The Scot is Hers by Eliza Knight

 

1

May 1814

Edinburgh

There was nothing worse than attending a ball thrown in one’s own honor when it was against one’s will. This was the situation that Alec Hay, Earl of Errol, General in the Royal Regiment of Scotland, found himself in.

This whole mess was so torturous he would have rather discovered himself back on the battlefield in France, facing off with Napoleon himself. Instead, he was trussed up as some marionette in a jacket that was a little too tight, given the growth of his shoulder muscles while overseas and the lack of warning from his mother, the Countess of Errol, that she was going to be throwing this wretched event.

Alec had literally taken the last bite of his morning eggs when his mother informed him their Edinburgh manse would be packed to the brim with bubbling debutantes tonight. Not enough time to have his evening wear fitted properly or to get out of what promised to be imminent torture.

He tugged on his collar as another mother swept her daughters in front of him. Alec made polite conversation but refrained from writing his name on their dance cards, even though he knew that was their ultimate objective. There was a measure of guilt he felt at ignoring that obligation, but they didn’t know if he was already full for each number, and he decided to pretend he was. Besides, the pained expressions on their faces mirrored his own. They were only going along with their mother’s intentions because they knew he came with a sizable annual income, and they wanted to be a countess. For a price, they were willing to accept him despite his once-good looks having been obliterated in a single moment of treachery on the battlefield.

“If ye’ll excuse me.” He bowed low, winking at their mother for good measure, so his own mother didn’t take him to task later for not at least trying to flirt, and then he disappeared through the crowd. The older women didn’t seem to mind his brutally scarred face. They had that motherly instinct to coddle him. So strange. He wasn’t in the market for a mistress, but if he were, he was certain to find one amongst the meddling mothers.

Alec scanned the crowd of pastel gowns and fitted evening coats, which shimmered in the thousand candles lit up in the ballroom and dripping from the chandeliers.

None of his friends were here. He had a feeling his mother had purposefully left their names off the invitations because she didn’t want Alec to spend all of his time chatting with his comrades instead of finding a wife.

The woman who’d birthed him was mad as a hatter with the idea of his needing to wed. Alec did not want to bind himself to another human, especially one of these silly chits. Any woman he’d be interested in wouldn’t be the same type of female as these flighty bits of lace. If he were ever to marry, it would most assuredly not be to a debutante. Of that, he was certain.

Alec was not in love, nor even in like with any of the nitwits in attendance at this farce. Did his mother really think she could simply snap her fingers, pass out biscuits and champagne and expect him to get down on one knee? He glanced at his pocket watch, willing the time to be much later than it was.

“My lord, would ye please allow me to introduce ye to my daughter, Lady Mary.”

Alec glanced up from where he’d been glowering at the ground and bowed unseeing over yet another young lassie’s gloved hand, feigning interest when he couldn’t care less. The evidence of her desire to escape was as plain on her face as it had been with every other eligible maiden in attendance. They took one look at the left side of his face and were ready to run for their lives.

He wanted to shout, “I was handsome once!” But knew they’d either not believe him or at best think him as mad as he would sound for doing so. Only their mothers remembered him as he’d been before the war. Those last moments of the battle had been unending. As he’d tried to save his second-in-command, the edge of a bayonet had hacked over his face, leaving him with a scar that would scare the daylights out of any young lass decent enough to garner his interest. Cut down to the bone, it was a wonder he had survived—let alone had a left cheek at all. Nearly half his face was torn away from that slice and had healed into an angry, red, rolling pucker that went from the corner of his eye to his chin.

Nay. He, Alec Hay, Earl of Errol, would forever be the damaged and beastly general.

“If ye’ll excuse me,” he murmured, putting the poor chit out of her misery.

He supposed it didn’t help that he was extremely moody and could not summon a smile if the devil himself demanded it. What he really wanted to do was mount his horse and ride north, all the way to his castle, Slains, on the cliff in Aberdeenshire. To stand on the edge and look out at the waves crashing against the rocky craig, close his eyes, and maybe fall off the edge. Let the cold, salty water of the sea bash his body into a million pieces as he’d imagined doing to himself every night since his return. He’d not been able to save his friend, his subordinate, and didn’t it stand to reason that he too should die.

