Page 36 of The Scot is Hers
How many others were made to endure similar injury at the hands of a man so callous and selfish?
A knock interrupted her thoughts.Alec?
Giselle called for the door to open, and the maid who’d been kind enough to help her into her dressing gown carried in a platter of food. And something else—a book.
“What’s that?” Giselle asked, sitting up, eager to see what exactly had been placed on her meal tray.
“A book from his lordship. He thought ye might like to read after your supper, my lady.”
“How verra kind of him.” Giselle’s heart warmed all the more, and it took every ounce of willpower not to grab the book off the tray and tear into it right away.
“He is that, my lady. It’s rare anyone from society notices how good a man he is, but all of us know it, and now ye do too. Pardon me for speaking out of turn.”
Giselle shook her head. “I knew he was a good man.”
“He’s no beastie, my lady, pardon me for saying so, and apologies again. I just couldna help overhearing what ye said to your friend.”
“Oh.” Giselle felt heat rush to her face. “I was only jesting. Believe me, I think Lord Errol is the farthest thing from a beast, even if I tease him as such.”
The maid pressed her hand over her heart. “Glad I am to hear ye say it, your ladyship. We’re a bit protective of him here.”
“I adore that. And I’m certain he appreciates it as well.”
The maid smiled. “He does.” She clamped her mouth closed then, as if finally able to control her tongue.
Giselle hadn’t minded, though. She was bored to tears up here, and anyone who wanted to talk about the mysterious man she’d agreed to marry, she was happy to entertain. Even a maid.
“Well, thank ye for bringing my supper and the book.”
“Ye’re welcome, my lady. Have ye need of anything else?”
“No, thank ye.”
“As ye can see, I put a bell on the tray. I know ye canna get up to pull the rope for our attention, so I’m hoping someone might hear ye ringing the bell. I’ll be by in a bit to see if ye’ve finished and would like help to bed.”
As soon as the maid had departed, Giselle grabbed for the book, not caring at all for the bowl of soup that had been given her.
Pride and Prejudice: A Novel by the Author of “Sense and Sensibility.” Volume 1.
Giselle gasped. This was one of the books she’d yet to read, and here it was in her lap. When she’d teased Alec about not reading this type of book, she’d meant it seriously, but here he was, showing her he had a copy. Oh, she hoped he had the other two volumes.
She cracked open the book with pages that had already been turned and a spine that was broken in. How many times had he read it? The first lines drew her in immediately. Every page, she sipped her soup, not wanting it to go cold but also not wanting to put the book down.
The story was so marvelous. A household of sisters—which made her think instantly of Euan Irvine, a mutual friend of Alec and Lorne’s. Giselle had the chance to meet Euan during one of their events, and it was a wonder she’d not run into Alec, though he had said he’d holed himself up in Slains.
The maid came and went, helping Giselle to her bed, but she kept on reading until the candle snuffed out, regrettably when she had one page left. She would either need to chance hurting herself in the dark to find another candle or wait until the sun came out, which could only be a few hours from now, before she found out how the book was going to end.
She set the book on the table beside her bed and lay back upon the silken sheets, forcing her eyes to close. But all she could see behind her eyes was the sisters, their love interests, their society problems—their mother. And it made her think of her mother and how she was ever going to be given a chance to repair their relationship when she’d run away and was now planning to marry a man her mother didn’t even know.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true. Likely, her mother knew exactly who Alec was. The whole lot of society must.
And then there was Alec, and his heated kiss flitting around in her mind as a caged bird trying to get out. She wanted to kiss him again. To tell him he could touch her hair, her cheek, whatever he might like—if only it afforded her the opportunity to explore the muscles of his shoulders and back.
But all these flights of fancy, these fantasies she was having when she should be sleeping, were going to get her nowhere. Their marriage was convenient. A safety net for them both.
So why did he have to go and give her that delicious book? Doing so only proved that he’d been thinking about her when she wasn’t with him. That he’d been thinking about what she’d like. That heknewwhat she liked.
That wasn’t simply the actions of a man who wished only to wed for convenience, was it?
