Page 22 of Lyon of Scotland (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

As soon as the men were settled over a game of cards, Hannah took up her sketchbook and sketched them holding their cards, Linhope lean and fair, his hair so blond she need only indicate its waves, Strathburn dark and regal, his long, brawny form eased into the chair.

She returned to the larger drawing to work in more detail, adding the folds and arcs in his cravat, the creases in his jacket, the slight crinkling around his eyes, remembering his expression now, for his face was turned away.

With every glance, she studied and savored and felt hunger building within her, not just the need to capture the strength and beauty she saw in him, but the simmering of a deeper physical need.

Now that yearning found its home in him, near him, with him.

She did not want to think beyond the present moment, which merged contentment and anticipation.

As the steamship moved steadily, the coast was distant but still visible, and a glance seaward showed the white, rippling, foamy tail of the vessel’s wake, and the vast gray stretch of the North Sea beyond it.

Again she thought of Frederic Dove, and felt as if clouds suddenly covered the light.

She desperately hoped he would not follow them north to demand that Dare pay him in her stead.

She would never forget the man’s hard, narrow stare just after the wedding—the wedding he had so boldly attended.

The flash of contempt in his eyes made her very aware that the situation would not resolve easily.

“Strathburn,” she asked later, when he had finished a game of cards and sat beside her once again. “Why does Frederic Dove have such a grudge against us? I still do not understand.”

He blew out a breath. “I think the man hates Scots so much that he felt compelled to punish us,” he said. “And there are other reasons, too. Do not think about it, my lass. We need to put it behind us.”

“Is it over?” she asked quietly, leaning toward him. “Be truthful with me.”

He took her hand in his, entwining their fingers, lifting her palm to kiss it briefly, all he could properly do in that very public room.

“I do not know,” he finally said.

The Shakespeare Hotel was a whitewashed, narrow building nudged between a small theatre with slim pillars and an old tavern where light glowed through bottle-glass windows.

Dare felt the drag of fatigue as he walked with Hannah and Linhope.

His friend led the way, familiar with the village of Kingston upon Hull, near the docks where their steamship now rested.

Once Hannah was settled, Dare planned to search for the Scottish steamer carrying the whisky intended for London; later he would rejoin his bride.

Bride. He almost missed his step along the cobbled way.

As they entered the hotel, Hannah stumbled a little and he caught her arm; he sensed how weary she was. No one greeted them in the empty, dim foyer. Dare approached the high desk positioned beside a staircase, noticed a dangling cord, and pulled, hearing a bell chime elsewhere. They waited.

Footsteps, and a young woman rushed out from a room down the corridor, cheeks flushed, hair sliding free of a mobcap. “Sirs? Madam? Has another ship docked?”

“Aye. A room, please,” Dare said.

“We have one room free. Others are full,” she said. “We only got four rooms here. There’s a fee if you want another blanket or pillow.”

“That will do.” He wondered if the place was clean, but it seemed tidy enough. He signed the register: Lord and Lady Strathburn, Perthshire.

“Goodnight, my lady,” Linhope said. “Sir, I will be outside.” He stepped out.

“Lord and lady, is it?” The woman peered at Dare’s signature.

“Oh my! Well. Ten shillings for the room. Two more for clean towels. Bed linens are fresh, I swear. The boy will carry your baggage. First room on the left upstairs.” She indicated the lad just coming around the corner.

“Breakfast offered next door in the tavern. Discounted for hotel guests, my lord.”

“Aye then.” Dare glanced at Hannah. She looked pale and spent; he wondered if he should carry her up the steps.

He was weary too, and just wanted to get upstairs Taking coins from his sporran, he traded them for the key and folded towels.

As he guided Hannah to the stairs, the boy ran ahead with the bags.

She climbed slowly, holding the banister while Dare floated a hand at her back.

He opened the door and paid the lad, who set down the bags and ran off. On impulse, Dare scooped his bride into his arms. She rode lightly in his embrace until he set her on her feet on a patterned rug that covered much of the floor.

The room was snug; if he reached out, he could almost span the walls.

A bed against the wall sagged under a flowery quilt and flat pillows; beside it was a small table where an oil lamp flickered.

A wooden chair under the single window and a corner stand held a wash basin and pitcher.

Through the window’s mottled glass, he glimpsed the distant gleam of the sea, specks of lantern light, and sails and prows lining the dock.

Looking dazed, Hannah sat on the bed. Dare set the towels on the table and turned. “You should rest,” he told her. “I will go out with Arthur and return shortly.”

“Arthur?”

“Linhope. We have known each other since we were lads.”

She watched him, blue eyes dark in the lamplight. “You told me some of that. But I know so little about you.”

“We will remedy that. Try to sleep,” he added, seeing her stifle a yawn.

