Page 36 of Lyon of Scotland
“No one knows about that but us, and we are not certain.” She pressed his hands. “Please do not feel obligated.”
“I owe you.” His eyes met hers, then long black lashes swept down over the beautiful dark eyes, shielding the gaze that distracted and drew her.
“A promise of marriage brought me trouble before.” She pulled her hands free and stood, turning toward the window, her back to him. “The betrothal with Whitworth was a poor decision. I thought it was romantic, but I was wrong. I will not make that mistake again.”
A floorboard creaked as he rose to stand behind her. “This is no romantic fantasy, lass, and it is hardly false. It is our best course at the moment. I will not force you, but circumstances seem to have the upper hand.”
She sensed him close behind her with every fiber of her being. “Frederic Dove would come after me again, is that what you mean?”
“Until he gets what he wants, aye.”
“But what does he want?”
“He wants you out of London and away from his son, for part of it.”
“Poor Charley! Saddled with such a father. Dove wants the money, too—he told me to ask my father for help. But that would mean surrender when I tried to be independent, you see.”
“Pride. I understand.”
“And mortification. Papa and my sisters warned me not to follow Whitworth, but I insisted. I thought I was in love. I so wanted to be.” She shrugged.
“We all want love, lass.”
She sucked in a breath against the desperate urge to turn to him. “I thought I was being wise and mature in my decisions. Lesson learned.”
“You will return to Scotland married—a viscountess, come to that.”
“I disappointed my family then. I do not want to disappoint you now.”
“Hannah Gordon,” he said, “there is no chance of that.”
His offer was sincere, if pragmatic. “You propose out of obligation. Not—love.”
“Ah, she is a romantic, my lass.” His hands rested on her shoulders. His breath was soft on her neck. He turned her to face him. “Listen, now. I do not do this out of obligation. I want to marry you. And I always mean what I say. You need to know that.” He pressed her shoulders, trailed his hands down her arms. Delicious shivers went all through her.
“Then what should we do?” she asked.
“You tell me.” He paused. “Do you have a copy of the promissory note?”
She laughed, faint and tremulous. “You, sir, are no romantic!”
“Pardon—it was on my mind. I spoke like a lawyer, not a lover.”
Curious, she tipped her head. “Which would you be?”
“Both.” He drew her toward him, touched her chin, bracing it gently. “We could tend to both, if you like.”
This kiss was no dream, nothing vague about it, his lips warm and tender, starting slow—then burning through her so that she nearly lost her breath, so that she took hold of his arms for support, hard muscle beneath finespun wool. As the kiss renewed and deepened, she sank at the knees, and his hand came to her lower back to hold her, bringing her tight against him. With a mute little cry, she rose on her toes and slid her hands up to cradle his neck as she took in the next, deeper kiss, one kiss flowing into another until she was breathless, lost.
But he drew away, setting his hands at her waist. “Marry me this morning. There are good reasons to do this now, quickly.”
“Dove’s threat to me, and our possible compromise, I know. Is there more?”
“It seems Frederic Dove intends to accuse me of smuggling whisky.”
“Smuggling!” She blinked in surprise.
He released her hands. “I am expecting a cargo of Highland whisky to arrive in a London port. A gift for the king from the Scottish government. Dove found out about it and alerted the Thames authorities that I mean to sell it, which makes it a crime. Wholly untrue,” he added, as she began to speak. “But he says he will not act on that if we marry—and if I pay your debt, take you to Scotland—and never let you return here.”
