Katharine Ashe - When a Scot Loves a Lady

“Never stop,” she whispered, then again, “never stop.”

“Never. Especially if you promise to never stop pressing yourself up against me.” Laughter rumbled in his voice. He kissed her neck and the tender place at the base of her throat and her mouth and eyes, as though he would not stop indeed.

With effort she drew away from his mouth, her hand stealing up to smooth along his jaw. “I am frightened, Leam.” She searched his hungry eyes. “Frightened that you doubted even a little. You must have been certain of my feelings for you.”

“A man is certain only about that for which he cares little. And in this, my love, there is no measure for how greatly I care. Never assume my certainty. Tell me every day, I beg of you, my Kitty.”

“I daresay I will have difficulty confining it to once a day.” She stroked her fingers through the streak in his hair. “I can be tenacious when suitably motivated.”

His mouth tipped into a half smile. “Madame Roche said you are like a bloodhound. Or a shepherd dog. I cannot recall which she decided on.”

“The impertinence. When did you speak with her about me?”

“At Willows Hall.”

“Whatever for? Were you spying on me?”

“I was falling in love with you, and endeavoring with all my might not to write sonnets to the divine gracefulness of your little finger. I had to at least talk about you. She was eager.” He smiled unevenly, and in his eyes shone all the emotion of youth and passion, all the hope and drama of the poet she adored.

“Then why did you put me off?” she whispered.

“I feared to hurt you. I feared the violence of my jealous nature.”

“But no longer?”

“No.” He stroked the backs of his fingers along her cheek tenderly. “I have remembered what love is. It is honesty. It is goodness. It is living for another’s heart. I love you, Kitty.”

She put her hands on his cheeks, drew his face down, and kissed him warmly. Then more warmly still.

“You may write sonnets to my little finger now, if you wish,” she murmured. “Are you still inspired to?”

“More than ever,” he said against her neck. “I shall write them to your little toe, as well, not to mention my other favorite parts of you. But not until I have put those parts to more pleasing uses first.”

“Does that mean you are going to show me more wicked things men do with their mistresses?”

He chuckled. “If you wish.”

“I wish.” She trailed her fingers to his cravat and began loosening it. “But first, I have something of great importance to tell you.”

“More important than that you love me?”

“Very important.”

He drew away to look into her face, his sober once more. Kitty’s palm slipped to her belly, then over her abdomen. His gaze followed, then lifted to hers, his lips parting.

“I had always believed…” She could only whisper.

His chest rose in heavy breaths. “Kitty?”

“I was wrong. You were right. It is very difficult for a woman of such enormous pride to admit—” He dragged her into his arms again. This time his kiss did not simply please, it consumed, and she gave him her hunger and wonder and happiness in return.

“I have undressed you in this chamber before,” he said huskily, his wandering hands making her heady. “But I should like to do so tonight in greater privacy.” He laced their fingers together and drew her toward the stair.

She held back, quirking a grin. “Ask me like a barbarian.” She went onto her tiptoes and kissed his jaw. “When you talk like that, you see, I want to cast myself at you quite urgently.”

He curved his warm, strong palms around her face, then lowered his mouth to hers and possessed her with such gentle, thorough, intoxicating care she was obliged to cling to his arms to remain standing.

“Come lie wi’ me, lass,” he murmured, his eyes bright with all the spoken desires that were no longer secret. “Make me the happiest man the nicht.”

She sighed. “You will make it last forever?”

He kissed her again. “An foriver.”

“That, my lord,” she whispered against his lips, “is the best idea I have ever heard.”

A Regency gentleman’s classical education introduced him to not only the great prose authors of the ancient past, but also to quite a lot of poetry. At the forefront of the European Enlightenment, Scotland boasted a university in Edinburgh that produced engineers and physicians who went forth to labor throughout the vast British colonial world. But, as Leam tells Kitty, Edinburgh was also lauded for its philosophers, churchmen, and poets. You can find more on the love poetry Leam recites to Kitty on my Web site, www.katharineashe.com.

