Page 13 of Lyon of Scotland (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Fog, and the patter of rain.

Dare opened his eyes slowly, blinking against the dim light.

A room, green walls, the blur of a curtained window—his vision was misty, his thinking cloudy.

He drew a long, shaky breath, eyes half-closed.

He was sprawled on a stiff sofa covered in red damask, his legs dangling, heels on the floor.

His head ached fiercely and his tongue felt thick.

Groaning, moving gingerly, he touched his head, shoving fingers through his messy dark curls. His jaw felt prickly with a day’s beard growth. Where was he? Who was he? And what the devil had happened?

He glanced down, seeing his shirt opened deep, his chest bare and furred dark, arrowing to the belt of his kilt.

Dark-blue waistcoat unbuttoned, kilt rumpled, knees exposed above tartan stockings.

Skean dhu still in place; shoes missing.

He frowned, staring at his unkempt clothing, trying to decipher what he saw.

How long had he been here? What was the day, the time?

Groping over his open waistcoat, he found his watch, fumbled at it, but his vision was blurry in the shadowy room.

He glanced around. Steady rain tapped against the curtained windows and the air held a damp chill.

Outside, the light was dusky. Afternoon?

Twilight? The walls of the room were papered in a Chinese pattern of trees and birds on a green background.

Besides the sofa, the room held a few stiff chairs, two small tables.

On the opposite wall, a fireplace glowed red-orange with hot coals and kindling.

His coat was dumped on the patterned carpet, and so was his sporran, fur and leather, beside his black shoes. A pair of small black slippers lay tossed nearby. Not his. A tapestry bag lay there too, a flowery thing. Definitely not his.

Closing his eyes, leaning his head back, he felt himself slipping into a doze. He drew a long breath and clawed his way back to alertness.

Where was he? Who was he—think.

Ah. Sir Alasdair Drummond. Strath—Strathburn. Viscount. Scotland. A few facts sliced through the fog. On the first of September he had turned thirty-four; now it was October. Ah. London. The mist was lifting from his brain.

Lyon. He was Lord Lyon, King of Arms in Scotland. In London on business. Yet he was not sure where he was now.

He sat up slowly. Something—someone—sagged against his left arm.

A woman, tucked against his shoulder, head down, face obscured by tousled golden curls.

Carefully he extricated his arm, eyes narrowed against the headache and dim light.

He leaned her gently against the back of the sofa, blinking at her profile.

Delicate. Familiar. A bonny mouth, lips pale, cheeks pale too.

She whimpered, gasped, and turned her head.

The curls fell away, and he saw her face.

What the devil. He knew her. “Hannah!”

Scowling, he sat up, head awhirl. At least she was dressed, and so was he, more or less. It could be worse, though he knew this was bad.

The girl wore a modest gown of deep blue, long sleeved and demure.

But the buttons of her bodice were undone, her lacy shift was visible, the lush curves of her breasts shifted slowly as she breathed, and the blush of a nipple peeked through lace.

But her breaths were shallow and she seemed even more dozy than he felt himself.

He dimly remembered holding her in his arms—hours ago? Minutes? He had kissed her, recalling soft lips under his, her hand on his bare chest, his fingers at her buttons, soothing over her lovely skin. More kisses, drunken, mindless—

Gordon. Hannah Gordon.

Good Lord. Rubbing a hand over his aching brow, he groaned. If his memories were even a little accurate, he owed her compensatory marriage, and quickly.

Miss Hannah Gordon, lately of Edinburgh, now in London. The girl her worried father had asked him to look after. What had he done?

She stirred, gave a pitiful wee cry, of pain or distress, he wasn’t sure. He reached for her—but a knock sounded at the door and he leaped to his feet. Pulling his waistcoat closed, smoothing his kilt, he went to the door in shirtsleeves and stockings, summoning dignity however he could.

A young servant girl in a mobcap peeked up at him. “Sir,” she said, glancing behind him at the sofa. He stepped sideways to block her view of the girl. “Sir, if you are ready, Mrs. Dove-Lyon will see you now.”

He scowled, puzzled. “Mrs.—Who?”

“Mrs. Elizabeth Dove-Lyon, sir. She is waiting for you down in the study.”

