charles or someone else rather than a Scotswoman.

She hoped he would change his mind when he saw her work today.

Her instinct to keep her work secret had been correct, for she had heard that Lord Lyon wanted the work of the Scottish armorials to be given to his heraldry office.

Naylor had refused, so she had heard. With her precise line drawings nearly ready, only needing coloring and approval, she had decided to show them to Sir George now in case he would reconsider Lord Lyon’s request and either give them to Lyon, or allow her, a Scot, to continue working on them in London.

She had nearly mentioned them to Sir George last night, but Dove had flustered her so much that she could not find the moment.

And Lord Strathburn’s unexpected chivalry had been so thrilling and distracting that she had forgotten entirely about the drawings.

Last night, a dream reminded her of them, and of Strathburn, too.

In the dream, he had leaned close to her, murmuring of lions and crowns, hawks and swords, bars and shields and stars. Whispering of armorial emblems in a deep and seductive voice, he had taken her into his arms and kissed her. She woke yearning to see him, and also longing to be home in Scotland.

But this morning, something Oliver Huntly said at breakfast with Georgina had unsettled her. He spoke of playing cards last night with some others, including Lord Strathburn.

“He was rather in his cups. Odd, I did not expect it of him,” Oliver said.

Odd indeed, Hannah thought. She had not thought him so inclined either. Dismay sank through her—was he a secret wastrel like Whitworth? She had not noticed any sign of it when she saw him occasionally in Edinburgh, but then, she had missed it altogether in her fiancé.

She sighed. Was Strathburn another wish about to vanish from her life?

Walking through the rain, she thought of all she had to do that day, and hurried, head down against the increasing downpour. Hearing the creak of wheels and brakes, she turned to see a carriage draw up beside her.

“Miss Gordon!” The voice she despised. Frederic Dove opened the door and beckoned to her. “Come here!”

“I am only going around the corner to the College of Arms.” She kept walking.

“Get out of the rain. We must talk. I have decided to help you.”

“Help me?” Unlikely. She moved ahead. He thumped on the interior roof and the carriage rolled alongside to catch her.

“Come out of the rain! You will get soaked and be ill.”

“Why would you care? Leave me be.”

“Get in here now!”

As he spoke, someone grabbed her from behind.

She had not noticed the large man who jumped down from the high carriage bench until too late.

He lifted her off her feet and set a gloved hand across her mouth.

While she kicked and shrieked, Frederic Dove threw the door wide and she was dumped inside.

Holding her reticule close, she wriggled, pushing at the door with her feet. But the carriage lurched forward.

Dove grabbed her under the arms and yanked her up to sit on the leather bench beside him. “Listen to me. I can solve your problem.”

She struggled. “Let go!”

He lessened his hold for an instant and she launched for the door. Again he grabbed her and hauled her back with surprising strength, trapping her against him with one arm. The carriage rattled over the cobblestones, jouncing her on the seat as she pushed and writhed.

Dove held her in one arm and reached to produce a folded page from a pocket. “Here,” he grunted. “Read it. Sign it.”

“You’re mad! I will not sign anything.”

“Sign it. This will dissolve your obligation to me.”

“What?” She snatched the crumpled page as the carriage swayed. Agreement to marry—the words popped out. “But I am not marrying anyone!”

“I told you my cousin can make a match for you. The law requires a husband to take on his wife’s debts.

” His breath was heavy on her cheek. “Or there is debtors’ prison.

Those papers are prepared, too. My driver can take us to court to appear before a judge—or to my cousin’s home to make arrangements.

One is better than the other, certainly. ”

“I will do neither, and you are an evil man.” Freeing an arm, kicking out, she lunged for the door handle.

“Damned Scottish wildcat.” He yanked her back, twisting her arm until she cried out. Her head smacked against the wood trim that edged the back of the seat and she went still, dazed for a moment.

“This will help you decide,” he said as he took something from a pocket.

Hannah opened her mouth to answer, but saw the flash of glass and silver as he raised a tiny flask to her lips.

She wrenched her head away, but he held her jaw and wedged the vial between her lips.

Liquid burned over her tongue, tasting of strong spirit and something bitter, something vile.

When she tried to spit it out, he clamped a hand over her mouth.