At the very least, he felt compelled to relive the harrowing moments of war over and over until he was either too drunk to move or too immobilized by guilt. Whichever was the quickest means to the end.

Oh, he’d tried to be happy. Tried to blend in. Had even found some momentary contentment with his friends, who’d also returned to Edinburgh. But at night, when darkness closed in, all he could think about was how Sir Douglas Campbell wasn’t ever going to come home. How his best mate Lorne, the Duke of Sutherland, too, had been lost to them. And how it was all his fault for not fighting harder to save him when the enemy had caged them in. For not having put Sir Joshua Keith in his place for insubordination when the issue first arose.

Alec stormed toward the doors of the ballroom. Enough was enough; he wasn’t going to subject himself to any more of this farce. Even if he knew he was going to hear an earful the following morning from his mother. He’d take that most assured chance rather than be in this ballroom one moment longer. The music played loud and chipper, enticing merriment and dancing, and it went against everything he was currently feeling.

Out of the ballroom and down the hall, he excused himself, nodding with a grimace at anyone who dared try to gain his attention until he was pushing through the rear doors of the house and out into the garden.

Couples hid in quiet, darkened corners, trying not to be seen, not to be heard as they stole a private embrace. His bootheels clicked over the flagstone and then were finally muted by the grass of the garden.

Alec remembered those days before the Peninsular War when he’d hid in the shadows of the trees, trying to entice a young lass into a kiss. Now he’d be lucky if any lass could stand his company for more than thirty-eight seconds.

Alec pushed his way through the night until he reached the rear of the garden, only the wall stopping him from walking onward. He yanked open the gate and glared down at the house below. Edinburgh was built on hills and valleys, not a flat surface in sight. And every inch was covered in a structure. There weren’t miles of land stretching out before him, but instead, another house. Another walled garden.

He slammed the gate closed. Banged his fist against the rock, ignoring the pain from splitting his knuckles. He let out a little growl, hands fisted at his sides, head thrown back. He stared up at the stars in the sky and contemplated howling to the moon as the animal he was starting to feel very much like. What he needed was a good boxing match to work out his frustration.

Why didn’t his mother listen to him? Why did she make him the subject of so much scrutiny? The woman was either blind or a fool to believe that this type of event would sway anyone into being his lifelong companion. Besides, he’d already decided he was never getting married.

Never.

Even if he had to live out the rest of his life in seclusion, showing his face only when it was necessary in the House of Lords—then so be it.

* * *

What in the world?

Lady Giselle Hepburn sank deeper into the shadows of the garden, staring at the giant Highlander who’d assaulted the rear wall, destroying the tranquility of her reflections.

She’d come back here to be alone. To escape the ball that she’d not wanted to attend.

This was only her first season, and it had been exhausting. One event after another. Endless “cheer,” or at least that was what it was supposed to be. Musicales, theater performances, tea, luncheon, volunteer service, attending to callers, calling on people herself, balls and more balls. It was a wonder she was even standing upright given her exhaustion.

Her feet ached from barely getting any rest. Her face hurt from pretending to smile, and she’d run out completely of witty things to say. If she had to open her mouth now to speak to the man imposing on her silence, she’d likely only be able to mutter gibberish of sorts. She had no interest in being here and would much rather be at home curled up with a good book. What she wouldn’t give to hop into a traveling coach and escape to the country away from all this ridiculousness.

Her toes were probably bleeding in her slippers from the last dance she’d been subjected to, and if she had to hear one more time what a great hunter or horseman one of these blokes was, she’d scream. Because the truth was, she didn’t care at all.

But this man, he was interesting, at least for the moment. What tormented him so that he felt the need to take it out on the stone wall? And how was his hand faring after such an idiotic move?

He turned in the moonlight, leaning his back against the wall, and then she saw his face. Instantly, she knew who he was. Moonlight filtered down, alighting on the jagged pink scar that ran from his temple, over his cheek and down to his chin. Och, how it must have hurt. Giselle touched her cheek, imagining what it must have been like to have such an injury. The light from above caught on his ginger hair, giving the illusion of glowing like fire, making him look even wilder.

