Free Scotsman of My Dreams by Karen Ranney

returned her new bonnets to the milliners, she was going to wear an older ser­viceable one. After pinning her brooch watch to the right side of her bodice, she surveyed herself in the pier glass.
    Yes, she looked plain and unassuming. Her mother had always said she had strong bones, which meant she was built like her father with broad shoulders, long legs and arms, and wide hands. Her hands were tools and she used them in that fashion, to the extent she had calluses on her fingertips. Her palms, too, were hardened by years of digging in the dirt.
    She looked as dependable and work worn as a scullery maid. If she fixed her hair in a different manner, would it make her more attractive? Her face was just her face. Perhaps there was something she could do there, too.
    Reaching into the top drawer of her bureau, she moved aside the small jar of pomade she never used and grabbed the salve for her lips. The delicate pink shade made her mouth seem even larger. Rather than wiping it off, she did something she’d never done before and placed a little on her cheeks, surprised when the color made her brown eyes sparkle.
    The earl was used to women who were known for their beauty and charm. She had little hope of impressing him with her appearance. No, she would have to marshal her arguments and appeal to his conscience.
    If he had one.
    Bidding Mrs. Beauchamp good-­bye at the door, she ignored the woman’s look of interest—­surely wearing lip color was not such an egregious fault—­and pulled on her gloves.
    This morning’s rain had cleared the air, bringing the scent of summer to her in the form of heated, fragrant blossoms and wafts of odor from the Thames.
    She descended the steps, heading toward the carriage, carefully not looking in the direction of the Covington home. She knew, even without seeing them, that all three sisters were watching her enter the vehicle.
    As they pulled into the road behind the Earl of Rathsmere’s house, birds roosting in the nearby trees greeted her arrival with alarm. She stepped out of the carriage before Hugh could dismount and walked to the driver’s seat.
    â€œI’ll only be a little while.”
    â€œI wish you wouldn’t do this.”
    He could be the most stubborn man sometimes, rivaling Neville in his obstinacy.
    â€œI’ll be fine.”
    The wall enclosing Rathsmere’s garden was built of the same red brick as the house. Every few feet there was a wide pillar topped with white stone and a curious winged creature made of black iron. She studied the statue for a moment before deciding it must be something mythical created by the MacIain family. Wide wings were tucked behind its body. Its talons gave the appearance of being dug into the white stone, while a beaklike protuberance looked down with a supercilious air. The breast of the bird—­or the eagle, if that’s what it was—­was inscribed with a crest she couldn’t read from there.
    The stable was to her right, separated from the alley by a wide strip of grass. Several men were working there and more than one glanced in her direction. She ignored their looks as if she belonged in the lane.
    At the gate, she hesitated, her hand on the latch. What would she do if it was locked?
    To her relief, the gate swung open easily. She peered behind the wooden door to find herself in a lush overgrown English garden, complete with birdbaths, feeders, and hedges bordering the paths.
    An assortment of trees, some of them large and leafy, shaded the area, giving her the impression of an isolated, almost secret, place. She took a few steps inside and slowly closed the gate, careful to make no noise. This enchanted garden looked to be the scene from a child’s fairy tale, the home of fairies and woodland nymphs who rarely visited London.
    She’d never had an interest in the names of foliage and flowers, but now she wished she had. She wanted to know what that orange and