Page 35 of Lyon of Scotland
“Oh, thank heaven. The sketches are there. I—think I stole them.”
“Stole them?” He looked astonished. “Do you mean armorial drawings?”
She nodded. “I did them on my own, not in the workroom. I had not told Sir George, but when you came to the College and wanted to take over the designs for the king’s Scottish arms, I meant to ask Sir George to give them to you for your office.”
“You made the designs on your own?”
She nodded “It is not permitted to take work home, but I started them at home and kept them there. I meant to show them to Sir George, but then Sir Frederic pulled me into his carriage and forced me to swallow that awful stuff, and I—and I forgot about them until this moment.” She tossed up her hands, flustered. “Is he upset about the sketches?”
“Enough to drug both of us? I doubt it. They are in your satchel?”
“Aye, if no one took them. I must give them to Sir George, but I do not want to go there in case Sir Frederic is there. The debt, you see.”
“Of course.”
“All I’ve wanted for months was to go back to Scotland,” she rushed on. “But I have made a dreadful kerfuffle of things.”
“You are not at fault here. We will sort this out, I promise.”
She rubbed Athena’s buttery soft ears. “It was Whitworth’s debt, you see.
He signed my name.” She lifted her chin.
A muscle punched in his cheek. “Forged it and fled, did he?”
“So you see, this situation is not your doing, and you need not feel obligated to marry me and help me out of this mess. I will find a way to repay the debt and the matchmaking fee too.”
“Iwantto marry you. Listen to me.” Still leaning forward, elbows to knees, he clasped his hands. “We were drawn into a situation not of our making, but it is ours to resolve. The marriage fee will be seen to. And you do not have to pay the larger debt once you marry.”
She startled, and the black cat under her stroking hand roused, looked around, then resumed its nap. “Not pay it?”
“The law of coverture gives a wife’s debt to her husband.”
“But I do not want you to pay it! Why would you do that for me?”
“I have my reasons.” He straightened, watching her with those whisky-caramel eyes, black fringed, his face framed by dark hair in glossy waves, a scruff of beard shadowing the lean lines of his jaw. He was breathtakingly handsome, a strong, calm, dark angel just when she needed one most.
“It is unfair for you to have to pay my debt. But I am honored by your offer to marry me. Still, I cannot accept it.”
“Hannah.” He said forward again, reached out to stroke the little cat, his fingers near hers. “This is not a sudden thing for me. I have thought about proposing marriage to you for a while.”
“You what?” She blinked, startled again. “I had no idea.”
“I wanted to court you. But then I learned you were engaged.” He shrugged, looked away, the faintest blush staining his cheeks. It was endearing, she thought—an unguarded glimpse at the tender heart behind that taut and logical exterior.
Her heart drummed. She thought of deep kisses and simmering desire, nimble hands skimming over her breasts, stirring passion and tapping a need in her barely recognized, never fulfilled. Because she loved him, not Whitworth, though she had denied it. She stared at him, and the truth grew like a light.
“That blue house, where you and I were… Did we—do more than sleep?”
“Did we? What do you remember?”
“Only that it was—lovely, being with you. I thought it was all a dream. Is that why you think you should marry me? Because it was not a dream?”
“Not a dream. Something happened that I should have stopped.”
“We were both impaired.” She gave the cat a little push, and as it poured from her lap, she reached out her hands. Strathburn took them, his touch warm and enveloping. His thumb brushed over her skin. Again she noticed faint pale scarring along the back of his hand. She frowned slightly, aware that the injury had surely caused him much pain.
“Regardless of fault or none, there was compromise,” he said.
