The Scot. Lyn Stone

glanced down at his own scarred and callused hands when he noted his host staring at them.

      “You work hard for a living, I see,” the man observed.

      “True enough.”

      “If you do not mind my asking, what is it that you do?”

      Since he asked kindly and seemed genuinely interested, James saw no cause to avoid the answer. It was honorable work. “I’m a stone carver.”

      “And also laird of this…Galioch, was it? You need the added income to maintain your estate?”

      “Aye, I do that.” He could see the earl’s mind at work, wondering how to settle what he considered payment of a debt without offending. “You owe me nothing,” James insisted, “but there is another matter I might as well take up now the chance presents itself. I wouldn’t take it amiss if you saw to feeding your folk at Drevers. I confess this has been a wee drain on our resources at Galioch.”

      “My folk?” The earl frowned. “What do you mean, feed them? Mr. Colin, my steward there provides for these people.”

      James stood. “Aye, well, he collects their rents and the wool at shearing time, is all. Most of ’em have left the country, but there’s a few won’t give up what they’ve considered theirs for centuries. I canna let ’em starve. If you won’t see to ’em, then I must. They’re my neighbors, y’see. Many are good friends.”

      The consternation on the earl’s face told James more than anything he could have said in his defense.

      “I swear this is news to me, Garrow,” he said, shaking his head as he motioned for James to sit again. “I’ve not been to Drevers since I first inherited when I was twenty. What else should I know? You seem an honest man and you’ve done me a great favor already. Please, be frank, and do me another.”

      “Well, your place is in sad repair. To be honest, mine’s worse, but I do all I can to see my people have what they need. Yours, as well, but a bit of food’s about the best I can manage these days.”

      Eastonby sighed loud and long. For a good while he said nothing, but looked James straight in the eye. “You are obviously a man of honor and compassion. You have the title, I presume?”

      “Baron, fourteenth of the name. Granted by King James. Named for him like all the eldest sons in my family.”

      “Garrow, you say. My father was acquainted with your grandfather, I believe,” the earl commented. “Are you Catholic?”

      James hesitated, shrugged, then admitted, “Not so’s you’d notice.”

      Silence reigned for a moment. “Are you married?”

      “Nay.” He refused to confess the why of that. Not many women would welcome a home at Galioch or a husband gone half the year, laboring like a peasant to fill the larders. “Why do you ask?”

      The earl smiled. “Garrow, I think you and I can strike a bargain that will benefit us both. Are you game to give a listen?”

      James nodded. He thought he knew what Eastonby would propose and it made good sense to him. Being awarded the stewardship of the earl’s estate in Colin’s stead would certainly be preferable to the six months James had to spend working in Edinburgh each year. No one would regret the departure of Frank Colin, either. As for asking his marital status, the earl must want a family man to run the place now that his bachelor steward had not worked out. “What do you have in mind, sir?”

      “I will deed Drevers to you in its entirety, Garrow, if you will marry my daughter, Susanna,” the earl announced proudly as if he’d found the solution to peace in the world.

      James asked the first thing that came to mind. “What’s wrong with her?”

      In the room adjacent, Susanna Childers listened, her ear pressed shamelessly to the door. At her father’s words, she squeezed her eyes shut and gritted her teeth until they ached. She moved away from the door then, unwilling to listen further and hear the accounting of what Father considered her misdeeds.

      She knew she had only herself to blame for landing in Edinburgh, but Father had no right to marry her off to a Highlander. The scandal in London would blow over like the ill wind it was and she could go home again. Eventually. But not if she were wed and buried in the bleak hills to the north with that lot of wild savages. She’d heard tales of how those people lived!

      For a moment, she considered storming into the room and protesting so vehemently, the Scot would run for his very life. But before her hand reached the doorhandle, Susanna reconsidered. Such a display would only prove her father’s accusations of impetuosity and arrogance. It would serve her much better if she approached him later and pleaded like a penitent, she supposed.

      The very thought went against everything she stood for. Women should take an unyielding stand against men ruling their lives and treating them like possessions. Hadn’t she preached that to anyone who’d listen?

      However, saying as much in public had gotten her into this predicament in the first place. And last evening’s game of cards hadn’t helped her cause at all. She should never have bet with her father, much less wagered her freedom to choose her own future. Now she would either have to throw herself on his mercy and beg him to recant his offer of her hand, or she must honor the wager, make good on her loss and marry that man in the next room.

      No question. She would beg for all she was worth. If he would only change his mind about this particular choice of husbands, she would promise Father he could choose any man in England for her. She would swear to accept that man with grace and dignity and keep her unruly mouth shut. Anything would be better than living in a dirt-floored bothy and eating oats and mutton every meal. God only knew what those people expected of their women, but it could hardly be anything she’d be willing to provide.

      The door opened and she all but fell into the sitting room.

      “Susanna,” her father said, a note of censure in his voice, “join us if you will.”

      The Scot was biting his lips together, stifling a grin. His green eyes were alight with merriment. She wanted to throw a vase at his head. Instead, she straightened, raised her chin and stared him down.

      “May I present my daughter, Lady Susanna Childers. Susanna, this is Baron James Garrow, laird of Galioch,” her father intoned, aware she had listened at the door and already knew very well who the man was. The man knew it, too, and seemed to find it highly amusing.

      “Charmed.” Susanna only inclined her head instead of a formal curtsy. Probably a mistake, given her father’s frown.

      The Scot bowed gracefully. “Likewise.”

      Apparently someone along the way had taught him a few manners, Susanna decided. Not enough, however, to employ her customary title or to dress properly for a call. Or to observe the accepted hours for calling, for that matter. True, he had done them a great service by warning them of possible attack, so she supposed he could be forgiven for that breach of etiquette.

      “Entertain our guest for a few moments, Susanna. I will return shortly.”

      “Father, wait!” She put out a hand to grasp his sleeve, but the look he gave her stopped the motion. She swallowed the urge to shout a refusal and stamp her foot, knowing how useless—not to mention humiliating—it would be to defy him publicly. That would seal her fate for certain. If she kept her wits, she might yet change his mind.

      The door closed behind him. There was nothing for it but to play this out. She turned to the Scot. “So, are you enjoying your holiday in Edinburgh?”

      “Holiday?” He smiled, a singularly bold expression that set her teeth on edge. Then he inclined his head and his gaze toward the bedroom door. “Is it your hearing that’s faulty, lass, or was the door too thick?”

      She held on to her look of bland innocence. “I fear I do not take your meaning, sir.”

      The man sighed, looking