Free In Your Wildest Scottish Dreams by Karen Ranney Page A

inspecting me?” she asked, looking away.
    “You’ve grown more beautiful in the last seven years.”
    Her heart stopped at those words. Her mind urged it forward. This was just Lennox being charming. Lennox being conciliatory. What else could he say? Glynis, you’re haggard in your mourning.
    “Thank you.”
    Seven years ago she might have preened or even flirted with him. She’d thought herself a beauty, known she was destined for great things.
    Seven years ago she’d been an arrogant child.
    In Washington she’d been a minor celebrity. Mrs. Richard Smythe, the wife of the British attaché. My dear, you must simply attend one of her dinners. I don’t know where she got her chef but the food and the discussions are unforgettable. Convince her, if you can, to invite you to one of her salons. They’re the talk of Washington. Even Mr. Lincoln attends periodically .
    She’d overheard those remarks and more. For a time the approval from people she admired had been enough. A funny thing, however, about admiration, praise, or notoriety. It had no value without someone with whom to share it.
    Richard expected her to be a great hostess. That’s why he’d married her at nineteen and spent so much effort and money to train her in the role he wished her to assume. If he’d heard those comments, he never told her. He wouldn’t have said something like, Well done, darling. You’re just what they need. Instead, he would have congratulated himself on his ability to train a Glasgow girl.
    She didn’t expect behavior from Richard that he’d never promised. Theirs wasn’t a love match but a business arrangement. He desired a conformable wife who would do him honor. She desperately wanted away from Scotland and the man who sat in front of her now.
    What an utter fool she’d been.
    Being around Lennox made her feel awkward. She felt nineteen again, desperately in love and foolish with it.
    “I shouldn’t have followed you to the Necropolis,” he said. “It was wrong of me.”
    She glanced at him, trying to discern the motive behind his apology. One thing Washington had taught her: people almost always had a hidden reason for doing or saying something.
    “Thank you,” she said.
    “But I meant what I said about Baumann.”
    She was willing to accept his apology, but his warning grated on her. She was no longer nineteen and naive.
    “Baumann isn’t a man to underestimate,” she said. “Have you posted guards on your ships?”
    He didn’t answer, but his gaze never left her.
    “If you haven’t, I suggest you put them in place. Don’t assume that Baumann is the only Union spy in Glasgow.”
    When he smiled, she frowned at him.
    “I don’t mean me,” she said, shaking her head. “I heard you were building blockade runners in Washington. Baumann knows that as well. I wouldn’t be surprised what he’s discovered since coming to Scotland.”
    “You seem familiar with the war.”
    “You can’t help knowing something, living in Washington.”
    “So they’re talking about my ships there?”
    Once more she nodded.
    “What else have you heard?”
    She smiled. “That you pose a danger to the Union. That you’re single-handedly trying to outfit the Confederate navy. Are your blockade runners that good?”
    “Better,” he said. “The Raven is the fastest ship I’ve ever built.”
    “Something else Baumann probably knows.”
    “Which side are you on, Glynis?”
    “I’m not on one side or another. It no longer matters. Too many good men have died on both sides. What does it matter to win a war when you’ve lost all your young men?”
    She looked away, unable to hold his gaze. Clasping her hands together tightly, she took a deep breath and pretended a calm she didn’t feel.
    He was too close in the confines of the carriage. She could reach out and touch his trouser-covered knee. She could stroke his leg, shocking him. She might even launch herself at him and kiss him again.
    That would take his mind off