Alec Hay. The Earl of Errol. The man of the hour.

What had gotten him so riled up? Giselle imagined one of the idiot debutantes inside probably said something to insult him. All these ninnies were so superficial. It was why she’d not been able to make any friends. She didn’t see the world the same way they did. The only friend she had was Jaime, but she could only see her when she snuck about as her mother didn’t approve of their friendship.

The earl let out another small growl, slamming his hands into the stone. She wished there was something she could do for him. He was obviously in distress. It was on the tip of her tongue to call out to him. To approach him as if he were a wounded animal. But she knew better. He wasn’t just any wounded animal, but more like a rabid wolf, she’d say. He might bite her head off.

Giselle bit her lip to hide her laugh at such imaginings.

When she was in a mood such as the one that appeared to be plaguing him, the last thing she wanted was for anyone to bother her at all.

So she sank deeper into the shadows, trying not to make any noise, and watched him. She felt a little odd doing that. As if she were intruding. His shoulders rose and fell violently. And she had the disturbing notion that he was either crying or breathing very heavily.

A grown man, a soldier at that, crying?

Nay, he must be breathing very hard. And that would make sense after punching a wall. He was likely quite out of breath from the exertion and whatever emotions had motivated him to such violence.

Another growl reached her ears from where he stood, and she had the sudden haunting notion that he reminded her very much of Beast from La Belle et la Bête by Jeanne-Marie LePrince de Beaumont.

That made her smile to visualize him that way, and she knew it was silly. But she supposed he did have a lot in common with that tortured prince. A curse forever altering his features, meddlers demanding he fall in love if he were to find true happiness ever. It was all so very romantic. Giselle sighed.

“I can hear ye breathing,” he said gruffly, his head swiveling in her direction.

Giselle peeked at him from behind the tree, wondering if he could see her and also wondering what color his eyes were. Despite his scar and crankiness, he was still very handsome.

If she held her breath, would he determine that he’d heard wrong?

She held her breath to see.

“Why are ye hiding? Who’s there?” He stood straight now, hands fisted at his sides as he took two steps toward her.

Giselle bit her lip. She could come out and tell him who she was, but if she did and anyone saw the two of them alone in the garden speaking, it could be a whole scandal, and she was not ready to be married, let alone gossiped about. This was, after all, only her first season, and she’d not even experienced her first kiss.

There was no way on earth she was going to be tied down to the first man she happened to be alone with. Not that she would have minded so very much being attached to the beastly Alec Hay. She’d be a countess, and he was exhilarating. Attractive and tall. From what she could see of his legs encased in woolen hose to the knees, he was formed well too. Striking in a kilt. The ninnies feigning horror at his face were stupid. Didn’t they see the rest of him?

Scars mattered little to her.

What did matter was his penchant for punching walls. He was not entirely stable, and that, she decided, was not the type of man she wanted to be tied to. She needed stability. After all, her parents were the opposite of stable. Always arguing, and her mother was so controlling that Giselle was lucky if she could sneeze without asking permission first.

“Dammit, come out of the shadows, or I swear to God I will yank ye out.” Alec’s voice was full of threat, and it almost made her scurry around the front of the tree to reveal herself.

But she did have some semblance of self-preservation left, and so she tiptoed backward, deeper into the garden.

“Coward,” he called out to her, obviously hearing her retreat.

Coward? Giselle snorted. Maybe she was when it came to saying no to her mother, but in any other circumstance, this was the last thing anyone would say about her.

What did he know? She whirled around, prepared to tell him that, but caught herself in time, clamping her lips closed. She turned back around to face the great house, prepared to march inside and tell her mother her head ached when her entire body collided with solid muscle.

“Oof,” she said, very unladylike. Her hands came up involuntarily to press against the stony expanse of male chest. Nay! The earl. “Oh. Pardon me.”

“What are ye doing lurking in my garden?” The Earl of Errol, or perhaps she should call him the Beast of Errol, made no move to get out of her way, nor did he retreat from her touch.