“Swallow—there. Just a bit of laudanum to calm you. I brought it just in case. Then we can talk and agree. Have a little more.” He forced her head back so the liquid dribbled into her mouth again and ran down her chin. Her tongue went numb with it, her lips too.

Coughing, she spit out what she could. “You are a pig! I will go to court—”

“And do what? I am known there. You are not. Sign this.” He thrust something in her right hand, as she still held the crumpled page in her left.

A wood-wrapped lead drawing pencil? Nothing made sense. “I will not trade myself in marriage so you can have money.”

“We will do this, Missy, and I will have my money. Then we can send you back to Scotland.” His hand wrapped over hers, heavy, forcing her fingers around the pencil, across the page. “You will be glad of this later. It’s for your own good—”

“Pencil. . . can be erased—” she mumbled.

“Or traced over in ink.” His words were distant now. She felt him wrap her fingers around the pencil and move her hand by force. Hannaahh she wrote. Her head felt like a whirligig and the letters on the page were a gray blur.

“Miss Gordon,” said a woman, low-voiced, calm. “Miss Gordon. Wake up, dear.”

Waving a hand for the woman to go away, wanting only sleep, Hannah opened one eye and blinked against silvery daylight. A woman stood near her, gowned in black, face veiled—or was that the dark blur of a dreadful dream? She tried to move her hand, but it was limp in her lap.

“Miss Gordon, wake up.” A man was there, too. She winced at that snide voice. His big hand shook her shoulder.

Where was she? She vaguely remembered Frederic Dove taking her somewhere in the rain. A house, pale blue, dim, quiet in the morning.

“Freddie, leave her be. She is a tiny thing. She is not drunk—there is no smell of it. Did she take a tincture? I have seen this before. She has been dosed.”

“She has a nervous disposition. Perhaps she has the habit.”

Hannah tried to say he had given her something, but her voice squeaked and failed. She peered at their looming shadows.

“Are you sure she requested that I arrange a match for her? I know you have a signed note, but look at her! She is not the most marriageable thing I have ever seen.”

“She can be quite presentable. Stop calling me Freddie.”

“If you want me to address you as a gentleman, then act like one. You are insufferable sometimes, Cousin. Tell me why I should agree to this.”

“I swear she wants to find a husband, Bessie. I gave you the note she signed.”

“She did not come to me directly. You brought her here like this. How can I honor an agreement without interviewing the girl?”

“She was afraid to approach you. You have a reputation for being formidable.”

“Tsk,” Bessie said. “She is in a dreadful state.”

“She is Scottish. That explains it.”

Hannah tried to speak again but her voice was just air. The effort brought on a wave of nausea. She burped, fighting it.

“I cannot possibly find a husband for such a girl. Move her out of here. I fear the chit will be sick all over my carpet.”

“The chit is from a good family. Father is a baronet, a portrait painter, sought after by many, albeit Scottish,” he added with a sneer. “I have the perfect groom for her.”

“I want nothing to do with this, Freddie.”

Hannah moaned. The woman sounded haughty yet more caring than Dove. He was obnoxious and cruel. This was just a nightmare and she wanted to wake up.

“Wake up,” she told herself. She burped again.

“Let her sleep this off. I will consider it when she is in better condition.”

“Bessie, this requires little effort from you. I have the husband for her and I am sure he will take her. You need do very little, and we will both make a pretty penny.”

“She does owe me a fee for the contract. She owes you money too, you say?”

“Yes. It’s complicated. Trust me.”

“I want no part of this. I should tear this up.” She waved a pale sheet of paper.

“You will change your mind when you hear who her groom is.”

“Some reprobate, as downtrodden and desperate as she is? This sordid arrangement does not suit my establishment.”

“A Scotsman. Lord Lyon, he is called.”

A pause. Hannah stirred. Lyon. Lord Lyon. It was so familiar. She could not quite place it. She felt again that she might be sick.

“Lord Lyon! Truly! Scottish? I wonder if my late husband had Scottish relatives. Very well, I will meet him and then decide. When will he arrive?”

“He is upstairs now, though somewhat, uh, incapacitated.”

“That Scotsman from last night? The one you said was too ill to leave? You did not say he was this Lord Lyon!”

