EXCERPT:

Holyrood Palace
Edinburgh, Scotland
August, 1822

At visiting King George’s Assembly for the Ladies of Scotland…

     James was determined to follow the girl. After the odd incident in the king’s reception line, he wanted an explanation of what in blazes had just happened. How had she known secret details concerning his friend’s work? What sort of scheme was this?
     She had slipped through the press of chattering people and into the corridor beyond, but the bobbing white feathers and a jet gloss of hair were easy to follow. Catching up to her, he snatched her arm and guided her toward an anteroom he saw just off the corridor.
     “Come with me,” he said sternly, marching beside her, his cane tapping as they walked, though his limp was scarcely noticeable then. The smaller room was quieter than the other areas. Tall ferns and potted rhododendrons were arranged around the room with large vases of fragrant roses. The room was thick with that mingled, natural perfume.
     He pulled her behind some rhododendrons and roses, and glared down at her. “What the devil was that all about?” he demanded.
     She stared up at him. “What?”
     Glowering, waiting for her to relent, he realized that he was disappointed. She was so lovely, delectable really, yet not the innocent she seemed, having done a scheming thing. Her beautiful eyes distracted him, but he would not look away. “Miss MacArthur, Sir Walter Scott keeps his identity as a novelist secret. I do not know your game here, but–“
     “No game, sir. The knowledge of his books just—well, came to me. I never meant to offend.”
     “Sir Walter is now convinced that you have The Sight. It is a poor joke to play on a gentleman who has such a beneficial passion for Highland lore.”
     “But I do have the Sight,” she said.
     “It may amuse you to fool others, but I will not tolerate a mockery of my friends.”
     “Sometimes I simply…know things, and then I say them.” She looked distressed, then drew a breath and stared up at him, gray eyes flashing. “But you, sir, are rude to accuse and confront me so.”
     Frowning, about to answer her, he glanced up as his party entered the room.
     “Oh, there you are, James!” his sister Fiona called.
     “I am shocked!” Charlotte Sinclair said, strolling in with Lady Rankin. “Outraged!”
     Elspeth MacArthur glanced at James “Oh dear. I suppose I am ruined now.”
     “Nonsense,” he said, “I have scarcely touched you.” He knew what she meant, but it suited him to be obtuse just then.
     Charlotte and Lady Rankin approached, headdress feathers waving, silk and satin trains sliding like plumed tails. “That was no proper kiss at all from the king,” Charlotte was saying. “I expected something much more gentile and memorable.”
     “You can hardly expect something romantical from the king,” Lucie reasoned. “But the cordial kiss was, um, disappointing, I admit.”
     “Struan!” Sir Philip peered behind the rhododendron. “And Miss MacArthur! Whatever are you doing back there? We fellows must make up the deficit for the ladies. Like so!” Leaning toward Charlotte, he kissed her quickly on the lips.
     “Oh!” Charlotte swatted him with her fan, but giggled.
     “And one for you,” Sir Philip said, turning to Fiona, who offered her cheek. James’s brother William bent toward Lucie, who dimpled and smiled as he kissed her cheek.
     Though Lady Rankin huffed indignantly, she laughed when William kissed her cheek next. Standing close beside Miss MacArthur, wrapped in the sweet scent of the flowers, James watched as others in the room shared kisses: the young women coyly complained, and young men obliged with what they declared proper kissing, amid laughter and gentle flirting.
     “It seems no one is satisfied with the royal kiss,” Lady Rankin said.
     “Certainly not Scottish women,” Fiona said, while Charlotte and Lucie laughed.
     “What of the Highland lass in our party?” Sir Philip asked. “I will do the honors, since I am the one dressed in proper Highland fashion today, since Struan and his brother decided not to wear the kilt to the event.” He came around the potted plants and kissed Elspeth MacArthur, quick and moist on the lips. Grinning, he stepped back.
     The girl smiled, while James, standing beside her, grew very still. No reason to feel jealous of that bit of silliness, he told himself—and yet he did.
     “Look,” Charlotte said, “the Countess of Argyll has accepted a kiss from the Earl of Huntly. No one shall be left out of the game now.” They moved off to watch, leaving James alone again with Miss MacArthur behind the screen of roses and rhododendrons.
     “So, was that a proper kiss Rankin gave you?” he asked curtly.
     “Not really, but we will let him think so.” She met his gaze. “Not that I am a judge of kissing. Well, there was the draw-lad when I was a girl.”
     “What in blazes is a draw-lad?” He knew he sounded irritated.
     “The boy who pulls the yarn on the big looms. We have both large looms and hand-looms in my grandfather’s weaving establishment at Kilcrennan. But kissing the draw-lad was not exactly proper either, I suppose—”
     “Hush.” The urge welled so quickly in him that he obeyed it without thinking, taking her small chin in his fingers. “This is a proper kiss.” He touched his lips to hers.
     Surprising. Tender. Breathtaking and heartbreaking all at once, just for an instant, so that something spun inside him like a whirligig. He had not intended it—and now that simple kiss took him like a storm. He drew back, and felt her trembling hand on his forearm.
     “Oh,” she gasped. “Oh--” She tilted her face upward as if seeking more.
     “Aye,” he murmured, and leaned down again. This time his lips lingered, warm and firm over hers, and he took her by the small of her waist through the yardage of silks and satin. The big flowering plants shielded them from view, and the girl grabbed his coat sleeve, making a soft little sound in her throat. He felt as if he had stepped off a cliff with his eyes closed, as if he stole a small, forbidden moment of hungry bliss. 
     Drawing in a breath, he pulled her closer to him, and she sighed against his mouth, felt her body press against his, wildly enticing. She groaned softly as he slid his hand along her back, from the small of her waist upward, until his fingertips skimmed her shoulder. She caught her breath, and his body surged--
     He dropped his hands away. “I beg your pardon. Thoughtless of me.”
     She still clutched his sleeve. Letting go, she stepped away. “Good day…Lord Struan, thank you for”–she did not look at him–“your kindness today.”
     “Miss MacArthur,” he murmured in farewell, knowing full well he craved to pursue the moment, and the girl; his body pulsed, and by her sweet response, she wanted more of this, too. Yet he should never have let things go even this far. Steeling himself, inclining his head, he stepped back. “Good day.”
     With a murmur, she glided away, then glanced back for a moment, her eyes haunting somehow. He knew he would not forget their beautiful color and depth, or their provocative owner. A moment later, she vanished into the glittering sea of people.