A Hot Scot for Christmas E-Book

Gina Conkle

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 160

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

Is he a fortune hunter? A nasty storm lands Rory MacLeod on Sabrina Throckmorton-Rutherford's doorstep. One night in her barn is all he wants, but the forthright woman believes the hulking Highlander could be the perfect decoy to scare off unwanted suitors through Twelfth Night. Or is he a gift from above? Rory knows a lass in need when he sees one. Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford works herself to the bone, and for that reason alone, he appoints himself Master of Frivolity during the holidays. The change he brings is wonderful. Even the servants agree, the Scot is like fresh air to their home. Sabrina's ready to risk everything for Rory. Is the roving Highlander ready do the same?

Leseprobe

Copyright © 2023 Gina Conkle

Cover art and design by Forever After Romance Designs

A HOT SCOT FOR CHRISTMAS

Ebook ISBN: 9781641973212

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief embodied in critical articles or reviews—without the permission in writing from its publisher, Aves Press.

The characters and events portrayed in this books are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

Read the romance that started it all…

About the Author

More Titles by Gina Conkle

This is for all the women who’ve had to start over.

CHAPTER1

December 24, 1753

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring except the rain-drenched man on her doorstep…

“I’m in a bit of a bind,” he said, water trickling off his hat.

Sabrina leaned forward, drawn to the timbre of his voice. An alluring sound, his deep Scot’s burr. It was husky and grained from a life lived out of doors, she guessed. Big and raw-boned, he towered over her. By that alone, she knew, he wasn’t simply a Scot, but a Highlander.

For there was a difference.

A tickle in her mid-section warned her—this Highlander was trouble in jackboots, and she would know. Married at eighteen, a widow at twenty-four, she’d earned her stripes with men.

If she wasn’t careful, she’d earn another.

With all four servants abed, caution was best, especially in the borderlands. Fortune hunters could sniff a woman of means from miles away. The cads. But, if the man taking refuge under her portico was of that ilk, he’d disguised himself well in a muddied great coat and a week’s worth of whiskers.

“A night in the barn. That’s all I ask,” he said over the downpour.

One night. What harm could come of that? said no wise woman ever.

She shivered, a little chilled. Her gaze drifted to pitch-black skies at the exact moment lightning struck—a heavenly reminder to stop dithering. An act of charity was in order.

“Yes, of course. Let me get my cloak.” She melted into the shadows in search of it.

The Scot’s voice followed her.

“I’ll be gone by sunrise,” he assured. “The lady of the house will never know I was here.”

“The…lady?” She donned her cloak, perplexed.

Does he think I am the housekeeper? Possibly. She’d answered the door in a serviceable grey gown and an apron smeared with beeswax though the man seeking a night in her barn didn’t seem to mind. He was leaning a casual shoulder on the door frame, filling it from top to bottom.

“I don’t want to cause trouble, lass.”

“Oh, trust me. The lady of the house won’t mind,” she said dryly.

“Glad to hear it.”

There was a touch of the untamed in his half-smile. A drifter, a traveler, a charmer by nature. Laundresses and ladies alike would want to domesticate him. He was canting his head, reading her as keenly as she tried to read him.

“Pretty as you are, I imagine I’m not the first man you’ve stashed in the barn.”

“Stashed—in the barn?”

She almost laughed while simultaneously executing a tight bow under her chin. After a steady diet of plump squires, dandified lords, and one self-important army captain garrisoned in Carlisle, this Scot was a pleasant assault on her senses.

“I must confess that I have never stashed a man in a barn.”

Mischief played at the corners of his mouth. “What? You’ve never stolen a kiss behind a barn?”

“Neither in front nor behind.”

She stroked a wisp of hair off her face, aware of a certain sense of anticipation. Of almost floating toward him. The Highlander’s appeal had a lambent quality. Basking in it was akin to the pleasure of watching warm chocolate melt over a slice of cake.

“Then you prefer the privacy and comfort of an alcove,” he said.

She felt her lips twitch. “Alcoves are hardly comfortable.”

“Clearly, you haven’t indulged yourself. A kiss in an unlikely place is half the fun.”

The Highlander hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets. The confident man.

His message was clear. You haven’t kissed me.

Kissing and fun? In the same sentence? She mused on that while lifting a lit taper from the sconce and setting the guttering candle in a lamp on the entry table. What was she to make of him? As a species of men, Highlanders were often speechless stoics or bold as brass. Too much time alone in their craggy mountains and solitary isles molded their nature. It was obvious where this one landed.

After a lifetime in London, she was adjusting to the north. There were Scots, yes, but Highlanders lived as a breed apart. Strong, masculine. Almost primitive.

She shivered again, but not from the cold.

The man on her doorstep was studying her intently.

“You’ve gone quiet, lass. Hope I haven’t frightened you.”

“You haven’t.” She raised the lamp, curious.

Amber light slanted over spirited blue eyes. Minute scars revealed themselves on his brow and chin. Knicks and cuts, signs he’d led a harsh life. The Highlander was dark-haired and rugged and his face, a landscape of secrets. He would never be the handsomest man in a room, but he could easily be the most provocative. Dress him up, put him in a London ballroom, and men would gather round, clutching pints, eager to swap tales of adventure.

