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Twenty-Five

KILMARNOCK ABBEY, EDINBURGH - JULY 16, 1816

TOM

The journey was long, and dull, and astonishingly fast. When the driver informed me that the changeover would be my last, I was nowhere near ready to face him.

I wouldn’t have been disappointed if those last few miles took years. It had all seemed so simple in Hugh’s study. Travel to Scotland, confess my feelings, kiss Xander until neither of us remembered the purpose of air—mere trivial concerns. But as the distance between us shrank, my nerves grew.

Scotland was a novelty to me. The lush forests and clear skies were lovely—even if I couldn’t make out the precise shade. The air out here was crisp and bright—as Xander predicted—and lacking the stench of London.

Though I longed to stretch my legs outside of this blasted carriage, I wasn’t prepared for what came next. For the entire journey I had considered what I might say upon arriving at Xander’s doorstep.

I’d considered excuses and fibs. I’d considered a declaration. I’d considered abandoning this idea as folly and returning to London, hat in hand.

Butterflies danced in my stomach as they had for the best part of my trip to such an extent that I could hardly eat.

As we passed a small woodland abutting a little pond, we rounded a bend onto an overgrown gravel drive. Just beyond the pond was a ramshackle brick house. At one point, it had certainly been fine, but time and nature had reclaimed it. So I was all astonishment when we slowed to a stop in the drive.

In place of a front door, a curtain hung along the frame and I couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to the original.

It fluttered for a moment before it was pulled back. Alexander Hasket’s dark head peered out before the rest of his broad frame spilled onto the drive. My heart gave a delighted jolt. In his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, hair jutting every which way, he was still the most beautiful man I’d ever seen.

Unable to restrain myself, I slipped open the door and stepped onto the gravel and weeds below. He was too far away to make out his expression, but nothing about his countenance or the way he held his frame indicated irritation.

Tentatively, I stepped toward him on wobbly knees. Christ, I really was a cricket. My legs were too long and too ungainly to be relied upon.

Muehheheh! A sheep called out in my direction, drawing my gaze from Xander—the beast had prevented the carriage from traversing any farther up the drive.

A heavyset thing with a white body, dark face, and impressive horns, it gave another irritated bleat. I stepped forward, offering it my wrist for a sniff. It gave a weary huff before allowing me to scritch it behind the ears with a quieter mehheheh.

“Hullo there. What’s your name?”

Suddenly, a huffing breath sounded at my side— Xander . He was even lovelier up close, impossibly long lashes framing dark eyes overtop full lips and a stubbled jaw—I remembered those lips, so soft against my own, the perfect contrast to the bite of his half-considered beard.

“Don’t”—wheeze—“touch”—wheeze—“her,” he panted, hand pressed into a stitch in his side. I liked him breathless, even if I wasn’t the cause.

“Why not?”

“She’s evil. She’ll attack.”

The sheep offered a tentative bleat, nudging its—her—snout into my palm. My fingers curved instinctively, scratching along her chin.

Xander stared at us, gaze flicking back and forth between me and the ruminant beast, his jaw slack and eyes astonished.

“What?”

“She’s not trying to— What do you know about sheep?”

“Almost nothing. Why?”

“She’s been nothing but trouble since we’ve arrived. Threatening to charge anyone within range, sneaking into the house to defecate, making a general nuisance of herself. But you?—”

“I think you’re attributing a great deal of malice to a sheep.”

“No, that is a malevolent hell-sheep.” He gestured toward the thing with his usual irritated gestures. The sight made me smile. It was so lovely, so Xander, that my heart was entirely full with it.

“Well, she seems to like me well enough.”

“So she does…” he muttered, then turned to face me. “And, I suppose I should ask, why are you here?”

My amusement faded, leaving behind nerves and nausea, tinged with the tiniest hint of hope.

“I… uh... I do not know. I just…”

His expression was unreadable, brow furrowed, not in irritation, but not in pleasure either. “You just…”

“Wanted to see you.” My tongue darted between my suddenly dry lips, wetting them. “I just wanted to see you.

“You wanted to see me?”

I swallowed, desperate to shove the rising nerves back down my throat. “Yes.”

He turned back to the curtain, searching for something. Whether he found it or not, I didn’t know. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me behind him, calling back to my driver, “Stables are on the north side.”

The man grunted and set off to rest the horses. I stumbled after Xander. He was astonishingly difficult to keep up with in spite of my longer legs. We rounded the house, if it could be called that, and stepped into a side yard.

He tugged and suddenly I found myself pressed against the house. The tan bricks damp with the remnants of morning dew. And then his fingers slid into the messy curls at my nape and pulled my lips down to his and I could think of nothing else.

The fabric of his waistcoat was fine, with a subtle texture beneath my fingertips as my hand found his waist. My other hand found his cheek, the silken strands of his hair kissing my fingers as his overgrown stubble bit at my palm. His lips and tongue and teeth stung and soothed as well.

