The Scot. Lyn Stone

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      “Charmed.” Susanna only inclined her head instead of a formal curtsy. Probably a mistake, given her father’s frown.

      The Scot bowed gracefully. “Likewise.”

      Apparently someone along the way had taught him a few manners, Susanna decided. Not enough, however, to employ her customary title or to dress properly for a call. Or to observe the accepted hours for calling, for that matter. True, he had done them a great service by warning them of possible attack, so she supposed he could be forgiven for that breach of etiquette.

      “Entertain our guest for a few moments, Susanna. I will return shortly.”

      “Father, wait!” She put out a hand to grasp his sleeve, but the look he gave her stopped the motion. She swallowed the urge to shout a refusal and stamp her foot, knowing how useless—not to mention humiliating—it would be to defy him publicly. That would seal her fate for certain. If she kept her wits, she might yet change his mind.

      The door closed behind him. There was nothing for it but to play this out. She turned to the Scot. “So, are you enjoying your holiday in Edinburgh?”

      “Holiday?” He smiled, a singularly bold expression that set her teeth on edge. Then he inclined his head and his gaze toward the bedroom door. “Is it your hearing that’s faulty, lass, or was the door too thick?”

      She held on to her look of bland innocence. “I fear I do not take your meaning, sir.”

      The man sighed, looking around the chamber and everywhere but at her. “Well, I’d wager my last groat you heard the whole conversation. Not that I’m blaming you for listening, mind. What I canna ken is why you havena thrown a fit about it.” Then he settled that curious green gaze on her. “Are you that desperate to marry, then?”

      Susanna could scarcely draw breath she was so angry. It absolutely stuck in her throat preventing speech.

      He ignored her silent glare and continued, “I admit I could use a wife.”

      “You could use the estate my father offered you to take me off his hands!” she snapped. “Can you possibly understand how insulting this is? And how dangerous for me even to consider?”

      “Dangerous?” His eyebrows flew up.

      “Yes, dangerous! Do you think I’m not aware that when a woman marries, everything she owns or inherits or earns then belongs to her husband to do with as he alone decides? Why, he can even do with her person what he will! Why should I beggar myself and accept what amounts to enslavement?”

      “Ah, Mrs. Wollstonecraft speaks, I see.”

      Susanna’s gaze flew to his. “You have read her views?”

      “Nay, but I’ve heard of ’em. I had no hand in making the laws she spoke about,” he argued. “’Tis true enough, they are not fair, and I’m sorry for it, but—”

      “How dare you pity me, you wretch!” she warned, her chest now rising and falling so rapidly, she thought she might faint. She fisted her hands in her gown to keep from flying at him in a rage.

      “Well, I do, lass,” he admitted. “I’ve great sympathy for any woman saddled with the choice you’re facing.” He stopped for a moment to think, then seemed to come to some decision. “Runnin’ a place the size of Drevers is no small thing. If we marry, I’ll see to it your father puts the place in your name.”

      Susanna scoffed. “A precious lot of good that would do. You know a wife cannot possess her own property.”

      “But you will. I promise I’ll deed it back to you alone. I think it can be done. All I’m wantin’ is the stewardship and a fair wage for my trouble. I’ve people to feed and you’ll have the same responsibility if you agree to this.”

      “Ha!” She threw up her hands. “What makes you think I would trust you? I do not even know you, sir!”

      “Because I give you my word. Were I a slave to greed, I’d not be here, forfeiting this day’s pay. And I’d be demandin’ a reward, aye?”

      Her skirts swished around her ankles as she began to pace. “You’re a madman! My father must be mad as well!”

      The Scot laughed. “Neither of us as mad as you, judging by the fire in your eyes. Bonny eyes, too, despite the fury in ’em.”

      She halted directly in front of him, hands on hips. “Why are you even considering marriage to me? Do you know what hell I could impose on your life, Garrow? Can you even imagine it?”

      Gently, he answered, “I’ve had a fair warning. Tell me, do you gamble?”

      She blinked. “Gamble?” After that last ill-fated game of cards with her father, she would never touch another deck of cards as long as she lived. Or perhaps the Scot was speaking of the risk she’d be taking to marry him. “Absolutely not! I leave nothing to chance,” she declared heatedly.

      “Then we’ll suit,” he said with a succinct nod.

      When she opened her mouth to speak, he grasped her shoulders and kissed her soundly. Shock held her still long enough to feel the heady warmth and taste the sweet, coffee flavor as his tongue touched hers. For some strange reason, she lacked the will to raise her fists and do him an injury. No one had ever kissed her in such a way. And he wasn’t stopping.

      Quite stunned and cursing her overwhelmed senses, Susanna pulled back. He released her immediately.

      Instead of the self-satisfied, lecherous grin she expected to see, he wore a look of what appeared to be humility. “Marry me, Susanna Childers. I promise on my honor I will do all I can to provide you the freedom you wish. That any lass with your braw spirit deserves.”

      Freedom. So he had divined what she wanted most.

      Suddenly, she understood why he was offering the thing she most desired. “It is you,” she whispered, eyes narrowed as she observed him keenly. “You are the one who is desperate!”

      “Aye,” he admitted softly, his smile wry. “’Tis true enough I am that.” Then, on a practical note, he added, “You canna go back to London and your da won’t be leaving you here alone. Did you hear? He says you’ve the choice of me or your cousin in York with all those bairns for you to mind. There, I much doubt you’ll have any say in what you do. With me, there’ll be none to answer to, save myself.”

      “York? No, I missed that part.” She backed up to a chair and sat down to mull it over. “Botheration!” He was right about Cousin Matilda. She was a martinet and her four children were absolute hellions. Susanna looked up at the Scot again. But how could she live in the Highlands with nothing but strangers around her? How could she live with a man who could steal her senses with a simple kiss?

      She exhaled in despair. But she really misliked those children of Matilda’s and her cousin’s husband was a leering old fool who chased the maids around like a randy schoolboy. She hardly fancied his probable attentions.

      The Highlander just stood there, his hands clasped behind him, patiently awaiting her decision. “We would have a marriage in name only, of course,” she informed him succinctly.

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