Page 23 of Lyon of Scotland (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

Closing the door softly, Dare noticed the oil lamp casting its light over his sleeping bride. She sat leaned against pillows, head tilted down, blanket tucked, sketchbook open in her lap. Her hair spilled down in loose golden tendrils over the white night rail she wore.

Hannah had fallen asleep waiting for him. It meant everything, suddenly.

She was a beauty in a pure and graceful way, with a simplicity that made his heart thud, his body pulse, instinct enhanced by affection—by love. He could no longer deny that; his cautious heart was hers now.

Sighing as he stood there, he felt his life quietly shift. He might never be the same again. He smiled, accepting it. He had wanted to find love, real and lasting love, but he had learned early to hold himself back from what he desired.

His family was a good-hearted lot, if distant in habit and emotion.

His mother had died while he was at university; his father had gone four years back, leaving him with a title, estate, and a mountain of responsibility.

His brother was currently in Ireland with the Black Watch, and his sister Nell was either in Edinburgh or the Highlands, waiting for her husband, a surgeon in the regiment, to return.

Growing up in a household of restrained emotion and discipline, the three of them had the freedom of the Highland hills and each other’s company, and were happy enough.

His father, a strict Highlander, laird, viscount, and hardworking solicitor, encouraged their education, and Dare chose the law; after his mother’s death, he worked alongside his father and became engaged to the daughter of a local laird, reflecting his father’s desire for safety and familiarity.

She had been a quiet and traditional soul, and though he’d cared for her as a friend, he’d sensed something missing.

What that was, he realized later, was love, something he had never fully felt or explored.

In the war and afterward, the scars on his hands, so visible, reminded him that he was changed to some extent.

But he relied on restraint. It was safe.

He had been attracted to Hannah Gordon, yet held back.

But she was different than most others he had known.

What other lass would have married him within the hour, leaping off a proverbial cliff with him, trusting him.

What other girl would have sat up waiting for him, even in her exhaustion?

Perhaps she had realized she could love him, even as he realized he loved her.

Good things seemed suddenly possible now.

He should have listened to his feelings three years ago, when Hannah Gordon had asked about jam and butter and rescued him more completely than he had ever rescued her. He owed her for awakening his spirit.

Silent, careful not to disturb her, he removed coat, cravat, and shoes, and ran a hand through his tangled hair.

He was muckle tired. That sagging bed was the only option other than the floor, though the mattress looked barely wide enough for two.

Lifting her sketchbook away, he eased her to her side to face the wall and plumped a pillow under her head.

He brushed his fingers over the curling, silky coolness of her loosened hair.

She gave a sleepy wee moan when he touched her, but settled without waking.

That kittenish sound went through him like lightning.

He sat on the bed, partly dressed, aching for sleep, aching for the girl.

Stretching out, his back to hers, he stuffed a thin pillow under his head.

Tired as he was, her warm body was comforting and distracting, his body responding.

But they both needed sleep. As he tugged the blanket up, her forgotten sketchbook slid to the floor.

Its pages fell open in the faint light of the oil lamp.

He saw his face in the page spread, along with sketches of the shoreline, of Linhope at cards and playing the fiddle.

Turning the page, he saw his own face again, this time repeatedly sketched in full view, in profile, at an angle, and with a rather poetic lowered gaze.

She had captured his likeness in swift, sure strokes, shaded and lightly detailed.

In one drawing, his hair was a curly tousle and his large, dark eyes held flecks of light in the irises.

His gaze, directed at the viewer, the artist, was thoughtful, mellow. Then he knew.

The drawing showed a man enchanted, in love with what held his gaze. He remembered watching her work, thinking her lovely, marveling that she was his wife so spontaneously. The drawing showed a man secretly in love, warm with it, and hoping.

He turned the pages to look at more drawings: flowers, vases, landscapes, and many faces—breezy portraits in charcoal and pencil.

He recognized Georgina Gordon-Huntly, serene and thoughtful; Oliver, reading; an older woman, perhaps their mother.

Pages back, months in the past, he saw Sir Archibald at an easel, then napping in a chair.

