Page 29 of Lyon of Scotland (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

“Did you know I was at the College of Arms?”

“I did not. Your father did not mention it specifically. But he had asked me another time if I needed an artist in my offices.”

“He mentioned that to me once. It gave me the thought in London when I met Sir George. So in a way, it helped me. But I wonder—I just have to know—if you wanted me to paint for your office, and married me in part because of it.”

“It crossed my mind, but I am not underhanded. Why would you ask that?”

“Something Charley Dove said put the thought in my mind.”

“I discussed the need for artists with Sir George, for both our offices with the king needing new royal crests. But I would never do that. Understand?”

She nodded, watching him. He was silent for a moment, then tapped the table thoughtfully.

“I did consider it. In our heraldry office, we have lost two artists in the last few months. With the king’s coronation coming up, there is much to be done.

So of course, I wondered if you could be convinced—but I would never act on that.

I also told Sir George that the design of the king’s Scottish armorials belongs to our office. He did not agree.”

“He wants the credit for the king’s new coats of arms to go to the College of Arms in England. Did you know I had made designs for the Scottish armorials?”

“I only learned it later from you. Who else knew?”

She stirred her chocolate, frowning. “Charley. I was just hoping—I was just wondered—if you might have been desperate to have the painter and designs you needed, and so….”

“Good God!” He stood, pushed his chair back, took a long step toward her, and all but picked her up by her shoulders. He pulled her so close that she craned her head. “Well, wonder no more.”

She sighed, regretting now her impulse, the fears that led her to speak out too quickly. “Oh dear. I am sorry. I just—do not know a lot about you yet. But I am learning.”

“Then know this, Hannah Gordon,” he said fiercely. “I would never marry you just to make my life or my work easier. I would never trap you because I might need you to draw pretty wee pictures of lions and helmets and such. What sort of man would I be then?”

“Not the sort I would marry.”

“Nor the sort you should.” He released her. “If I wanted an artist that badly, I would not have to marry to get one,” he snapped.

“If you wanted me, you might.” She twisted her mouth, hoping he would laugh, hoping to bridge the gap she had made. She did not know him completely yet—but she saw that his sense of honor and integrity was strong and sure.

He gave a rueful huff. “Well, are you that good?”

“Sir George gave me work that he would not give to others.”

“Even so, if I wanted you to work with me, I would simply have asked.”

She shook her head. “I am so sorry. I should have known.”

“We are learning each other, aye? But you have to trust me, Hannah. And as long as we are being forthright, I confess I was not sure why I wanted to marry you, other than to get you out of there, and make up for some compromise. I only knew I had to help you and wanted to do this. Wanted it, and still do. Understanding why came later.”

“Understanding it is coming later for me, too. I am sorry—”

He lifted her chin with a crooked finger. “Do not apologize for honesty. This has not been easy for either of us.”

She looked up at him. His eyes were dark, warm pools she could have fallen into, full of depth, caution, passion, swirling in dark irises. “The coats of arms I designed,” she said. “Do you want them?”

“I would like to see them. Not now.”

“Do you want me to be a herald painter?”

He huffed again. “I want you to be my wife. You decide if you want to paint.”

She nodded, letting out a tense breath.

“Better? Is there more you need to settle?” He drew her close as he spoke.

Feeling mollified—she had been wrong, born of expecting trouble, perhaps—she shrugged. “Nothing more.”

“Shall we talk of crests and coats of arms, blazonry and cadence, and the whole blasted catalogue of components to decorate a shield?”

She shook her head. “Not just now.”

“Listen to me, Hannah.” His fingers slid slowly down her arms, raising gentle shivers in her. “You are safe with me, aye?”

“I know.”

“And loved.”

“I know.” She leaned forward, half closed her eyes, filled with bliss for an instant. “Oh, I know. And so you are.”

“Good, then. Good. Would you like to see the rest of the house?”

“I would,” she breathed. In answer, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.

Shivers cascaded through her. She realized she leaned so far toward him that she was nearly off-balance, trusting him, her body deciding and her heart catching up.

“But I should clean the kitchen. There is no maid to do that.”

“We can straighten it together. Quickly, please.”

They hurried, laughing as they washed up and set food and dishes away; brushing past each other, they paused for kisses while finishing the kitchen task.

