Page 7 of Lyon of Scotland (The Lyon’s Den Connected World)

As he folded a few pages of notes with his basic pencil drawings and scribbled notes, he paused.

What held him back? He could have discovered three years ago if the girl returned his feelings.

But he had always been reserved, a man who restrained his feelings on the surface, who stayed as cool and unruffled as possible, while emotions grew and were either shelved somewhere in his heart or head—or demanded attention.

His feelings for Hannah Gordon demanded not just attention, but action. Now that he seen her again and sensed some problem, he felt compelled to act.

Leaving the archive room with his notes tucked in a pocket, he met Naylor in the corridor and walked beside him, discussing the current process of approving a new coat of arms—when he saw Hannah Gordon approach from the opposite direction.

Her arms were full of large, unwieldy books, her chin lifted as she walked, trying to see.

When one of the tomes tipped out of her grasp, Dare strode toward her.

“Allow me, Miss Gordon,” he said, lifting the books from her before she could protest, and, in fact, catching one just before it dropped on the toe of her boot.

“My lord, thank you,” she said breathlessly.

He piled the books in his arms, his hands grazing hers. That simple contact felt like a shock of soft lightning. The time had come, his heart, his body told him. “Where should these go?”

“To the workroom, if you will,” she said as they walked.

While Naylor walked beside her, asking about a new design, Dare followed, feeling like an infatuated schoolboy, wishing Naylor would go away and leave him with the Gordon girl. He wanted to ask if she was happy in London, or troubled, as he suspected. Other questions came to mind questions too.

Miss Gordon, would you consider working for the Scottish heraldry office? But he would not encroach on one of Naylor’s artists, even if he desperately wanted to.

More thoughts occurred without warning. Miss Gordon, would you walk with me, chat about nonsense, ride in the park, attend a stuffy concert—would you take my arm, kiss me in the moonlight? Travel north with me, go home with me, bed with me, marry me—

Where had that come from? Yet he could easily imagine marrying Archibald Gordon’s middle daughter, just as Sir Walter had hinted. If he wanted that—and he felt the whirl in his gut, the tightening of truth that said he wanted it very much—then why had he held back?

When Naylor asked to see some new sketches, Hannah obliged. Dare stretched out the moment, righting the books stacked on the table—and suddenly the truth of it came to him, as if his mind and heart had decided then and there that it was indeed time he sorted this.

Muriel, his former fiancée, a fine and calm Highland girl, the daughter of a neighboring laird, had died while he was in France and Belgium fighting a war and healing from wounds that took every bit of his strength and detachment.

Reading the letter that told of her death from fever, he had shifted his cool detachment from his physical pain to the pain of that loss.

He felt responsible for the girl’s tragic end—for he knew Muriel had loved a shepherd, a gifted poet, on her father’s estate.

But his father, and her own, had insisted that their heirs should marry and join the two glens, and their engagement came about.

The shepherd-poet left the glen and Muriel wept for days—but when Dare offered to break it off, she refused.

Within weeks, he had been called with others commissioned in the Black Watch to travel to France and onward to war.

Three years later, though he felt grief, regret, and deep guilt, he knew Muriel’s death had freed him.

Yet he retreated like a turtle in a shell, relying on his work, his dedication to Scotland, banking emotion for later—a natural tendency honed in boyhood when his father had demanded that his sons and daughter learn discipline and service to others.

And that, he realized as he paged through a book without seeing the pages, aye, all that had brought him to this juncture of deeply wanting Hannah, yet holding back, delaying his happiness even when he wanted it, needed it, desperately.

Buck up, his father had told him as the oldest and the heir; straighten the spine and shoulders, take on more responsibility, watch your siblings.

As he grew, his father was strict in his advice: choose work to benefit the glen, the Highlands, Scotland, and the Scots; feelings and needs are small compared to the greater need of our fellow Scots.

In all things, serve with honor, charity, legacy.

Keep to yourself and find contentment in life later.

He had done that; he was doing that now.

He had set himself aside and cared deeply about his work, about Scotland and its legacy.

But now, standing still and silent, he was struck by a keen awareness that what he needed, the happiness he passionately wanted for himself, might be within reach if he dared—dared!

—to let Hannah know he cared, and had always cared for her.