“I had no chance. He had a rough night, so I put him in the upstairs parlor. I promise, this is a good match. He can pay handsomely. I made inquiries to be sure.”

“Is he a true gentleman or a wastrel? A libertine? I cannot be associated with a poorly made match. Word gets around.”

“Well-mannered and well-respected. A war hero, they say.”

“War heroes are thick upon the ground these days. I am reluctant, Freddie Dove. This is entirely on your head. Take her away to rest and let me consider this. One of the Wolves can carry her upstairs to sleep it off. Titan!” she called.

“Yes,” Dove said as the door opened. “Let her bridegroom deal with her proclivities. Titan!” he called. “Take this young lady to the upstairs parlor.”

Arms slid under her and picked her up like a sack of potatoes. Hannah was aware of a giant of a man carrying her somewhere, surprisingly gentle even as she protested.

“I do not like this, I tell you,” the woman said. “Best get Lord Lyon down here once he sleeps it off. I need some hot tea—with brandy.”

“Is breakfast still set out in the dining room? I am famished,” Dove said.

“Sometimes you can be a heartless pig, Freddie,” the woman said.

As the giant ascended the stairs, Hannah felt inky blackness take her over.

She was dreaming…

She floated through darkness on a river strewn with flowers and stars, flew upward, then fell.

Someone caught her in his arms, hard, warm, safe.

Leaning into that strength, feeling his soft linen shirt against her cheek, hearing his heartbeat, she sensed his calm power and absorbed it, felt stronger, clearer.

Lyon. Lyon—something. The thought faded.

His hand soothed over her hair, comforting. Her hand, resting on his chest, slipped into a gap in the linen, finding warm skin and a heartbeat. His pulse sustained her and kept her from floating away.

They sat close and silent, breathing in tandem, as if waiting for something. She was not sure what that was or where they were. She only knew that he was with her, strong and peaceful, and that she had dreamed of him somewhere and it was good.

“My love,” she whispered. That seemed right. That felt familiar.

“My lass.” As she tilted her head—or did it roll that way—she felt his lips on her brow, her cheek, and she wanted that—so she kissed him, and he let it linger.

His lips were gentle, his touch like heaven.

She melted into his embrace, her hand slipping deeper beneath his shirt, while she let her lips seek his, wanting more.

His hands shaped her body, shoulders, arms, bodice—she moaned, ached as his fingers skimmed over her bosom and found the small buttons, freeing her little by little.

She reached up to undo the buttons herself, eyes closed, fingers familiar and quick.

As his hand slipped under wool, under silk and cotton and lace, teasing and then swirling, she moaned and shifted and pleaded with lips and hands and the press of her body to his, craved more as his kisses deepened and his deft touch thrilled through her.

This felt like heaven, and she knew he was the one she had always wanted, knew these secret, sensual moments were somehow completely honest, hearts open, desire clear within the curious fog that surrounded her.

Under his hands, she was a hot glow of feeling, of yearning, her desire for him released.

Her hands soothed over his chest, his abdomen, soft hair and hot skin, the texture of wool fabric, the pulse of his body—

Then he pulled back, lifted away his lips, his hands, cool air replacing warm love. She moaned in protest.

“Sorry, dear God, sorry, what am I doing,” he whispered.

His hand tucked her head against his shoulder.

Threading his fingers into her tousled hair, he murmured something she could not hear.

She clutched his soft shirt and kissed his bristled jaw, wanting his lips again.

He kissed her brow, set her hand down, caged her fingers.

“Love,” she whispered, “we can—” Her voice sounded oddly at a distance. She felt as if she might float away, but for the anchor of his arms and heartbeat.

“We cannot,” he said, his voice slurred too.

Was he foxed? Was she? Tangled memories slid past. Lyon did not leave the gambling. Wastrel. Libertine. I do not like this, Freddie Dove . . . reprobate. . .

Lyon! Strathburn? “No,” she said, trying to get up. She did not want to believe ill of him, did not want to learn he was like Whitworth. Not Strathburn. Nor did she want him to know about her unsavory situation.

“Sorry,” he whispered against her hair. “Just sleep. Both—need sleep.”

Her dream of Lord Lyon was going sour. If this was not a dream, it was heartbreak. Craving to be with him, wanting his kisses, she turned away just as the horrid groggy feeling overtook her again.