Another kiss, then another until Dare lifted the oil lamp and led Hannah up to the main level.

Crossing the parlor in darkness and moonlight and the oil lamp’s glow, she tugged him toward the foyer and the staircase.

“Wait,” he growled. Stopping, he pulled her into the circle of one arm, lamp held in the other hand, kissing her so fervently that she curved back, hands on his shoulders, hips pressed against him through layers of wool and fabric.

He stretched out an arm to set the lamp aside on a table, then took her in his arms fully to kiss her deep and hungry now, rousing the same in her as she felt her body tingle and rouse and crave.

Lifting her in his arms, he carried her a few steps to a sofa and set her down.

In the mottled light she lay back on its satiny damask surface and reached for Dare.

He snatched a small pillow, soft and round, to stuff it behind her head, then sat on the edge of the sofa.

His hip and the long, hard line of his thigh nudged against her body as he bent down to kiss her again.

His fingers began work the buttons of her gown.

The dark-blue wool she had worn for their wedding and on the steamship came away now, tossed to the lovely thick carpet, followed by her shoes, then her stockings, the garters released, his fingers nimble as he drew each one the length of her legs, his lips tracing the path, then his touch grazing up her inner thigh.

Arching, mewling, she sought another deep kiss even as she pulled at his jacket, his cravat, his shirt.

Undoing his cravat with one hasty hand, he tossed it aside.

Next she pulled at his shirt, which came away, followed by the leather belt and then the red tartan kilt, its wooly texture rubbing against her bared hip, her cotton chemise rucked up.

She tugged at the ties of the simple linen corset that tied in front; having no maid with her, she had kept her garments easy to manage.

His fingers joined hers to loosen the ties of the bodice corset.

“My dear lass,” he murmured, leaning down to cover her with kisses, lips and throat and peaked breasts, and cover her with his body, the satiny damask beneath her, his firm, warm, smooth skin over her, his hands finding creases deserving of kisses as she surged and pulled his hips toward her, knowing what he wanted, what he could do, how she craved that with him.

“Love,” she whispered on a breath, and he caught her mouth with his, caught the word, gave it back.

And moments later, as his fingers sought and caressed and she arched close as could be, then even closer, she opened herself to him, and his body found hers, pushed, eased, merged into her.

She arched to meet him, breath and body, trust and soul.

He whispered something as he separated, and she gasped and tried to hold him close even as he drew back.

Turning slightly, he tipped, causing them to roll from the sofa’s edge to the gorgeous pale carpet, soft and thick in the moonlight.

Hannah lay laughing, half beneath him, feeling his laughter move through his chest and abdomen, and they parted, still laughing, to gather clothing and senses.

“Love,” he said, in his long shirt now, standing, kilt bunched in one hand, long legs, muscled and lean in the shadows and light. He reached out his hand. “Come up.”

She stood in her chemise and loosened corset to gather her things. Then Dare lifted the oil lamp and they crossed the foyer to climb the long, curving staircase.

In the morning light, he stood by the bed finishing the knot on his cravat.

Dare did not want to wake Hannah. She looked so peaceful and lovely, eyes closed, hair like a golden fan on the pillow.

He felt a quick desire plunge through him, remembering the passionate delights in the dark before they finally slept. He leaned down to kiss her.

“Dare,” she whispered.

“Hush. Sleep. I will go down and see to tea.”

“I can do that,” she murmured, eyes still closed, lashes dark and luxuriant on her pink cheeks. He brushed his hand over her hair.

“I can manage. I made tea in the army often enough. Rest. We had a late night.”

“Late and lovely,” she murmured sleepily. He smiled as he left the room.

Walking down to the ground level, he crossed the foyer and heard noises.

Frowning, he paused to listen. Surely that was the chink of dishes from the kitchen, and the door to below stairs was partly open.

Perhaps his housekeeper, Mrs. MacGowan, had arrived to look after the house, expecting his return.

Had she heard of it from the Pringles? He took the stairs to the lower corridor and stepped into the kitchen.

A young woman was bent over the hearth, dark hair coiled and shining, one hand shaped to her thickened abdomen. Stirring the contents of a kettle, she looked up.

“Dare!” She smiled.

“Nell!” He widened his arms.