Christ, this was better than I remembered. How was that possible? That first time, he’d allowed me the chance to explore, to discover. Apparently, he was done with that. He maneuvered me as he liked, kissed me the way he wanted, touched me the way he desired. The efforts left me weak-kneed, breathless, and hungry.

His lips ripped off mine, traced the line of my jaw as I pathetically, helplessly, fingered the buttons of his waist coat.

“Why are you here?” he growled in my ear. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Alone, the words would have crushed me. But combined with the hardness pressing against my thigh and the play of his tongue along the tendons in my neck, they lost a great deal of their sting.

“Why did you leave me?” I shot back, grabbing his chin in both hands and yanking his mouth back to mine with a nip to the swollen flesh of his lower lip. He mumbled something against my mouth and I just grabbed the back of his neck and pulled him harder to me.

He tasted of Earl Grey, strawberry jam, fire smoke, and dust—nothing like his previous herb and forest scent and malty scotch. But I liked it all the same. I rather thought he could smell and taste of anything and I would love it.

Blood rushed through my ears, drowning everything except the deliciously sinful slick of our lips, the sensual rustle of fabric, and the lewd harmony of our moans. Lord, his groans—there was something about the masculine note that settled in the base of my spine and left me panting with want.

“Left you for your own damn good,” he muttered, nipping at the knot of my throat as he worked sightlessly at my cravat.

“You don’t get to decide what my own damn good is,” I shot back, grabbing the back of his head and slamming my lips back onto his.

His tongue fought mine for dominance before he pulled away again, fingers moving toward the buttons on my waistcoat. “I do if you don’t have a damn fiber of common sense.”

I caught his lower back, pulling him against me, forcing him to feel what he did to me. “There’s your common sense.”

I felt the laughter in his breath against my neck and the shaking of his shoulders. “I know that’s where it went. That’s the whole damn problem.”

My own laugh broke through the haze of irritation and lust. Xander returned to my lips, kissing me gently as he rebuttoned my waistcoat and straightened my cravat.

He pulled away, whispering, “We can’t do this here. Fenella will be by any moment to take a shit.”

“What?”

“The sheep.”

“I don’t….”

“And Godfrey and the others are probably wondering where I’ve gone off to.”

“Who…”

Strong fingers tucked back a lock of my hair before he ran his hands along the fabric of my waistcoat, smoothing it. He nodded, seemingly satisfied with whatever he found, then started off toward the front of the house, catching my hand as he went.

“Wait, your hair?—”

“Damn,” he laughed, turning back to me. I took my time, enjoying the moment of putting this man back together, brushing a wayward strand of hair into place, straightening his waistcoat. Every sensation was one worthy of luxuriating in.

By the time I finished, his lips were still swollen, and probably a little darker than usual, but he was more or less presentable—less obviously ravished.

He caught my wrist again, dragging me toward the front of the house.

“What happened to this place?” I asked as he lifted the sheet covering the doorframe for me to duck underneath.

“Apparently nothing. For the best part of a decade.”

“Truly?” It was an inane question. Anyone with eyes could see the peeling wallpapering and chipping paint. The broken windows and warped floorboards, too, were obvious. And the scent of dust and decay overwhelmed everything else.

“It’s a long story…”

“Who was that at the road?” A feminine voice called from down the hall. My heart stopped for a moment. But then I caught sight of the girl who stepped into the hall. She was a little less delicate than Lady Davina and clearly with child, but her dark hair and brows spoke of Hasket blood. “Oh, hello.”

“Sorcha, this is Mr. Tom Grayson, a friend of mine. Tom, this is Miss McAllen, my... niece.”

Xander was already a duke by the time I met him. Intellectually, I knew he had an elder brother who had passed, but I’d never met the man. It was easy to forget his existence except for how his passing affected Xander.

“Why did you not say you had a niece in Scotland?” I knew he didn’t owe me an explanation, but it would’ve been nice all the same.

“That is also a long story.”

“Did ye already eat? There’s a bit of bread left if ye wanted to break yer fast.” Miss McAllen gestured behind her to where the breakfast area was presumably located.

“That would be nice.” It was more for lack of any idea what to say than desire for food.

I followed her down a hall until we reached the kitchens where two other men were seated and having a lively debate over the merits of blackberry jam over strawberry. One was a tall man, with a medium build and light hair and a heavy accent. The other was thin, with dark hair and a hooked nose and the unmistakable put-upon accent of a current or future butler.

The kitchen itself was spacious, with fine equipment—though it was rusted and warped with disuse. I settled at a stool while one man, presumably the valet, brought over a slice of toast and two jams—clearly I was meant to break a tie. With the sole purpose of causing mischief in mind, I took a bite of plain bread. I couldn’t identify them by sight anyway, the color was too similar. It wouldn’t be a fair assessment. Both men grumbled as Xander took a seat at my side, sliding a cup of tea across the scored table to me.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

“What are ye doing here?” Miss McAllen demanded, apparently no longer content to feign propriety. She was certainly a relation of Lady Davina.