Whatever her answer, he would respect it; whatever direction it went, he would be a different man. He was done with shadows. The revelation, the flash of insight showing him why he had waited so long, changed him in that moment.

He glanced over at Hannah Gordon. With a cerulean smudge on her nose and her plaited hair sliding loose in honeyed tendrils, her impish smile dimpling her cheeks, she was a fetching and winsome creature.

He wanted her deeply, aching to love her, his body telling him so, his heart telling him even more insistently, his habitual reserve trapping him into silence. No longer.

Either she was a catalyst for the dream, or the dream itself. He had to know.

When Naylor left the workroom moments later, and when Dare saw that he and Hannah Gordon were alone, he felt relieved, glad, and uncommonly anxious.

“My lord,” she said then, coming near, “would you mind very much helping me set these books on the shelves?” She pointed toward a tall bookcase in a corner.

“Certainly.” He let out a long breath, then took the books up again to carry them to the corner and set them on a worktable. “Where would you like them?”

“On the shelves just there, please.” She lifted one of the heaviest books. “This is a volume of ancient armorials that I need to consult for the king’s coat of arms.”

“I was looking through a similar volume in the archive just this morning. Very useful. Here, give me that.” He took the big book from her, his fingers brushing hers in the transfer.

“Thank you so much, Lord Lyon. You do not have to do this.”

“I do not mind. And call me Strathburn, if you will,” he reminded her. “My family title.”

“Strathburn.” She nodded, handing him another book, and when he had shelved that, another. He arranged them, his fingers touching hers, warm skin, pounding heartbeat. “Oh,” she breathed.

“What is it?” He set more books on the shelf, then reached for another from her.

“Your hands. Forward of me, but—was it—in the—”

With her, somehow, he had forgotten his habit of turning his hands so that the blotched pink and pale scars were not too visible. “In the regiment, aye. Will you be returning to Scotland soon?” he asked, changing the subject. “Sir George thought you might.”

“I want to—but I cannot just yet.”

He glanced at her, saw her fierce blush. “Too much work to be done here?”

She shook her head, shrugged. “I—made a promise to someone. My engagement is off,” she said suddenly, as if she too wished to move on. “Did you know?”

He raised his eyebrows. “Sir George mentioned. I am sorry,” he murmured.

“I am not.” She lifted her chin. “It was a mistake. He was not…who I thought.”

He shoved a book deeper on the shelf, harder than he meant. “Who did you think he was?”

“An ideal, I suppose. I thought him wonderful, caring, smart. I was wrong. It was distressing, but it is for the best. If only…” She handed him another book. “Have you ever wanted to be happy, sir, just happy, and yet could not seem to keep it for long?”

“We all want to be happy, lass.” He hefted another volume, shifted some others to make room. “I was engaged,” he said then, offering a little of himself, more than he would normally have done. “Before the war on the Continent. While I was away, she died.”

She gasped and set a hand to her throat. “Oh! I did not know. I am so sorry!”

“Do not be sorry. It was a while ago. It changes a person, though it takes time. One learns things and hopefully changes for the better, aye.”

“I am sure you must be better. You are talking to me.” She giggled then, light and sweet. He glanced over his shoulder.

“To you, aye,” he murmured, lips twitching in amusement.

“Just me?” She smiled. He loved those dimples and the blue sparkle in her eyes.

“For now.” He smiled a little, turning to reach for the last few books.

She reached for them at the same moment. Their fingers overlapped, stilled. Her skin was soft. When his thumb brushed her hand, he leaned down. “Where do these go, lass?”

“Wherever you like,” she whispered, a breath away, her hand still beneath his.

He bent closer. “Tell me what you want.”

“Oh,” she said, and her eyes suddenly blurred with tears. “Oh. So much.”

“Miss Gordon,” he murmured, his fingers cupping her hand now. “Is there anything amiss?”

“Oh,” she breathed again, then shrugged. “No—nothing. It will all be fine.”

Dare tipped his head. “Tell me. Do you want to go back to Scotland?” He was on the verge of asking if she would paint for him. Marry him. It was just there on his tongue, a risk he nearly took. He pinched his lips against it.

“I do,” she said. “But I cannot. Not yet.”

“What—” He was puzzled. She was elusive, but troubled. “Can I help?”

She blinked. One fat tear rolled down her cheek. “No one can help.”