He did not want to go. He wanted to stay, hold her, love her, show her he had not just committed in mere words, but in his heart too.

And he wanted to stay with her because he, too, felt a bit bewildered and numb, with life so suddenly altered.

But he knew it was changing in the best way possible now. He hoped she felt it too.

Hannah removed her gloves, loosened her bonnet and set it aside, and began to undo the buttons of her short jacket. Every move was slow and unconsciously graceful. Her hands were slender and beautiful, enhanced by the ring that caught the lamplight.

A memory flashed again, those graceful hands on his bare chest, warming his skin, sliding down to tug at his belt—unguarded and honest caresses that had been a catalyst for this moment. His body surged. He stood still, a hand on the door.

She looked up, eyes deep blue, brow tucked and uncertain. “Will you stay?”

“I will be back. Lock the door, lass,” he added. “I have the key.”

“The Newhaven out of Leith is here, sir,” said the harbor master, consulting a ledger in the shed-like office of the London & Edinburgh Steampacket Company. “Came in a couple of hours ago. South end of the port.” He pointed. “Big steamer. Looks like a three-masted schooner.”

Thanking him, Dare went with Linhope along the stone quay, searching under the light of an overhead moon. As their footsteps echoed along another wooden dock, they spotted the steamship and hailed two sailors on deck, who summoned the captain.

“Aye, we’re down from Scotland, heading for London,” Captain Johnston confirmed as he met them on the dock.

“I am Lord Strathburn, and this is Lord Linhope,” Dare said. “We are looking for a steamer packet with a cargo of Highland whisky to be delivered to Lord Lyon in London. Is this the ship?”

“Well then.” The captain tugged at his cap. “Such cargo goes to Lord Lyon in London. I will only sign it over to that gentleman.”

“I am also Lord Lyon, my civic title.” Dare extracted a name card from his sporran and handed it to Johnston, who studied it, then stuck it in his coat pocket.

“Lord Lyon, King of Arms, is it? Your office helps keep the Scots Scottish.”

“It does,” Dare said with a low chuckle.

“Then how is it you are here in Hull, not Edinburgh—or London, to meet this cargo wi’ your name on it? And what d’ye want of me?”

“I was in London, and we are now heading back to Scotland. I want you to hold the cargo aboard ship. Do not unload it in London. Bring it back to Leith and I will meet you with new arrangements. And, of course, I will pay for your trouble.”

Johnston tilted his head. “If this is to do with smuggling, I willna be part of it.”

The man was quick. Dare nodded. “Nor will I. Someone intends to hang that very charge on me if he can. You too, if those crates are unloaded on an English dock.”

Johnston grunted. “Take it now, and I will be quit of it.”

“This is an English dock, Captain,” Linhope reminded him. “You can only unload it in Scotland if we wish to avoid the charge that was threatened.”

The captain grunted. “De’il take it. What do I do wi’ it now?”

“We are bound for Scotland on a passenger steamer,” Dare said. “Keep it here on the Newhaven, if you will, and bring it back to Scotland when you finish your run. Send word to me when you arrive.”

“Huh,” Johnston said. “I was told that this whisky cargo will not be sold.”

“Aye, it is intended for the king as a gift from the Scottish government.”

“King!” The captain spit in clear comment. “I dinna care to please that one, so aye, it stays on my ship. What man in London wants to ruin your good name, so I can be ready to deny him?”

“Sir Frederic Dove, and anyone sent in his name, or falsely in mine.”

“Aye then. So, Lord Lyon, is it?” The captain gave him a speculative look. “Johnston is an old name, d’ye ken.”

“I do ken. A braw name in the Scottish Borders. Do you have a family crest?”

“Not that I have seen.”

“I would be happy to look into it for you.”

“My wife and sons would like that. I will keep your whisky safe. Well, most of it.”

Dare chuckled. “Take some for you and your men.”

“I dinna allow imbibing while on the water, but they do like a wee reward when we return to Leith. The king’s whisky might just please them.”

“So be it, then,” Dare said with a laugh as they shook hands on the bargain.

“What about the king’s whisky?” Linhope asked as they walked away. “You are sending it back to Scotland. It is a good way to thwart Dove, but King George will be wondering where his Highland whisky has gone.”

“It can wait. He does not yet know about the gift. I will go to the Lord Provost to make other plans to make sure the king gets his gift from the Scottish government.”

Along with the newly designed Scottish coat of arms, he thought. That had yet to be arranged as well. If both could be presented together, that would be outstanding, he decided.

“Send the whisky down by coach,” Linhope suggested.

Dare grinned. “Even with the risk of broken bottles, that is a thought. I am inclined to dispatch Sir Frederic first. Then we can send down a fresh shipment any way we like.”

“Excellent plan. But what if Dove comes north?”

“I expect it. And I will be waiting.”