Page 28 of To My Scot, With Love
He broke away, ragged breaths bursting from his laboring chest. “I love ye, Lydia. I think I always have.”
She gently nudged his nose with her own.
“I am forever bound to ye,” he whispered against her lips. “No’ even my last breath could stop me from loving ye.”
Forever her devotee.
She settled on his chest and wove their fingers together. She brought his knuckles to her lips, passing kiss after kiss over each one.
“I should return to the manor soon,” she finally said, her tone faint and forlorn. “Would you recite to me? Just one poem before I go. From that Scottish poet you love.” She traced her fingers over the tops of his knuckles. “You know how I love when you speak to me in your brogue.”
“Of course, mo chridhe. Anything for ye.”
And he pulled her even closer, as though he could take hold of the moment and never let it go, sinking into the mattress, sinking into happiness. The words of Robert Burns rolled from his tongue, as smooth and rich as aged amber whisky.
“Oh, my Love is like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
Oh, my Love is like the melody
That’s sweetly played in tune.
So fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in love am I;
And I will love thee still, my dear,
Till all the seas gang dry…”
18
Mal
Malcolmhadjustshutthe door to his rooms behind him when a knock sounded softly against the wood. He frowned, turning and grabbing the latch. It couldnae be Lydia. He’d waited until he saw her shadowed form disappear back into the manor. He pulled the door open and—
“We need to talk, lad.” Porter pushed past him. A push that seemed a bit harder than necessary.
“Hullo, Port,” Malcolm said, following after his stable master with raised brows.
Porter pointed to the chair at Malcolm’s desk. “Sit.”
Malcolm sat. Heavily, since Porter also assisted with a shove to his shoulder.
“You are going to get yourself in terrible trouble, lad,” Porter hissed. “Where’s a bucket of ice water when one needs one? Because your leather-head needs a dunkin’!”
A deep chuckle rumbled from Malcolm’s chest. “Be at ease, Port. I’m not in any danger.”
“You think this is funny, do you? I saw you watching her sneak back to the manor, all disguised in her cloak. Bloody calf-eyed. She came from here. I know she did. What do you think you’re doing, son? Tupping the Earl’swife!”
Malcolm grimaced. “Och. I suppose we werenae as careful as we thought we were. But trust me, Porter, there is no danger. And we’ll be more discreet going forward.”
“You’ll be more discreet going forward?”
Porter’s eyes looked ready to pop out of his skull. Malcolm debated holding out his palms to catch them—just to be safe.
“Going forward!” he whisper-yelled, and Malcolm flinched. Not a time for jesting. Even in his head. His mentor took up pacing. “There shouldn’t be any going forward, lad. Or there won’t be any going forward foryou. You’ll find yourself ruined. Out of work, without any positions open to you. Men do not take kindly to other men stealing their women. You’ll find yourself in a cell, a knife in your back, a bullet in your brain.”