Giselle yanked her hands away from him, suddenly feeling heat creep its way up her limbs and onto her face.

“I was out here for a moment alone. Much as I suspect ye were, sir.” She tilted her head back and glared at him. If he were going to act the beast, she would put him in his place. Striking green eyes—or were they blue—glared down at her in the moonlight. Oh my. “I did no’ try to insert myself in your time alone. I was, after all, here first. I think it would behoove ye to treat me in the same manner. Now, if ye will excuse me.”

She made to step around him, but he stepped in her way, blocking her once more. Definitely, his eyes were green as they raked up and down her form, sending chills of something not altogether unpleasant racing along her skin.

“What did ye see?” he asked.

“What?” She wrinkled her brow. That was not a question she’d expected, and she didn’t even know how to answer it.

“Ye were watching me. What did ye see?” He brought his face close to hers as if trying to intimidate her. But he obviously had no idea who she was, for she would not be intimidated. And also, he smelled delicious. Spicy and woodsy.

Giselle looked him right in the eyes, lifting her chin. “I saw nothing.”

In the light of the moon, she watched his brows narrow. She should probably be worried, but the truth was, she wasn’t scared at all, only annoyed. The headache she was going to pretend to have was quickly coming true.

“If ye will excuse me, now, sir.” She again tried to skirt around him. This time he not only stepped in her way, but he also grasped her arm. Warmth shot from the spot where he held her. Exactly the opposite sensation she was certain she should have. “What are ye doing?” She stared down at where his long fingers curled around her arm. What would happen if she slid his hand down to her own and entwined her fingers with his?

Oh, stop, ye stupid fool. The man was angry and not at all in the mood for wooing, and her imagination was running wild again.

“Ye’re no’ afraid of me,” he stated.

Och, nay. Had he noticed her curiosity, read in her thoughts that she liked how he smelled, and wanted to hold his hand? “Of course no’. Why would I be?” Again she lifted her chin, going for obstinance.

“Every wee lass is.”

“I’m no’ a wee lass then, I guess.” Even if she was a mere nineteen years old. What did it matter? Age was only a number, and she’d had her fair share of issues in her short life not to worry about a man’s fit of temper while he was alone. It was none of her business, besides.

“Do I know ye?” he asked, cocking his head as he again raked that delicious gaze over her.

Dear me... “I’m afraid we were no’ introduced.”

“Why’s that?”

“I came late, and when I was announced, I met only your mother.”

“So ye know who I am?” His voice lost some of its edge.

Giselle’s gaze flitted nervously back toward the house. It was only a matter of minutes before they were discovered. “Aye.”

“Seems fitting that I should know ye, then.”

“I think no’ since I’m leaving.” She tugged her arm out of his grasp, and he surprisingly let her go.

“Why are ye in a rush to leave?” He crossed his arms over his chest, staring down at her, giving her pause.

“Because I did no’ want to be here to begin with.”

“What better thing did ye have to do than go to a ball?”

That was an irritating question, as was his accompanying sneer. Did the beast think that lasses only cared about frivolous things? Giselle decided to be completely honest with him. “I wanted to finish my book.”

He seemed stunned by her admission. “Book?”

“Aye. I was just getting to the good part when I had to set it aside to dress for this.” She waved her hand in the air, absent-mindedly dismissing the soiree held in his honor.

“I’m dying to know, Miss...what was your name?”

Well, that she didn’t feel like sharing. Not so he could tell someone he’d been alone with her in the garden and ruin all of her plans to remain unattached. “My name is no’ important as ye’ll no’ need to know it going forward. Probably safer. Now, what are ye dying to know?”

“Well, now, I’m intrigued by your lack of name. But before, it was the title of the book.”

“Do ye read, sir?” She somehow doubted it, him being a military man, and as handsome as he was. Most of the men she’d met who enjoyed books were not as appealing as Alec Hay.

“I have been known to pick up a book now and then.”

Giselle had searched the house when she first left the ballroom and found no library. And so she assumed he must be lying.

“Well, if ye must be enlightened, I was reading Sense and Sensibility.”

“I’ve no’ heard of that.”

