Page 35 of The Scot is Hers
He stalked down the stairs, intent on returning to the parlor to see which of his friends wanted an impromptu boxing match when the light in his library caught his attention.
Who the hell would have gone in there? It was his private space and not meant for the guests at all. He’d made that clear to his butler, and the message should have been passed along. His library was his sanctuary. And if he was going to be subjected to a weeklong house party, then he required a place he could escape to where guests knew they couldn’t enter.
He pushed open the door, revealing Lady Mary—the sour grape of a woman—
staring at a marble bust of Robert the Bruce.
“What are ye doing in here?” he said, not trying to hide his irritation. Nor did he enter the library fully. There was something predatory about Lady Mary, and he thought it best if he remained on his guard.
“Oh.” She whirled around in what was supposed to be surprise but was not well-executed. “I got lost.” A lame excuse he could see right through. She pointed at the bust. “How old is this?”
“I’m no’ certain.” But he was. It was nearing three hundred years and worth a fortune, which this money hungry lass likely knew. The last thing he cared about when he walked into his library, however, was ancient artifacts. He was much more interested in the gold that lay between the covers of his massive book collection. Volumes of literature, poems, history, science. Anything he could want to know was tucked neatly in rows.
One thing was for certain—this chit didn’t care for the pages between the covers.
“Oh.” She pouted, a move he thought was meant to make him console her, as she took on almost a pitiful look.
Alec found himself feeling rather disgusted instead. Just as she didn’t care for books, he didn’t care for playing coy. “Allow me to escort ye back to the parlor. I believe Miss Maggie is going to play a set on the pianoforte, and it would no’ do for her to be missing some of her audience.”
Lady Mary sulked, but when he made no move, not even a flinch or pinch of his brows, she sighed with disappointment and sulked toward the door.
“I can see myself back,” she said without the use of flirtation, a view of the real woman she was.
“As ye wish.” Alec hid his grin. It was quite interesting that she didn’t want to be seen coming back into the parlor with him—that would be taken as an indication of a possible match.
Clearly, Lady Mary wasn’t ready to go that far yet, even if she was willing to invade his privacy and asking prying questions into his finances. Well, he wasn’t bloody well willing to make the leap with her, either—and he never would be. Not when the woman he’d already asked to marry him was upstairs.
Alec slumped into his leather chair, sliding his hands over the well-worn arms, recalling how as a lad how he’d come into the library and hop up to sit on these very spots, listening to his father recite from a passage in whatever book he’d been reading at the time.
Then, an idea came to him as he remembered that Giselle had said she loved reading and would much rather be cooped up with a book than at any party. That was a sentiment she’d now given him on both of the occasions they’d met. One he found endearing.
She’d not brought a valise or trunk with her as the other ladies had. Her trunk would have been filled with things to entertain herself while she was cooped up in her room, awaiting the next amusement. Which meant she was in need of a good book.
With a grin, he stood and headed for the shelf he thought she might find pleasure in.
* * *
Settledin a nightgown and wrapper before the hearth, Giselle stared into the flames. Not having packed to come to the castle, she had nothing to do but twiddle her thumbs and think about all the ways in which her parents and her former betrothed might try to ruin her life. She’d searched the drawers and shelves of the wardrobe for something, anything. Tripped and caught herself when her ankle refused to behave.
This room was barren. No books to read, no gossip rags to see what the latest society news was. She’d have even taken old news. At this point in her boredom, she’d even leap at a basket of needlepoint accessories, but alas, she had none of that either. It was as if Lady Errol had put her in the most lackluster room in the castle.
The sun had settled, so at least it was getting close to the time she could go to sleep, except she wasn’t tired, and her stomach had been grumbling for an hour. If not for her injured ankle, she’d have long ago gone exploring through the house.
Every so often, she heard the laughter from below, and while she did not want to be around most of the people down there, she would have loved more time with Jaime. She’d not seen her best friend in so long, and she also wanted to tell someone about what had transpired in her bedroom an hour ago.
Not the kissing part—she would keep that for herself—but the offer of marriage. The offer of solving her problems with Sir Joshua.
She was fairly certain that Alec had been serious. But he’d made no moves for a plan. Were they to wed tomorrow? Would he follow the English style and shout out the banns for three weeks? She dearly hoped not, for they would receive a knock on the door the very second it was read by Joshua Keith—or her parents—demanding retribution and termination of the proceedings.
Sir Joshua Keith. The vile lunatic. Giselle was quite concerned with what would happen when he found out she was here. The man was mad and mean. Angry, too. It was no wonder that he and Alec had been mortal enemies since childhood. She thought she would be too.
“I’ll run. Again,” she whispered to the empty room.
Perhaps this time she wouldn’t have to run, at least very far, because this time she would have Alec there. Alec, telling her parents that she was going to wed him instead. He didn’t strike her as the type of man to go back on an arrangement. And despite him saying it was to get his mother and the want-to-be brides downstairs off his back, there’d been no mistaking the pleasure of that kiss. The tenderness of it. A man couldn’t fake that, could he? Not the longing look in his eyes. Or the concern he’d shown for her. That was different. She was certain.
She touched her smooth cheek, running in the pattern of his scar, the fault of Sir Joshua Keith on the battlefield. The man seemed to have shown no remorse for his actions. Still he sauntered about Scotland and England as if he were the king’s personally chosen man when in essence, his position in court was moot.
Alec said the War Office knew the truth about what had happened on that fateful day during the Peninsular War, but a lot of good it did when Alec was the one who bore the scar from the debacle, and Joshua appeared not to bear any marks other than empty coffers, which he planned to fill with her parents’ money.
