Scandal in Scotland by Karen Hawkins Page A

tone, “I’m sorry I snapped at you for holding so tightly to my neck, but I couldn’t see where I was walking.”
    She was silent a moment. To his surprise, she said, “I’m sorry, too. I was just worried. The ship was on fire and then there was the explosion and I kept picturing you broken and bruised, trapped by a burning beam with no one able to reach you, and the fire raging all around—”
    “Good God, you have a vivid imagination!”
    “I know. It’s a burden.”
    “Tell your imagination that it will take more than that little explosion to rid the world of me.”
    She peeped up at him, her wet lashes radiating from her eyes, which looked darker than usual. “Invincible, are you?” she asked, a faint teasing note in her voice.
    “Today, yes.” They reached the coach. Despite his intentions otherwise, he found himself oddly loath to release her.
    He deserved this moment of peace, when he wasn’t questioning her and she wasn’t defying him. Soon enough, their relationship would return to its normal, abrasive path. And the more contentious their relationship, the better for them both, he decided. Despite all that had transpired between them, he was constantly aware of a tug of attraction that was far too strong. Once he had the artifact he’d never see her again, which was fine with him.
    He suddenly noted how the coach door hung at an odd angle. “Interesting.”
    Marcail turned to see what had caught his attention. “Oh. That.”
    “Yes, that.”
    “Poston tied the shutters and doors closed. I had to find a way to open one from the inside.”
    “I didn’t see Poston on the quay, but that’s not surprising. Every person in town seems to be there.” He set her on her feet, frowning at the dirt on her gown and her black stockings. He flicked a glance at her face and noted she was pale beneath the grime, her face streaked by her tears.
    Too late he realized that he apparently had a weakness for emotional females, particularly ones with violet eyes and tear-streaked faces. The sooner she was back to being her usual composed, collected self, the sooner he could get the artifact and forget that this week had occurred.
    He leaned back and regarded her from head to foot. “Good God, you’re filthy.”
    Her tremulous smile disappeared as her chin snapped up. “So are you.”
    “Yes, but I was in the middle of the fire. You were not.” Seeing her struggling for a witty retort, he hid his satisfaction and glanced at the door. “How did you open this door?”
    “I used the handle of the foot warmer on the hinge pins.” She reached inside and held up a pin, one end oddly flat. “See?”
    “Bloody hell.”
    “I did what I had to.” She tossed the pin onto the floorboard.
    He could tell from the timber of her voice that her emotions were calmer now and not so raw. Good. The last thing I want to deal with right now is a weepy woman . He jerked his head toward the coach. “Get inside. I’ll find Poston and we’ll leave.”
    “Oh? Where are we going?”
    “Back to your room, where you’ll give me the artifact so I may save my brother.”
    “William, I must—”
    “Hush.” He picked her up and set her on the seat. “We’ll discuss this later. Don’t even think about leaving while I’m gone.”
    Her chin lifted. “If I’d wished to leave, I could have, and yet I stayed here. I was in plain sight the entire time and made no effort to return to the inn, though I could have done so.”
    “True. Just don’t get any bright ideas now.” He tossed her cloak at her.
    She caught it, and as she did so, William caught a glimpse of one of her palms.
    He grasped her wrist. She tugged, trying to free herself, but he ignored her and turned her palm upward.
    A bright angry stripe of raw skin glared back up at him. “Damn it, how did you do that?”
    She curled her fingers over the stripe. “It’s nothing.”
    But it was. “You got that from carrying water buckets.”
    “I couldn’t just sit by and