To Tempt A Scotsman. Victoria Dahl
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TEMPTING THE SCOTSMAN
“Collin?” How did she make his name into a caress? She took another step. “I thought…” Her hand lifted and inched toward him. “I’ve seen you watching me,” she finally said as her fingers brushed his skin.
He felt his eyes close, felt a groan rumble up his throat and into her hand.
“I thought you wanted me, too,” she whispered, the words soft with something close to doubt.
Don’t answer her, he told himself. Just walk away. But his lips moved of their own accord. “My God, Alexandra. Don’t all men want you?” He was reaching for her as he spoke. His hand curled around her nape, the heat of her skin seeping into his palm. He watched her pale neck arch into his grip before his gaze slid to her lips.
“This is a mistake.” The words fell from his mouth even as he lowered it to hers.
She sighed, a sweet brush of warmth against his mouth, and then a searing whip of fire when she touched the tip of her tongue to his bottom lip. She shuddered—or he did—and he opened his lips to possess her.
Heat, he thought. She tasted like heat and lust and sweetness. He must be mad. He had to let her go, but he couldn’t stop his hand from curving over her waist and pulling her hard against his arousal. Wisps of panic iced his veins, but between her fiery mouth and clutching hand all he could think of was having more of her…
To Tempt a Scotsman
Victoria Dahl
ZEBRA BOOKS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
This book is dedicated to my mom, Helen.
I would never have become a writer without you.
Thank you for filling my life with books.
And to the love of my life, Bill.
You’ve believed in me from the beginning, and I think you love my stories even more than I do.
You’re my husband, my best friend, my biggest fan, and my hero, all in one.
Thank you to Adam and Ethan for being smart, sweet, and sometimes quiet.
I love you.
Thank you also to my wonderful agent, Amy Moore-Benson, for believing in my work, and to Connie Brockway, whose books inspire me. And special thanks to all my friends:
Amy Jo, the Wild Cards, the Hoydens, and so many others.
Last, but never least, thank you to my critique partner, Jennifer.
Together we’ve kept our sanity intact through the many highs and lows of writing… Or have we?
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Yorkshire, June 1844
Lady Alexandra Huntington squinted at the invoice in front of her and breathed out the vilest curse she knew. Unladylike, of course, but then she was sitting at a man’s desk, in a man’s office, wearing men’s riding breeches, and doing a man’s job. Her language was likely the least shocking thing about her at the moment.
“Bi…Bin…” she tried again, glaring at the tangle of scratches that were supposed to be words. “Oh, for God’s sake.” The miller’s writing had always been doubtful, but the man’s penmanship had recently taken a turn for the worse. She knew the bill of sale must have something to do with grain, probably oats crushed for the stables, and still she could make neither heads nor tails of it.
It couldn’t be helped then. She would have to search out the stable master and compare his recent orders with the few letters she could make out on the invoice. And though the man was polite enough—she was the sister of the duke, after all—he clearly wished she would give up this game of managing her brother’s estate.
Alex stood and snatched up the paper. The click of her boots was absorbed by a thick rug as she stepped into the hall, so even though she hurried, the faint echo of an unfamiliar voice still reached her ears.
“You must be mistaken,” a man said, as she moved toward the front rooms. The words bounced off the marble walls of Somerhart’s entry. “His Grace assured me his sister would be home.”
Alex blinked, shocked to hear herself spoken of. Her brother had sent someone from London to see her? It seemed unlikely, however…She slowed her pace and paused in the shadow of the side hall to peer toward the front door.
The man stood only a few feet inside the door, tall and dark and glowering at Prescott. That alone was interesting. No one glowered at her brother’s butler. Prescott controlled access to a young and powerful duke.
Alexandra felt her prickling interest grow stronger. She edged a little farther into the room.
“If you’d care to leave a card, sir—”
“I do not have a card.” The man’s eyes flicked toward her, pinned her for a bare moment. He could not suspect who she was in her current attire, with her black hair pulled into a tight knot and the jacket hiding her curves. Still, Alexandra straightened at the brush of that silver gaze, even as it moved back to Prescott. The butler stood silent, not the least affected by the man’s coolness. Ten seconds passed. Then twenty.
With a stiff shrug, the stranger finally gave in to the impossibility of intimidating Prescott. “Please tell her I need to speak with her. I’m at the Red Rose.”
She watched as he turned, felt the soft tug of her impetuous nature. Who in the world was he? He should have been cowed by the butler’s utter indifference, but he looked self-assured to the very fiber of his being even as he was turned away.
His brown hair needed trimming and he appeared to have forgotten his cravat as well as his calling card, but the perfect cut of his brown coat spoke of wealth. And a Scot’s burr softened his deep voice—and sped her pulse.
Surely her brother would never speak of her to someone he didn’t trust. “Prescott.”
Ever unflappable, Prescott simply stepped aside. “My lady. A Mr. Collin Blackburn to see you.”
“Thank you, Prescott.”
Collin Blackburn froze at the sound of her voice. She watched him turn and step back inside, watched his eyes slide past her to search the corners of the huge entry for a more likely figure, but when he realized who she was, only the barest lift of russet brows betrayed his shock. “Lady Alexandra.”
She let him stare a moment, let him take in the oddness of her attire. No gentleman had ever seen her in riding breeches