In the mid-eighteenth century, Scotland’s long struggle to remain free of English domination came to a head. The outcome (among other influences) was to prove England’s making as an empire, securely investing Britain with the fruits of Scottish talent and labor, both at home in government, and abroad throughout Britain’s ever-expanding colonial territories. In the north, however, not all Scots were entirely content to be subjects of a conqueror’s crown. My Highland rebels are, nevertheless, fictitious.

My profound thanks go to Jackie Skinner of the Assembly Rooms in Edinburgh, and to the wonderful people of the British Red Cross who were using the Assembly Rooms for a blood drive when I visited and who welcomed me so kindly (and with such tasty treats!). Thanks also to Amy Drysdale and the fabulous volunteers of Georgian House, who were fonts of marvelous information.

While the story in this book did not make it to Edinburgh, the people of that beautiful city gifted me with their generosity and a flavor of sincere and whimsical kindness, laughter, and intelligence that now means Scotland to me. Gwen and Jake Scott of The Glebe House in North Berwick offered me residence in their beautiful Georgian manse filled with period antiques, a home from which I happily —joyfully!—explored the breathtaking Lothians. This author is a convert to lowland Scotland for life.

Warm thanks go to Sandy Blair, who delightfully introduced me to the wonders of writing Scots, to Marie-Claude Dubois for her invaluable assistance with French, and to Miranda Neville for sharing with me her expertise in piquet (and wine and general hilarity) and for editing what we fondly refer to as “the strip piquet scene.” Thanks also to Melissa Ford Lucken for helping me see who Kitty and Leam really wanted to be, for her precious friendship in tears and laughter, and for agreeing with me that loyal readers are quite wonderfully like champagne.

I am especially indebted to two people whose work on Leam and Kitty’s story truly brought it forth: my mother, Georgann Brophy, and my husband, Laurent Dubois. They make my books possible, they make my books better, and they do so with endless patience, grace, and love.

Devonshire, 1803 The girls played as though nothing could harm them. For nothing could on the crest of the scrubby green Devonshire hill overlooking the ocean where they had played their whole lives. Their father was a baron, and they wore white quilted muslin to their calves and pinafores embroidered with silk.

The wind was mild, blowing their skirts about slender legs and whipping up their hair, dislodging bonnets again and again. The elder, twelve, tall and long-limbed like a boy, picked the most delicate bluebells, fashioning them into a bouquet. The younger, petite and laughing, swung her arms wide, scattering wild violets in a circle about her. She ran, dark ringlets streaming behind, toward the edge of the cliff. Her sister followed, a dreaming glimmer in her eyes, golden locks swishing about her shoulders.

A sail appeared upon the horizon leagues away where azure sky met glittering ocean.

“If I were a sailor, Ser,” the younger sister called across the hillock, “I would become captain of a great tall ship and sail to the ends of the earth and back again simply to say that I had.”

Serena shook her head fondly. “They do not allow girls to become sailors, Vi.”

“Who gives a rotten fig for what they allow?” Viola’s laughter caught in the breeze curling about her.

“If any girl could be a sea captain, it would be you.” Serena’s eyes shone warm with affection.

Viola rushed to swing her arms about her sister’s waist. “You are a princess, Serena.”

“And you are an imp, for which I admire you greatly.”

“Mama admires sailors.” Viola skipped along the edge of the sheer drop. “I saw her speaking with one when we were in Clovelly for the ribbons.”

“Mama is kind to everyone.” Serena smiled. “She must have been giving the man an alms.”

But it had not looked like Mama was giving him alms. She had spoken with the sailor for many minutes, and when she returned to Viola, tears teetered in her eyes.

“Perhaps he wished for more alms than Mama could give him.”

The ship came closer and lowered a longboat, twelve men at oars. The sisters watched. They were accustomed enough to the sight, living so close to a harbor as they did, yet ever curious as the young are.

“Do you think they are smugglers, Ser?”