A peat fire smoldered in the hearth, the sweet-smelling smoke piercing his heart.
Then the candlelight flickered and the plaid trappings vanished, leaving an ordinary English cloakroom.
Except now, a young woman stood at one of the windows.
Lucian narrowed his eyes at her, sure he’d never seen a more fetching lass. She wore her chestnut hair unbound, the unusual style making him wonder if she’d done so as a rebellious statement, much as he’d donned his finest kilt and regalia.
Either way, her tresses rippled to her waist and the strands gleamed in the moonlight. The sweet curve of her hips beckoned, and the lush fullness of her breasts made his thumbs ache to brush over the tips.
He also recognized her, having overheard a viper-tongued lass call her the Frost Maiden.
Lady Melissa Tandy, a dishonored heiress who’d gained notoriety by vowing she’d spend every inherited coin on a refuge for aged coach horses, not sharing a penny with her stepmother and half-siblings.
Gossips claimed ice ran in her veins and her cold heart thawed only for animals.
To him, she looked so delectable that a fierce heat ignited inside him. He strode over to her, drawn by a force he’d never felt.
“Lady Melissa.”
She turned, her eyes widening. “You know me?”
His smile flashed. “I do now.”
She frowned. “But we haven’t met. How can you-”
“Lady, I will no’ lie,” he said. “I overheard someone praise your beauty.” He altered the truth, not wanting to offend her. Indeed, everyone present should praise her looks.
She was stunning.
He smiled. “Your name was mentioned.”
“I see…” She didn’t appear convinced. “I believe I know you, too, and for the same reason. You’re the Black Lyon.”
“Lucian.” He stepped closer, bowed slightly. He had an overpowering urge to toss her over his shoulder, carry her up a turret stair, and ravish her all night, leaving no inch of her unexplored.
“Lord Lucian.” She smiled, disproving the tales of ice. “Laird of Lyongate Hall.”
“You ken my home?” Lucian’s heart thudded, madness upon him for he could see them in the heather, on his plaid, naked and sweaty.
“My mother was Scottish.” Her voice turned wistful. “I always dreamed of-”
“Visiting the Highlands?” Lucian’s mind raced ahead, seeing them walking the moors, older and with children. Now he knew he’d run mad, but he didn’t care.
Shewasthe lass he’d been seeking.
The look she gave him proved it. “Are you inviting me there?”
“I am.”He took her hand, kissing her fingers. “You’ll fall in love with Scotland.”
She smiled. “I believe I already am.”
“I am no’ surprised.” He looked down at her, spellcast by the way her eyes glistened in the moonlight. “There is a magic about Scotland. Many dream of going there and they do so with a passion that shocks even them. Then, once they set foot there, they are forever enchanted, and when they must leave, their hearts never stop aching to return. That, dear lady, is the way of it.”
“The magic of your Scotland?”
She held his gaze and he felt a very different kind of enchantment spill through him, clear to his toes.
“Aye,” he said, aware of the fast beat of his heart. “And you’d feel such enchantment even more so in the Highlands.”