“Eating toast.”

“And?”

“Drinking tea.”

“Ugh!” She stomped her foot and I stifled a laugh.

“I heard Scotland is nice this time of year.”

“No ye didnae.”

I took another bite, my gaze flicking over to Xander. While my welcome hadn’t been everything I dreamed of, it was better than I’d hoped. My blood still thrummed with interest, even as I broke my fast. His expression was one of challenge—he wasn’t going to provide Miss McAllen an answer, that was certain.

“I wanted to see the country.”

“For how long?” Xander asked, significance heavy in the tenor of his voice.

I shrugged. “As long as Scotland will have me.”

“I dinnae know what yer on aboot,” Miss McAllen interjected.

“So the house?”

Xander’s lips slid to one side, pursing there. “That is Sorcha’s doing. She and her mother kept my payments for the best part of a decade.”

“Truly? Pulled the wool over Will and Kit as well? They’ll not be pleased about that.”

“Oh, I hadn’t thought—have there been any issues concerning Davina? I left Mr. Summers in charge of her affairs.”

“No, at least not before I left. I’d been helping Kit with the offices while Will was… otherwise occupied. I have not heard a word about Lady Davina.”

“Good, good.”

“Do you have a plan for repairs?”

Xander collapsed onto his forearms, with an exhausted thump.

“So, they’re going well, then?”

“There’s not a laborer to be found. They’re all working on Dalkeith Palace,” the mysterious Scotsman added.

“None of quality,” the Englishman explained.

I took another bite of toast, chewing thoughtfully. “None at all? Or none worth having?”

“None worth having. Which, for all intents and purposes, is the same thing,” Xander mumbled.

“Well, no. A poor mason is still a mason—which, I suspect, is better than none in this circumstance.”

“And of course, there are some repairs that can be done without skilled craftsmen.”

“What can you mean?”

“Well, I did a bit of carpentry—at Thornton Hall.”

“Thornton Hall?”

“The family estate. The dower house was in a similar state to this place. We had laborers, but for the betterment of Hugh’s marriage, it was in everyone’s best interest to have my mother moved as soon as possible. I learned a few things.”

“I—you—you know things?” Xander demanded, adorably befuddled expression on his handsome face.

“Bit of carpentry mostly. Tiny bit of masonry. The basics, of course, but more than none.”

“You can fix this?” he gestured toward the entirety of the house.

“No, I very much cannot. But I can do a few things, and also, I very much cannot make it any worse.”

“But…”

I rose, grabbing his shoulders. “Xander, what is the worst possible outcome? You have to pay someone to fix what I’ve done? You already have to pay someone to fix it. And it sounds as though it will be months before you can do so. Winter will be here by then—do you not wish for a door, a real one, before then?”

“And you do not mind?”

Mind an excuse to stay indefinitely by his side? There was no better outcome I could name. “No, I do not mind,” I whispered, shaking my head.

“Well, it’s decided then, lads,” the Scotsman interjected, reminding me of his presence. I dropped Xander’s shoulders as if I’d been burned. My stomach jolted uncomfortably as I glanced from person to person. None looked particularly scandalized and I took a deep breath, stepping back.

My blood hummed in that icy, jittery way that happens when you’ve done something wrong and are about to be caught. But not a one of them looked as though anything unusual had happened. And I suppose it hadn’t. Men grasped other men’s shoulders. It wasn’t a lover’s caress—at least not for most men. It felt like one for me though.

I swallowed my panic. “Yes, Mr…”

“Lock—just Lock. Don’t ask him to explain, it won’t make a lick of sense. He drove the carriage and just keeps returning every morning. I haven’t thought to question it because, frankly, he’s more helpful than the rest combined.” Xander explained.

“It makes perfect sense, ye just didnae pay attention. And I dinnae have anything more amusing to do.”

Xander just shook his head before nodding to the Englishman. “Godfrey, my valet. Do not let him near your boots. You’ll never hear the end of it if they’re ever dirtied again.”

The man in question sniffed performatively before casting a surreptitious glance at the state of my boots. They probably did need a good shine, but his seemed to be an overreaction.

Xander was fitted with a string at the best of times. And the state of this house… it was not the best of times. Frankly, I adored that about him. He cared so much, all the time, about everything. I could rarely muster the energy to care about much of anything. But I cared about this. I wanted, itched, desperately, to be the person who could calm him, who could soothe his stress, fix his problems. That his natural state was one of fretting made the challenge greater and more worth doing. I wasn’t delusional, I knew I couldn’t solve all of life’s problems. But this—this I could try to do.

“So what is the first concern? The door?”

Each and every single person replied in tandem, “The sheep.”