To Tempt A Scotsman. Victoria Dahl
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twenty when Damien St. Claire shot him through the head.”
A memory of John laughing brought tears to her eyes. She closed them. “I am sorry, Mr. Blackburn. He was a kind young man. A good man.” The door clicked softly closed before she’d spoken the last word.
Thor flew over the hard-packed dirt, black hooves pounding out his eagerness to run the two miles to the inn. Collin needed the run as well. She knew something, was hiding something. Idiot girl. She’d probably believed whatever sweet-nothings St. Claire had whispered to her as he tossed up her skirts.
Still, young as she was, she was no innocent. She’d played two men against each other just for the sport of it, and her game had ruined her and killed John. And just because she was a tiny thing with great blue eyes didn’t mean she wasn’t a whore as well.
His brother had been madly in love with her even as she took another man to her bed. There was no telling who else had been there. She’d even admitted it herself, for God’s sake. And after one quick view of the shape of those thighs, Collin knew she must’ve attracted men in droves. John had never stood a chance.
Collin cracked a bitter smile at the thought. If he’d met the girl at twenty, he’d have been panting after her, too. Her black hair and bright eyes were a potent combination. And the contrast of her delicate size and compact curves, the innocence of that heart-shaped face and the boldness of her clothing…lovely. Not lovely enough to die for though. Apparently his brother hadn’t realized that, damn him for a fool. And damn their father too, for extracting this promise from Collin. Who the hell could deny an old man his dying wish?
He was meant to be in Scotland, on his farm, overseeing the work on his new home, getting the horses ready for fair. Instead he gallivanted about England and France, gathering information and chasing after criminals like a runner…And now he had to convince a spoiled English lightskirt to help him.
She was the cause of this, she and her lover. So, saint or sinner, Alexandra Huntington would help, whether she willed it or no.
The edges of the letters dug into the damp skin of Alexandra’s palm. Forehead pressed to the glass of her bedroom window, she crumpled the papers, willed them to disappear, to never have existed, but the strokes and spikes of Damien’s arrogant handwriting failed to fade.
She had wept over these letters once. Cried over the first one when he asked her to come to France and marry him. And the second, when he’d set aside his pride and begged for money to survive in exile. She had sent a generous amount, thinking it the least she could do for him.
She had sent money once more, after one last request, though she’d hesitated that time, thinking of John. And after Blackburn’s hard words, Damien’s stories of hardship seemed blatantly crafted to inspire guilt. Her guilt.
She tried to imagine her brother writing a letter to a woman, begging help. Or her cousin George Tate, or even Collin Blackburn. Impossible. She could not picture one of those men pouring out the details of their troubles and laying them at a lady’s feet. Still, even if Damien wasn’t as good a man as he should be, that didn’t mean he was a murderer. Only weak and scared.
Hands shaking, Alexandra dropped the letters to the floor and stripped off the boy’s clothes she wore for estate work. Her gray riding habit already lay on the bed, dull against the ice blue coverlet. The wool was too heavy for summer, too dark, but she couldn’t present herself to this man, this man who must hate her, in some frippery of yellow and green silk.
She would see Blackburn. She would give him what he asked for, not because of what he’d said, not out of guilt, but because she knew something. Something she had tried to push aside ever since the morning of John’s death.
Damien had hated John Tibbenham.
She’d thought nothing of it before that terrible night. Men were prickly about their competition. She’d assumed it was only jealousy, though she’d told Damien many times that John was only a friend.
But when John had opened that door and seen them, when he’d looked at her with stark pain in his eyes and challenged Damien to a duel, there had been a moment—just a beat of her heart—when she’d looked into Damien’s face and seen satisfaction. It had disturbed her, that look of pleasure, but she’d dismissed it in the aftermath. John, after all, had been the one to issue the challenge. And both men had refused to back down.
She’d told herself that they had all contributed to the tragedy. But now…to think everything had been planned. Planned by Damien.
Just come in here for a moment, my sweet. I’ll die if I don’t touch you tonight. The excitement of flirting with danger. The thrill of Damien’s hands on her, pushing her skirts to her hips. And then…John and his anguished gaze.
Alexandra clenched her eyes shut and pushed the memory away. She had no doubt she’d relive that night over and over before she slept, but she didn’t have time to think about it now.
She would do this thing, turn her lover over to Collin Blackburn, because if what he said were true—and it was painfully easy to believe—then she had been ruined, and her family humiliated, and sweet John Tibbenham had been killed, purposefully.
And if it weren’t true?
Alexandra pressed her fingers hard into her temples, remembered that look on Damien’s face, remembered how quickly, how easily he’d accepted the challenge. Oh, it all made sense now, though Damien’s motive escaped her. It certainly hadn’t been love.
She grabbed the letters from the floor and stuffed them back into the dresser, under the ruffled petticoats that she rarely bothered wearing anymore, then called her maid to help her finish dressing. Once dressed, she rushed from the room, desperate to get the meeting over with, but not desperate enough to simply send a note ’round. She had been called many things in her life, but never a coward.
Word had already been sent for Brinn to be saddled, and the groom stood waiting at the front steps. Alexandra mounted and let Brinn lead the way, mind blanking as it always did when the bay mare moved smoothly into a run. The world narrowed to the path ahead and the feel of wind and force and muscle.
She could forget, for a moment, that she traveled to meet a man whose eyes flashed with honesty and scorn. Life was just the horse beneath her and the ground ahead. A quarter hour flew by in seconds, and the yard of the inn loomed suddenly, too soon.
Alexandra dismounted, throwing the reins to the stable boy before she could change her mind. Her footsteps faltered at the sight of the red door.
“Please walk the horse,” she murmured. “This will only take a moment.”
With one last deep breath, she stepped up onto the threshold and through the doorway. The great room seemed dim after the sun, but even in shadow it was hard to miss Collin Blackburn. He sat relaxed, perusing a stack of papers, pint of ale in hand. He was very still, she realized. He did not bounce his knee or tap the table as he read. No, he held his long body quiet, as if his movements were valuable to him, a resource not to be wasted. She could not keep still for a moment when she worked the ledgers. A meaningful difference between them, perhaps.
A curl of hair escaped over the edge of his collar, the softness such a contrast to his hard face. There was something about him, something in his eyes that spoke of nobility and honor. Something unyielding.
“Lady Alexandra!” the proprietor’s voice boomed across the room. “Welcome, welcome. Will you have dinner this evening?”
Blackburn’s eyes jerked from his papers to lock with hers. “No, Mr. Sims,” she answered without looking away from the man she’d come to see. “I have business to attend.”
Blackburn stood to pull back a chair when she walked toward him. “Lady Alexandra.”
Ignoring the proffered seat, she handed him the note. He opened it, looked back to her, his expression unreadable.
“The last direction is from two months ago,” she explained past stiff lips.
“Thank