Page 36 of The Scot Who Loved Her

He edged closer to the house when a noise grabbed his attention. Footsteps. He crouched behind a row of bushes, wondering if he’d caught the man who’d been spying on the family last week. But the footsteps were lighter sounding, and then there was a sigh—a decidedly feminine sigh.

Malcolm peered over the hedge and, in the faint moonlight, saw that Olivia had sat down on a bench inside the gazebo. What was she doing out here in the middle of the night? Was she planning to meet someone? Had he arrived before the masked intruder had a chance?

This was an interesting turn of events.

But her body language did not give off the air of someone awaiting a guest, whether for nefarious or amorous purposes. Rather than looking relaxed or eager, as one might expect, she had her head in her hands. A sure sign of upset. He felt a little strange witnessing her this way—

a view into her private moments. Like the intruder he was.

He supposed he was here, and he might as well do what he’d come to do.

As stealthily as he knew how to be, Malcolm approached the gazebo. Olivia didn’t notice his presence until he’d blocked the way out and opened his mouth.

“Good evening, Miss Olivia.”

She jerked upright, staring at him with wide, distracting eyes. Her full lips formed a littleOof surprise. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask ye the same thing.”

“This is my garden.”

“But it is well past the time a young lady should be out of her house. ’Tis nearing midnight.”

“But I am still on my property, and you, my lord, are not on yours.” He half expected her to leap from the bench to shove him out, but she didn’t move.

Her back was pressed hard to the latticework of the gazebo. Her knees were primly locked together, and hands splayed over them as if she were holding them in place or holding herself upright.

Malcolm chuckled as he invaded her space, deciding to take the seat beside her. He shouldn’t have sat so close to her. His thigh touched the warmth of hers. A subtle, floral scent tickled his nose, and it wasn’t the Scottish roses in the garden but the woman perched next to him. The woman who continued to tantalize him when he should be tossing her over his shoulder, marching to the Old Tolbooth Prison and sticking her into a cell. But the idea of Olivia in a cell was far less appealing than sitting there beside him.

“’Tis true. But I needed to talk to ye,” he said, trying to keep his voice softer, more congenial. Mostly, he didn’t want her to bolt.

“How did you know I’d be outside?”

“I did no’.”

“So, how did you plan to talk to me? It’s not as if you could have traipsed up to the door and knocked. My father would kill you.”

Malcolm shrugged. “He would likely try, and I’d have to make a good effort in letting him.”

Olivia sighed the kind of sigh that was in itself an eye roll. “Were you going to walk right in?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s mad.”

“Maybe. But ye did shoot me, lass, which seems madder.”

She made a little “humph” sound. “Well, I’m here, and soon my maid will come looking for me.”

“Och, the scandal if she were to find me here.” He laughed a little at that, leaning his shoulder against hers and then wishing he hadn’t because she was so soft and warm, and he wanted to scoop her up and put her on his lap.

“I somehow don’t think you’d care,” she said.

“And I somehow think your maid will no’ come looking for ye.” He wiggled his brows.

She pursed her lips into a frown, then sighed, resigned. “You’re right. She’s put me to bed already.”

Then, Olivia did a very unexpected thing. She dropped to her knees and scooted in front of him, holding her hands out, wrists together.

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