When a Girl Loves an Earl (Rescued from Ruin Book 5) Read Free Page A

lips that usually tilted with a crooked smile now wore a bittersweet curve.
    He squeezed her shoulders. Ran one hand over the soft, straight hair she wore in a plait. “I intend tae marry ye, lass. A Sassenach title changes nothin’ of my plans fer us.”
    Shaking her head, she stood on her toes to lay a gentle kiss upon his lips. “Ye’ll hae much tae worry ye withoot frettin’ over me, Jamie. Ye’re a lord now. Take care of what ye must.”
    He was losing her. He could see it, feel it, hear it in her voice and her posture and the way she avoided his gaze. “I shall write ye. Letters upon letters. Every day. And ye shall write me back.”
    She patted his chest. “Weel-a-weel.”
    “And when I return tae Netherdunnie, ye shall become my bride, Alison. Ye shall become Lady Tannenbrook. Our bairns shall live grand lives.”
    Her crooked smile reappeared, displaying the chipped tooth he so loved. But her eyes remained quiet. Sad. “Grand indeed, Jamie. Grand indeed.”
    He held her tight, then, feeling her arms around his waist, her cheek against his chest. She doubted him, obviously having the same thoughts he’d had upon hearing Hargrave’s news—a stonemason had no business being an earl, and a dairyman’s daughter was even less suited to the role of countess. But he did not care. Alison was the lass he loved, and she was the one he would marry, title or no.
    “I shall return,” he whispered, more to himself than to her. “Ye must wait fer me, Alison. Will ye dae that?”
    Her arms squeezed his waist in silent reassurance. Around them water poured out of clouds and mist, forming a solid curtain off the eave of the barn. The sound muffled her sigh, drowned his heartbeat until he could almost believe this was an ordinary day, an ordinary embrace with his bonnie love. Not a goodbye.
    “Wait fer me, lass,” he begged, clutching her tighter. “I shall return. That’s a promise I mean tae keep.”
     
    *~*~*
     
    One year later …
     
    Nothing had changed. Not the approach to Netherdunnie with its ripe, green rolls of land and muddy, shorn sheep. Not the odd sandstone cottage with its sagging roof and three ash trees just before the last bend.
    “Not even the bluidy weather,” James muttered to himself, tapping a knuckle against the carriage’s window frame, listening to the rain compete with the creak and rattle of the vehicle.
    “Bloody weather.” The voice came from beside him. It was English, pure and aristocratic. Amused. “Have a care, Tannenbrook. Your Scot is showing.”
    James glanced to his friend, Lucien Wyatt, a dark-eyed, black-haired second son wearing a perpetual half-grin upon his too-handsome face. “We are in Scotland, ye daft sod.”
    “Leave him be, Luc.” The quiet reprimand came from Gregory, Lucien’s older brother. Thanks to a long nose, Gregory was not nearly so pretty, but his calm, serious nature suited his role as their father’s heir. “It is the first time he’s clapped eyes on his village in a year.”
    Lucien chuckled. “I doubt the village is what he envisions when he falls abed each night.”
    James shoved at Luc’s lean shoulder, letting a smile take his lips when his friend winced and rubbed the spot. “That is my future countess you speak of. Mind your tongue.”
    Though only a year younger than James, Luc was a far sight more devil-may-care, having few responsibilities apart from counting the skirts he managed to lift. He and Gregory were the sons of Lord Atherbourne, whose estate, Thornbridge Park, neighbored his own in Derbyshire.
    Neighbors. James wanted to laugh aloud at the thought. Even the names of the two properties compared poorly. Thornbridge Park was a shimmering, golden palace composed of exquisite Palladian symmetry and the finest limestone. Shankwood Hall, on the other hand, was composed of square blocks with no pediments, no columns. Just a series of chimneys poking at the sky like the last, wiry hairs upon old McFadden’s head. When James