Page 26 of The Scot Beds His Wife
“I’m off to see the magistrate,” she offered. “Do you remember the letters and documents that you kindly delivered from Gairloch the day before our little… encounter with Lord Thorne?”
“Aye.” Though he said the word with ease, Samantha read tension in the wide shoulders beneath his ever-present cloak. And maybe a sharpening of his intense regard.
“Well…” She hesitated, but decided she was giving away no great secret. “Those were the documents I’m required to present to the magistrate in order to retain Erradale.”
“I see.” He looked over to Inverthorne. “There was a letter from a friend, as well, I think,” he prodded lightly.
“Yes,” she said brightly. “I miss my American friends, and they promised to write so I wouldn’t get lonely.”
After reading the letter from Alison Ross, Samantha had congratulated herself, once again, that she’d had the restraint to keep herself from shooting Lord Thorne when he’d trespassed.
Maybe she’d be lucky enough to get another chance.
But first, she had a promise to fulfill. If Alison was kind enough to lend her the land, then she had a duty to protect it with her life… whatever that was worth.
“This magistrate an acquaintance of yours, Callum?” she asked.
The Mac Tíre turned back to her and nodded. “I was raised as a lad with him.”
She smiled, considering this encouraging news. “Any advice on how to proceed?”
He thought for only a beat before answering. “Keep your wits about you. Some people have a hard time with that around the magistrate. And remember this above all. Though you are meeting in an office, in a civilized place, we men, especially Highlanders, are little better than beasts. Appeal to our baser natures, and you’re likely to get a more predictable response.”
Samantha thought on this a moment, wondering if he’d been a fantastic help or none at all as he steered his mount in the direction of Inverthorne. “Why help me, Callum? Aren’t you and Thorne friends?”
Instead of looking at her, he glanced west, out across the Atlantic. His expression would have been cryptic even without the sand and shadow of his hat. “Aye, we are. We always will be. But I believe this land belongs to Alison Ross. And I’ll help you fight to keep it.”
“Thank you.” Samantha welled with more gratitude than she thought herself capable of.
His only reply was a nod as the dark horse disappeared into the Inverthorne woods.
Every friendly feeling Samantha harbored for the hermit disappeared the moment she arrived at the Wester Ross magistrate’s office in Gairloch and saw the name on the placard.
Magistrate and Justice of the Peace. Lord Gavin St. James, Earl of Thorne.
CHAPTERSIX
Gavin didn’t so much as glance up when someone punched his door open with such force, it crashed off the wall.
He knew who it was. He’d been expecting her.
His blood quickened in time with his breath, and he had to set his pen down for fear of a slight tremor in his hand revealing his reaction.
Alison Ross charged into his office with all the subtle, ladylike remonstration of a rutting stag charging his opponent.
It surprised Gavin how much he’d been looking forward to locking horns, as it were.
From the moment he’d spied her name on the docket he’d been, for all intents and purposes, utterly useless. He’d heard a few cases, rescheduled most of them, and directed his clerk to clear the rest of his afternoon until the lass was scheduled to appear before him at half past two o’clock.
It’d taken him until about lunchtime to identify the disquieting sensation plaguing him in regard to bonny Alison Ross. It started with a vague, nagging discomfort, and graduated to something altogether more consuming.
Hunger.
In the space of two very intense interactions with the woman, he’d gone from being willing to fuck her to get what he wanted, to wanting to fuck her above all else.
Above all else, that was, but Erradale.
“What in the ninth level of hell is the meaning of this pile of horse shit?” she demanded, tossing the document he’d instructed his clerk to give her on his desk with a flick of her ungloved hand.
