Page 18 of Lyon of Scotland (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

“Hannah.” He said forward again, reached out to stroke the little cat, his fingers near hers. “This is not a sudden thing for me. I have thought about proposing marriage to you for a while.”

“You what?” She blinked, startled again. “I had no idea.”

“I wanted to court you. But then I learned you were engaged.” He shrugged, looked away, the faintest blush staining his cheeks. It was endearing, she thought—an unguarded glimpse at the tender heart behind that taut and logical exterior.

Her heart drummed. She thought of deep kisses and simmering desire, nimble hands skimming over her breasts, stirring passion and tapping a need in her barely recognized, never fulfilled.

Because she loved him, not Whitworth, though she had denied it.

She stared at him, and the truth grew like a light.

“That blue house, where you and I were… Did we—do more than sleep?”

“Did we? What do you remember?”

“Only that it was—lovely, being with you. I thought it was all a dream. Is that why you think you should marry me? Because it was not a dream?”

“Not a dream. Something happened that I should have stopped.”

“We were both impaired.” She gave the cat a little push, and as it poured from her lap, she reached out her hands.

Strathburn took them, his touch warm and enveloping.

His thumb brushed over her skin. Again she noticed faint pale scarring along the back of his hand.

She frowned slightly, aware that the injury had surely caused him much pain.

“Regardless of fault or none, there was compromise,” he said.

“No one knows about that but us, and we are not certain.” She pressed his hands. “Please do not feel obligated.”

“I owe you.” His eyes met hers, then long black lashes swept down over the beautiful dark eyes, shielding the gaze that distracted and drew her.

“A promise of marriage brought me trouble before.” She pulled her hands free and stood, turning toward the window, her back to him. “The betrothal with Whitworth was a poor decision. I thought it was romantic, but I was wrong. I will not make that mistake again.”

A floorboard creaked as he rose to stand behind her. “This is no romantic fantasy, lass, and it is hardly false. It is our best course at the moment. I will not force you, but circumstances seem to have the upper hand.”

She sensed him close behind her with every fiber of her being. “Frederic Dove would come after me again, is that what you mean?”

“Until he gets what he wants, aye.”

“But what does he want?”

“He wants you out of London and away from his son, for part of it.”

“Poor Charley! Saddled with such a father. Dove wants the money, too—he told me to ask my father for help. But that would mean surrender when I tried to be independent, you see.”

“Pride. I understand.”

“And mortification. Papa and my sisters warned me not to follow Whitworth, but I insisted. I thought I was in love. I so wanted to be.” She shrugged.

“We all want love, lass.”

She sucked in a breath against the desperate urge to turn to him. “I thought I was being wise and mature in my decisions. Lesson learned.”

“You will return to Scotland married—a viscountess, come to that.”

“I disappointed my family then. I do not want to disappoint you now.”

“Hannah Gordon,” he said, “there is no chance of that.”

His offer was sincere, if pragmatic. “You propose out of obligation. Not—love.”

“Ah, she is a romantic, my lass.” His hands rested on her shoulders.

His breath was soft on her neck. He turned her to face him.

“Listen, now. I do not do this out of obligation. I want to marry you. And I always mean what I say. You need to know that.” He pressed her shoulders, trailed his hands down her arms. Delicious shivers went all through her.

“Then what should we do?” she asked.

“You tell me.” He paused. “Do you have a copy of the promissory note?”

She laughed, faint and tremulous. “You, sir, are no romantic!”

“Pardon—it was on my mind. I spoke like a lawyer, not a lover.”

Curious, she tipped her head. “Which would you be?”

“Both.” He drew her toward him, touched her chin, bracing it gently. “We could tend to both, if you like.”

This kiss was no dream, nothing vague about it, his lips warm and tender, starting slow—then burning through her so that she nearly lost her breath, so that she took hold of his arms for support, hard muscle beneath finespun wool.

As the kiss renewed and deepened, she sank at the knees, and his hand came to her lower back to hold her, bringing her tight against him.

With a mute little cry, she rose on her toes and slid her hands up to cradle his neck as she took in the next, deeper kiss, one kiss flowing into another until she was breathless, lost.

But he drew away, setting his hands at her waist. “Marry me this morning. There are good reasons to do this now, quickly.”

“Dove’s threat to me, and our possible compromise, I know. Is there more?”

“It seems Frederic Dove intends to accuse me of smuggling whisky.”