In other sketches, he recognized Hannah’s sisters: Maisie, Lady Kintrie; and Catriona of the red-gold hair at the piano.

Hannah had a sure hand, facile and accurate, for rendering faces and forms with skillful line and shade: a whisper of chalk here, a fine detail there, capturing nuances of expression, mood, and atmosphere. She had a true gift.

Yet because of Frederic Dove, she now worked at heraldry art, diligently painting rigid, repetitive armorial images of lions, birds, chevrons, bars, and more.

She could be a celebrated portraitist, with a natural talent beyond most, Dare saw now.

He felt as if he had discovered a secret about her, something she kept to herself.

As for heraldry art, he could not ask her to do that in his office when she was capable of much more. He wanted her to fly free with her art and not be restrained.

Closing the leather folio, he rolled to her back, sliding an arm under her pillow. In the dark, her body sank against him, warm weight and soft curves, and powerful temptation. But this was not the time—he had to know that she was ready to take that extra leap with him.

Brushing a hand over her hair, he caught the faint scent of lavender and vanilla. She sighed without waking. For now, desire would have to wait.

Hannah opened her eyes in the dark, seeing just an edge of silvery light at the window. Warm and cozy, she felt relaxed and clear, the last of the fog leaving her brain. The room was chilly, but she felt a lovely heat at her back.

He lay close, sleeping with soft, low snores.

His arm lay beneath her pillow and his hand curled against the wall beside hers.

She felt keenly aware of his body. And somehow sharing the bed with him felt natural, as if they had always done this, always rested together with a sense of peace and belonging.

Simply, Strathburn was her dream come to vivid life, more solid than she could ever have imagined.

Given her situation, another man might have walked away from her dilemma—or worse, taken what he wanted when she was vulnerable and then left her to fend for herself.

But this man, the real Strathburn, had integrity and grit, strength and substance.

She had been na?ve, too trusting of Whitworth, so it had not been easy to trust Strathburn in London at first. That had changed, fed by the love that had flourished in her imagination even before she came to know him better.

Too aware of his body beside hers, unable to sleep, she nudged her hand to his, craving more closeness.

His effect on her was like a magnet to iron, distracting and compelling.

It had always been that way. From the beginning, she had felt a bit daft over him but had kept it to herself, certain that aloof Lord Strathburn was well out of her reach.

Here and now, she lay there and felt breathless with her desire to be near him, with him, part of him, and wanting him to be part of her.

She had fallen gradually in love, tumbling from smitten to fairytale dreams, finally accepting he would never be hers—but now fate had revived the dream and infused it with purpose.

She felt his breath sift her hair, felt his body grow warmer, firmer, and the tenor of his breath changed as he became alert. Her breath quickened, her body quivered, aware.

Gray light washed the wall in front of her. Dawn was coming, time was passing. “Strathburn,” she whispered. Silence. Then he inhaled, shifted.

“Alasdair,” he whispered at her ear, his voice like whisky and honey driving through to her core. “Dare.”

She smiled to herself. “I like Alasdair too.”

“And I like Hannah.” Her name was soft and airy on his lips. His fingers traced along her arm, a stream of heat and excitement through her cotton night rail.

The misty, silvery hour before dawn held magic, and she wanted to capture that magic with him again. She had tasted hints of it in London, and craved it now, before daylight and reality could sweep her dreams away, before life became manners and expectations, shoulds and should nots.

The luscious, hot tension between them gathered, desire hovering unspoken between them. Suddenly she turned in his arms, and he caught her to him, his chest hard against her softness, his heartbeat steady where hers quickened.

As he moved to kiss her, she leaned in, returning it slowly, suddenly shy. With a sharp indrawn breath, he pulled her snug against him, sliding his hand to cradle the back of her head. Now he kissed her full and deep, fingers slipping into her hair, his other hand spreading across her lower back.

“Lass, what do you—” Whatever he meant to say vanished as she surged toward him to renew the kiss, letting her lips, her body say what she could not. I always wanted to be with you, I am yours, I am so grateful. I love you.

“What do you want, here and now?” he finished, lips brushing her cheek.

“I want what you want,” she whispered.