A Borrowed Scot Read Free Page B

wanted to be the woman she saw more than the person she was.
    Abruptly, he held out his hand, and she had no choice but to surrender the mirror to him reluctantly. Once he’d replaced the mirror in the bag, he glanced at her again. A look of speculation lingered there. Or was it compassion?
    Dear God, and she didn’t think it untoward to petition the Almighty for assistance in this regard, please don’t let anyone who knew Uncle Bertrand and Aunt Lilly discover anything about this night.
    Uncle Bertrand was set upon advantageous marriages for his daughters, and a future for his sons, none of which would be accomplished if a relative was known to be scandalous. And what could be more scandalous than what had happened tonight?
    Surely, the members of the Society would not comment on tonight’s actions. To do so would be to admit they were present. Would it matter to any of them? A man was judged by a different set of criteria from a woman, and often exempt from censure.
    She, on the other hand, would be seen as shocking.
    Attending a meeting of the Society of the Mercaii had seemed worth the risk. They might have been able to answer her questions. But they weren’t the learned scholars she’d heard but simply a gathering of men interested in other pursuits entirely.
    Either her thoughts were making her sick, or whatever they’d given her to drink was affecting her stomach. Her headache was getting worse as well.
    She glanced at the opposite seat, wishing she could look into her reflection again. Had she really been happy? Had she been surrounded by people who loved her? Was that a vision of her true future, then, and not the abysmal one she imagined?
    Or had the drug made her delirious, too?
    “Give me your address,” the stranger said.
    “You mustn’t take me home. If you do, someone will see.”
    “I didn’t want to rescue you,” he said. “Since I did, I’ll see it to its conclusion. You won’t walk home alone.”
    Something sounded in his voice, some emotion that summoned her curiosity. For a moment, she pushed it away. Curiosity had been at the root of this disaster. Despite herself, she glanced at him. His returning gaze was shuttered, flat, as if he felt nothing.
    People were never without emotions.
    She closed her eyes, sent her Gift reaching toward the man opposite her. She stilled, clearing her mind, and immediately felt something. He was impatient and irritated; but beneath both emotions, surging like the tide, she felt his anguish, so sharp it felt like a knife slicing through her.
    In that moment, she almost asked why he was so troubled, halted only by the memory of Uncle Bertrand’s words. How many times had he lectured her?
    “Veronica, you must not tell people everything you feel. They’ll label you a candidate for Bedlam. I have my position to maintain, and it will do me no good to have my niece rumored to be daft.”
    “I’m not daft, Uncle Bertrand,” she’d said. “I cannot help what I feel about people.”
    “Your mother encouraged you too much, girl. There is no such thing as your Gift.”
    What had she said in response? Something about not wishing to hear anything bad about her parents. Or had she simply remained silent, knowing any rebellion, however small, was simply not worth the effort?
    No doubt she was fortunate not to be locked up in a third-floor attic somewhere, or relegated to an out-of-the-way place, labeled the slightly odd woman who felt the emotions of others.
    “Well? What’s your address?”
    She opened her eyes, slowing turning her head to face the man who, inwardly, was so troubled. Outwardly, however, he was taciturn, impatient, and supremely annoyed at her.
    “If I give you my address,” she asked, “have I your word you’ll simply let me leave the carriage? That you won’t feel it necessary to escort me to the door and let my employers know what’s transpired?”
    He was looking at her that way again, as if he skewered her to the seat with his