Stranded With The Scottish Earl Read Free Page B

the delicious scents of rain and male was more roast beef dinner than fussy French patisserie.
    “Miss Flora?”
    Realizing how her eyes clung to his broad chest, she blushed to fire. She licked her lips, hoping without great optimism that the dimness concealed the
    color in her cheeks. “I’ll take you upstairs.” She paused, recalling that she was a maid. “Sir.”
    Charlotte hadn’t had this trouble staying in character when she’d played Cinderella. Perhaps because the play’s Prince Charming was Paul
    Carter, the vicar’s son. A perfectly nice boy, but a nonentity compared to Ewan Macrae. All her life, she’d pushed Paul around. She already
    knew she didn’t have a prayer of pushing Lord Lyle.
    Another reason to reject his suit. Since her beloved mother’s death ten years ago, she’d run the Bassington estate, and she’d discovered
    that she liked the world to march to her drumbeat. She’d bridle against any attempt to tame her, yet she couldn’t respect a man who let her
    walk all over him.
    Lucky for her, as the only child of a rich man, she could afford to claim her independence. Her indulgent papa always gave her her way, saying he
    appreciated having such a diligent chatelaine.
    Which made this lunacy her father cooked up with Lyle even more inexplicable. She stifled the familiar pang of hurt that struck every time she recalled
    that cheerful letter disposing of her future.
    “Follow me,” she said, turning with a swish of her meager skirts toward the steps. The Cinderella costume was a blessing when it came to a
    disguise, but it was cursed flimsy. She was starting to shiver. Changing into dry, warm clothing became imperative—especially if this strange
    other-worldly feeling portended a cold.
    “You’re very kind,” he said in a neutral voice, shouldering the valise with an ease that sent an unwelcome thrill through Charlotte.
    Goodness. If ever one needed to fight off dragons, this was the man to enlist. Any sensible dragon would take one look at that powerful form and scurry
    back to its cave.
    With Bill at his heels, Lyle followed her up the stone stairs. In the constricted space, she was preternaturally aware of his size compared to hers. She
    should have kept her clogs on. She’d never thought of herself as a fragile woman, but something about the earl’s large, strong body made her
    feel ridiculously tiny and defenseless.
    They stepped into the great hall, the core of the original medieval building. How vast and empty the manor felt when it contained only her and one
    too-handsome man.
    Lord Lyle paused at the top of the steps and glanced around the massive space with its hammer-beam roof sporting angels with the Warren shield—three
    gold swans on a blue background. His expression was a mixture of awe and amusement. “Good Lord, lassie, I feel like Henry the Eighth.”
    She bit back the impulse to say that even if he took six wives, Charlotte Warren still wouldn’t count among their number. “It’s very old,
    fourteenth century.”
    She’d resented Lyle’s constant attention. Now, stupidly, she resented that he forgot about her. He performed a slow turn, whistling in
    admiration. Those clever eyes took in the ancient patterned tiles and the tall heraldic south window, which even on a grim day flooded the enormous space
    with light.
    “It’s impressive.” His attention settled on the makeshift stage beneath the window. “Cinderella’s parlor, I take it?
    I’d have thought Sir John’s daughter would play the leading role. I was told she lives here.”
    Charlotte’s eyes narrowed. “Miss Warren is away at present.”
    “While you run the Easter play.”
    “I’m a mere participant, sir,” she said. “I do what I’m told.”
    The glance he directed at her indicated disbelief. “That must be difficult.”
    She lowered her eyes to hide her stirring temper. “I know my place, Mr. Smith.”
    The name stuck in Charlotte’s neck. But if she admitted she knew who he was,