“Smuggling!” She blinked in surprise.

He released her hands. “I am expecting a cargo of Highland whisky to arrive in a London port. A gift for the king from the Scottish government. Dove found out about it and alerted the Thames authorities that I mean to sell it, which makes it a crime. Wholly untrue,” he added, as she began to speak.

“But he says he will not act on that if we marry—and if I pay your debt, take you to Scotland—and never let you return here.”

“What! That is blackmail!”

“Oh, aye. A Scottish term, and so fitting. I can easily prove my innocence, so Dove’s threat does not alarm me as much as he hopes. But as your husband, I can erase your debt and protect you.”

“I do not need protection—” Well, perhaps she did, but she did not want him to feel that responsibility.

“Even better, I can eliminate the debt entirely by taking him to court—or threatening him with that until he cancels the debt. That has a certain appeal.”

She stepped back. “You must not take all this on for my sake.” She turned away so quickly that her head spun, and she set a hand to the back of a chair. Strathburn took her elbow.

“Go easy. You are still recovering.”

“I am fine. But you must think of Lord Lyon’s reputation.”

“No harm will come to that office, my position, or to you either. I am determined in that.”

“Why do this when you hardly know me?” She set a hand on his arm.

“I promised your father to look after you, and went too far when we were alone.”

“You did not. And I did not—I did not mind.” She smiled a little, shy and rueful. “I feel there is still something you have not told me.”

“Truthfully, I cannot bear to see you treated this way by Dove, or anyone.”

She nodded, touched and grateful. “Is there more?” She hoped so, sensed so.

“Those eyes see into me, I think.” He reached out to sift a tendril of hair off her brow. “I care deeply about you, aye? It began long ago in your father’s dining room.”

He truly cared—she felt it surge through her somehow. “Dining room?” She tucked her brows together, wondering, then knew. “Last summer? Or perhaps earlier?”

“Two years ago, when an elfin girl approached a lonely and miserable Highlander to ask if he preferred strawberry or rowan jam, or wanted clotted cream or butter on his scones. Then she handed him a cup of hot tea with sugar, a plate of perfect scones, and stayed to make small talk when his tongue was tied and his spirit was low.”

“That was the first time we met. Papa had invited friends for tea, and you came with Sir Walter. I remember the jam and scones. And I could never forget you,” she added. Her heart thumped.

She had fallen in love that very day, a sweet infatuation completely unrequited, or so she thought. What he told her now was a revelation: He had noticed her too.

“I visited your father’s house that day, but I had not attended a social gathering in a long while.

I was avoiding people, keeping to myself.

I live in the Highlands—I will show you my home there soon—and I come often to Edinburgh for my work in the heraldry office.

That day, Walter Scott brought me with him.

Insisted. I imagine I was a bit grouchy. ”

She tilted her head. “I thought you reserved, not grumpy. Intriguing.”

“I was brokenhearted, to be honest.”

“Oh dear,” she breathed.

“I was betrothed before I left the country with the Black Watch regiment—same unit as Linhope, in fact. While I was away, my fiancée died of a fever.”

“Oh dear.” She set a hand to her heart. “I did not know.”

“Nor would you. She was a kindhearted lass. We had grown up together in the Highlands. I was never sure the match was right, but it suited at the time.”

“I am sure she was lovely.”

“She was, and nothing against her. But I was—grieving her, and felt lost, I suppose, when I visited your home that evening. Then you came over to me and were sweet and gracious. You rather saved me. A little kindness and caring from a fairy-like creature. That was the magic I needed to step forward again, I think.”

“Just that? It was not much.”

“It was more than that. It was you. I see it more clearly now. It was you.”

For me, it was you too. The truth of it went through her like a shock, so that she set a hand to the chair for balance. That quiet, handsome, dark-eyed Highlander in a frock coat and kilt who preferred strawberry jam and butter on scones had begun to walk through her dreams ever since.

Perhaps dreams could come true even if one had made dreadful mistakes.

“Lord Strathburn,” she said, “what was the question you asked me?”

He looked puzzled, then smiled a little. “Miss Gordon, will you marry me?”

“I will,” she said in a rush of breath and hope, letting impulse lead. This time, she was making the right decision, and taking the wisest, happiest path she could find.

“Good, then.” He pulled her closer again, set his hands at her waist.

“Does this mean we can go home to Scotland?”