Free When a Scot Loves a Lady by Katharine Ashe Page B

caress her lips as his thumb had in her bedchamber. “Whatever for, my lord?”
    â€œScots believe evil elves hasten down the chimney on Christmas to spirit away little children,” Mr. Yale supplied, staring into the flames now. “We must build the hearth fires high lest we be invaded by sprites.”
    The earl’s grin tilted up at one side, and his gaze upon her mouth did not falter. Kitty swallowed. She felt dizzy and feverish again. From the whiskey, certainly. Or from the heated regard of the rough-hewn, superstitious Scot across the chamber.
    â€œI have read that Scots like to drink quite a bit at Christmastime.” Emily spoke in a singsong voice. She looked into her empty glass, then handed it to Mr. Yale. He stood and refilled it. “Is that true, Lord Blackwood?”
    â€œScots drink all the time,” Mr. Yale threw over his shoulder.
    â€œWe’re nae alone in that.”
    â€œScholars and great drinkers,” Kitty murmured, and before she could school her tongue, “Which are you, Lord Blackwood?”
    The larger dog pressed to his master’s side. The earl’s long fingers stroked the beast’s shaggy brow. “A’ll be letting ye guess that on yer own, lass.”
    â€œLord Blackwood.” Emily’s voice slurred slightly now. “I am ever so grateful for the volume of poetry you lent me this morning. It is difficult to be without one’s books, is it not?” She sighed uncharacteristically. Mr. Yale laughed. Kitty blinked.
    Poetry.
    â€œWhy, how long have you been waylaid here already, my lady?” Mr. Cox inquired in surprise.
    â€œA day,” Kitty said in the hazy grip of the effects of very little drink and a great deal of perplexing, enthralling man. “A single day.”
    L eam smiled. Lady Katherine Savege was apparently unaccustomed to whiskey. So too her young friend. Yale was already disguised, although hiding it well as always. On the other side of the chamber, the inn’s proprietor whistled a jig, several fingers of the Welshman’s brew under his belt as well.
    That left Cox, the man with gloves lined in brown cashmere who had shown up to join their little party in the midst of a snowstorm. Cox was drinking too; his eyes were bright. Far too often they rested on Kitty Savege.
    He dressed like an agent in shipping insurance might, in a nattily tailored coat and waistcoat, expensive and flattering to his athletic build. He enjoyed the advantages of charming address and winning good looks, the sort of pleasing fellow an untried girl like Leam’s young sister Fiona would admire.
    Cox turned to Lady Emily and offered her light flattery as though she gave a damn for that sort of thing, a smile of sheer earnestness on his face. Yale mumbled a comment and Cox chuckled, no doubt gratified to imagine himself privy to the joke. But every few moments he cast Lady Katherine another admiring glance. She returned his smiles, but her attention was scattered, occasionally on the others, occasionally on the glass in her hand, but most often on Leam.
    He was having the devil of a time looking away.
    Curse Yale. Drink had not been wise tonight, at least not for him.
    He set his glass on a table.
    â€œMy lord, it is a great man who shares poetry with others,” Cox said with unexceptionable deference. “Tell me, who do you admire more greatly, Byron or Burns?”
    And there it was again, the slightest hint of ey , the barely discernable ow . As a man who had struggled his entire youth to banish the rough borderlands from his speech, Leam could recognize a countryman within a phrase. Cox was a lowland Scot.
    â€œAeschylus.”
    The fellow’s clear brow beetled. “That name is unknown to me. But I’ve been traveling in the Americas until quite recently. Those colonials never learn of the latest great writers until they are far out of date.” He chuckled.
    Lady Emily blinked like a fish.