Page 32 of The Scot Beds His Wife
To her surprise, his smile disappeared. “Nay,” he answered carefully. “I’ve traveled to every place you can imagine. From the Orient to Argentina. Even to America. I only returned here recently.”
Flushing, Samantha changed the subject, dearly hoping he hadn’t been to San Francisco in his travels. “It makes sense that you chose this place to settle,” she said, gesturing to encompass the storm, the sea, the high beams of the ceiling, and the grandness of the stone hearth. “I wonder, though, why the Dubh Gorm Caves? Why not settle somewhere… more comfortable?”
Something dire surfaced from the depths of his eyes, something ancient, and hollow, and infinitely sad. “I’ve seen all there is of humanity, and you know what I learned?” he asked.
“What’s that?” she breathed.
Locryn cut in, his voice warm and tongue heavy with Scotch. “It’s better… to just live alone in a cave.”
Calybrid reached out and rested his hand on the portly man’s knee in a gesture so tender, Samantha’s eyes stung.
Not wanting to cry, she blinked and shifted her focus back to Callum, who still watched her with those eerily perceptive eyes. “That it’s better to just live alone in a cave,” he murmured in agreement.
A fraught melancholy threatened to swallow the room, and Samantha refused to let it take her. Rising to her knees, she swiped the bottle of Scotch and topped off everyone’s drink in turn. “Except on nights like this one,” she said, lifting her glass a little. “To warm hearths and full bellies, which is more than some have.”
“Aye.” Callum’s sharp eyes softened a little as he drank to that.
“To Sam.” Calybrid lifted his Scotch. “The best cook in Erradale.”
“To Sam!” the drunk Locryn echoed. “The only cook in Erradale.”
“To Alison Ross,” Callum said, casting her one of his speaking glances.
Samantha blanched as she made an intense study of his shuttered features. This was the second time he’d referred to Alison Ross as though she were someone not present.
It was as though the enigmatic man was trying to tell her he knew who she was.
Or… at least… that he knew who she wasn’t.
CHAPTERSEVEN
For your own safety… never set foot in Ravencroft Keep.
Alison Ross’s dire warning ricocheted in Samantha’s thoughts, drowning out the more pleasant sounds of soft rain against glass and the metronomic tick of a grandfather clock.
She hadn’t just crossed the threshold of the red stone keep on Ravencroft lands, she’d climbed two flights of stairs and navigated three lush hallways, only to be shown into a receiving room done in dark greens contrasted with spun gold and burgundy.
The burgundy matched both the port wine in her glass and the Marchioness of Ravencroft’s wealth of upswept hair.
“I’m thoroughly glad you’ve called on me.” Mena Mackenzie’s genuine smile was possibly the warmest, most lovely expression Samantha had witnessed in her entire twenty and four years. “I’ve been expecting an announcement card from Erradale, and it only just occurred to me that you might not have that custom in American society.” LadyRavencroft’s grace both put her at ease and made her supremely uncomfortable. How could this gently bred and unmistakably noble English lady be married to a violent laird whom all of Europe knew as the Demon Highlander?
Samantha carefully forced herself to focus on Lady Ravencroft’s regal features, instead of her form, as she worried that one glance below the neck would send her into a fit of nervous giggles.
Locryn hadn’t been wrong. The voluptuous woman was blessed with a luxurious abundance of curves. There was a great probability that someone, somewhere, had written odes to her incomparable tits.
Fighting the urge to cover her bust, or lack thereof, Samantha took another sip of the port offered by Lady Ravencroft in lieu of tea after she’d appeared on the castle’s grand doorstep, drenched from riding through the icy November drizzle.
As the Laird Ravencroft had been temporarily detained at his distillery, the lady of the manor had agreed to visit with her while they waited.
Next to the elegant, stunning, and—she assumed—stylishly clad noblewoman, Samantha felt both conspicuous and dowdy. She fought not to squirm beneath Lady Ravencroft’s curious jade gaze as she groped for a reply.
“I—I’ve never had much use for calling cards,” she stated honestly, spreading a restless hand over the garnet and butter-yellow stripes of her finest wool skirt and failing in her efforts not to measure it against Lady Ravencroft’s imported violet silk gown. In quality and voice, Samantha very much compared the two of them to their skirts. One coarse, ordinary, and practical, the other smooth, stunning, and majestic.
“I can’t imagine what’s keeping my husband.” Lady Ravencroft cast a glance at the clock. “But I’m very gladthat I get this opportunity to know you. It isn’t every day one meets an American railway heiress. You can regale me about the American West. Is it truly as wild as we tedious Brits are led to believe?”
“It sure can be,” Samantha hedged, finishing off the syrupy port in two nervous gulps.
“Are you a… connoisseur of port?” Lady Ravencroft asked alertly.