“I see.” He blinked, confused. “I will be down shortly.” He closed the door.

He turned to contemplate still, lovely Hannah Gordon, and ran a hand through his hair.

Was this Frederic Dove’s house? Whatever happened last night still eluded him.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair, found and knotted his cravat.

Shrugging into his black coat, he took up his shoes and sat beside the girl to snug them on.

His weight shifted the sofa and she slumped—her breasts were half exposed, soft and beautiful, but he could not leave her that way.

Gently he pulled up the lacy edge of her chemise to cover them.

She was pale, porcelain, perfect, but she hardly moved, which was concerning.

Taking her cool, limp fingers, he rubbed warmth into them.

Had he drunkenly compromised her? It was unlike him, but if he had been drugged, his reserve might loosen and his honest feelings emerge.

Still his strong integrity would remain true.

If the girl had been given the same drug—and more and more, he suspected Dove was involved—she could be similarly affected.

That passion had been genuine, and those kisses and caresses were truly meant.

He focused on recalling last night. The theatre—he had gone there, and had seen Hannah Gordon in a pink frock the color of dawn, not the blue one she wore now.

The theatre had been crowded, the play too long.

Dove had been there, glowering at Hannah.

He’d had words with the man—he was sure of that now too.

Then he remembered taking a carriage with some acquaintances, Dove with them, to a gambling establishment. Dare was not keen on such things and had gone with some purpose in mind. But what?

A gaming house, tables, laughter, drams of whisky. Talk of whisky—ah, with Frederic Dove. Tension, some kind of threat. He had too much to drink, though it was not his habit. He had been groggy, forgetful, sick. In fact, he had not felt like this since the war, when he had been dosed with laudanum.

Leaning elbows to knees now, he covered his eyes to soothe a pounding headache. He was thirsty, his stomach precarious. A bitter taste lingered on his tongue.

Laudanum indeed. That was the bitter taste—he knew it from the war, from doses he had been given for a painful injury. He knew its effect on others, too; while he recovered, he had assisted his friend Linhope, a doctor, with soldiers’ injuries. The terrible stuff was a blessing in some instances.

But he would never willingly swallow it.

He studied the girl—she was pale, limp, her breathing steady but shallow. Though he still felt groggy and dizzy, its terrible pull on his body and brain had lessened. Surely the girl had taken, or had been given, the same drug.

But if Dove had done that—why? He remembered more of their conversation last night.

Dove resented, even hated the Scots, something to do with whisky production—and his father’s death, it seemed.

But why go after him, and Hannah. It made no sense.

This disaster definitely needed sorting.

Turning back to Hannah, he brushed his fingers over her tumble of honey-colored curls.

The scars along the back of his hand were faintly visible, burns from the war, reminding him again of the laudanum he hated.

She stirred, moaned, her eyes fluttering over blue irises with tiny pupils. That was the drug too, so he had learned from Linhope, and also from his brother-in-law Cameron, a surgeon who had sometimes worked with Linhope.

Good, he was remembering more. Another scene flickered past—a dingy tent, lamplight, freezing cold, men on cots, low groans; his arm and hand wrapped in thick bandages as he followed Linhope and Cameron from bed to bed with cloths, scissors, metal pans.

Doing something to help took his mind from pain—the physical pain of searing burns along hand and forearm, and the pain in his heart then, too.

A letter in his pocket had informed him that his fiancée had died of a fever during his absence.

Jerked back to the present, Dare felt determined suddenly.

He would not let anything happen to Hannah Gordon.

His promise to watch over her had gone deeper than her father’s request; protecting her had become essential to him.

He would get her out of here, wherever this was, and get her home safely.

First he would meet with his hosts and find out what the devil was going on, as well as the reason he and the girl had been heavily dosed. He stood, tugging at his sleeves.

He knew something else. He needed to propose marriage to her. That late-night jaunt to a gambling house had somehow resulted in a bewildering catastrophe.

Crossing to the door, he paused to master a wave of nausea and dizziness. Then he straightened his shoulders and left the room.

“Lord Lyon is here, madam.” The little maid poked her head into the study and backed away hastily. Dare entered a spacious room, where a bright crackling fire in the hearth dispelled the gloom of rain, dusk, and damp chill.