“I’m no’ surprised. It’s quite new. It is also a novel with romantic notions, and being ye are…”

“A dullard?” There was laughter in his words as if he expected her to agree.

Giselle tried to keep the frown from her face, as her mother had advised that frowning aged a woman dramatically, and she’d been frowning quite a bit in his presence. “A man. I’d no’ have expected ye to be interested.”

“Perhaps I am.”

What was he up to? “Then ye should get yourself a copy.”

“Perhaps I will. Who is the author?”

“A lady.”

“And her name?” Again his green eyes raked over her with interest, sending heat scurrying up her spine to wrap around her throat, making it hard to form words.

“She is anonymous, sir,” Giselle finally managed to say.

“Ah, as ye are. The two of ye have much in common. Perhaps she is ye.”

Giselle shook her head, swiping at a blonde curl that tapped against her cheek. “Nay, she is no’. I like to read, but I have no’ the talent for storytelling.”

“Have ye ever tried?”

“I have no’.”

“Then how do ye know?”

This conversation had gone on long enough. If she didn’t extricate herself soon, she’d be in trouble, for every moment that passed with her in his presence unchaperoned was another moment they could be discovered, and her future ruined.

“I need to go, sir.”

“Home so soon? But there is more of the ball to be had.”

Oh, what did he care? He too was avoiding it. “If ye must know, I’ve had it with these ridiculous balls. I’m tired. I’m bored. And I’ve no intention of getting married any time soon, so going to them and flirting and hoping to catch the eye of an eligible bachelor is silly at best. Now, if ye’ll excuse me, I must go back inside before anyone sees us together out here.”

“Why’s that? Ye do no’ want to be seen with me?”

“Well, sir, if we are seen together out here, likely we will be forced to be seen together for the rest of our lives.”

That got him moving. Quite quickly, as a matter of fact. He leapt backward as if she’d slapped him, and Giselle had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

“I see we understand each other.” She tried hard not to roll her eyes, but it was a feat she did not succeed in. “It was no’ my pleasure to meet ye, sir. In future, if ye do no’ wish to irritate the fairer sex, try no’ to act as though being linked to one is a nightmare.”

“As if ye would no’ think the same for me,” he scoffed, then touched his face, his finger tracing over the large scar there. How vain could he be to think such a thing would matter?

“What reason would I have? Except for maybe your rudeness.” With that, Giselle lifted her skirts and hurried across the garden toward the side door that she’d slipped out of previously, hoping that no one saw her.

Once inside, she made her way to the ladies’ retiring room, and then swiftly out again, making certain to ask the first person she saw if they’d seen her mother, the Countess of Bothwell, so that she could have a witness to exiting the retiring room if anyone did decide to put her in the garden with the Beast of Errol.

She was quickly pointed in the right direction. Her mother had finished a conversation with one set of friends and taken a champagne glass from a passing footman, intent on inserting herself in another conversation when Giselle intercepted her.

“Mother, please, I must go. I’ve been in the ladies’ retiring, trying to get rid of this megrim.” Giselle touched her forehead with the back of her hand and feigned pain for good measure.

“Oh, dear. Well, I wondered where ye’d gone off too. Though I did no’ see ye in there when I checked.”

“I do no’ know how ye missed me.” Giselle shrugged and let out a long-suffering sigh.

Her mother narrowed her eyes, but taking in Giselle’s person, must have decided she didn’t look as if she’d been mauled by anyone or been out having an assignation. There was no other choice but to believe her.

“We shall go,” her mother finally consented. “We have to be up early tomorrow anyway for the morning service.”

The morning service was what Giselle was subjected to quite often, and it had nothing to do with the church. Instead, the morning service was when she volunteered her time with the older ladies of society as their companion, doing menial tasks like writing letters and reading to them. Her mother seemed to pick the crankiest ones each time.

“I do hope my megrim is gone by morning,” Giselle said.

“It will be,” her mother quipped as if she could control such a thing.

Out they went into the night. For the rest of the season, Giselle searched for signs of Alec Hay, The Beast of Errol, mostly so she could avoid him, but he seemed to have disappeared from society.