And the women…

They’d whisper behind silk-gloved hands and try to catch his gaze.

A gaze that was for her alone. Fascinating, his stare, his stillness. The effect dizzied her.

One corner of his mouth hitched. “I think I understand. You’re a good English girl who goes to church every Sunday and says a prayer for scoundrels like me.”

“Good girl, indeed.” She was amused.

But a pause snared her.

“Does that mean there’s a chance you aren’t?” he asked softly.

Rain splattered noisily, yet her ears pricked, alert.

“Are you inquiring about the finer points of my character?” Her voice was equally inviting.

What dangerous ground they trod, a man and woman alone on a stormy night. The Highlander’s fixed attention told her he was charmed by tall green-eyed red-heads with a smattering of nose freckles.

“We could discuss your character or mine. Why not both? I’m an equitable man.”

“An equitable man…” she considered that. “Now that is unusual.”

She held his gaze, enthralled. Flirting with a stranger—I really should’ve gone to the Christmas Eve Assembly. Yet, these were the borderlands, as far away from well-heeled flirtation as one could get. Perhaps she preferred the rougher variety. Muddied jackboots and all.

Which was the very thing that landed her in trouble years ago.

She raised her hood, a wisp of a sigh slipping out. This—whatever it was—was ill-advised.

“You should know, I am Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford. The lady of the house, as it were.”

Hers was a droll admission, and just like that, flirtation fizzled. The Highlander eased off the doorframe and touched the brim of his hat., respectful.

“Rory MacLeod, ma’am.”

She quirked her mouth. He’d ma’amed her as though she were his great aunt, which put to rest any lingering notions the hulking Scot was a fortune hunter. Besides, those men wanted entry to her salon, not a night in her barn.

“Let’s get you settled, shall we?” With the lamp in hand, Sabrina ducked out and shut the door. “Have you a horse?”

“At the moment, no.”

An odd answer, she thought, dashing off the front step. Water streamed off the roof of her portico, splashing the pair of them as they went. Rain needled her cheeks, and Mr. MacLeod held down his hat, his voice booming above the storm.

“I lost my mount. Tossed me and ran off at the first bolt of lightning.”

“Are you hurt?” He was a bulwark in her side vision.

“Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix.”

She dodged a puddle in the yard. “It’s possible your horse ran to the village.”

Rockcliffe was a mile north and the larger town of Carlisle, two miles south.

“That is my hope, ma’am. Otherwise, I’ll have a long walk back to London.”

He’d walk to London? Incredible.

With the barn in sight, Mr. MacLeod jogged ahead to wrench open the door. She rushed in to the healthy smells of hay and horses and stomped the cold out of her legs while Mr. MacLeod shut the door. A muddied saddle bag that she hadn’t noticed before was slung over his shoulder. Must’ve come off the saddle when his mount threw him, yet he looked none the worse for the evening’s mishap. The Highlander loomed large and unbreakable like his pagan ancestors. They’d fought the Vikings. Put fear in them, hadn’t they?

Mr. MacLeod would be no different. A worthy comparison, she decided, while watching him wipe water off his face.

Which was enough time for a startling idea to take root.

He needed a horse; she needed a decoy. Specifically, she needed a man to keep pesky suitors away. But was Mr. MacLeod trustworthy? Scoundrel, ruffian, wandering Scot—he was all three, yet his flirtation ceased the moment Mrs. slipped out of her mouth. Even rogues had their moral codes. And this one, yawning behind his gloved hand, needed his sleep.

“Follow me.” She crossed the barn to an empty stall and set the lamp on a hook. “Your accommodations, sir.”

Mr. MacLeod wandered in and dumped his saddle bag on a mound of hay. “Thank you, ma’am. This’ll do.”

A black filly poked her nose over the stall. Mr. MacLeod obliged her with tender strokes on her muzzle.

“Apologies for waking you, lass,” he whispered. “I promise no’ to snore.”

Sabrina rested her backside on a wooden post. “Do you say that to all the women?”

His grin was a slash of white.

“Only four-legged fillies. I make no promises to two-legged creatures.”

Duly noted. Arms folded, she watched him toss hat and gloves onto the hay, his bed for the night. He was magnetic, sliding free of his great coat. Masculine in every way, yet she felt utterly safe with him, a virtual stranger. A man who spoke gently to horses was a sign of sturdy character, wasn’t it?

Or am I convincing myself to dive head first into a terrible idea?

Mr. MacLeod existed in a halo of light in the otherwise murky barn. He was a revelation of sorts, thick shoulders filling grey velvet of good quality, a black silk ribbon spun around his wet queue and tied off at the end. Surprising attire, his coat and the ribbon, given that he wore homespun breeches and well-traveled jack boots.

Another surprise was the intimacy fogging her limbs while Mr. MacLeod shed his outer garments. She shifted, restless, the wool of her cloak scraping the post.

“What will you do if you can’t find your horse?” Her husky voice was a warning. She ignored it. “Are you really going to walk all the way to London?”

“I’m not sure what I’m going to do.” Chin up, he yanked his cravat loose. The ends fell like white streamers against his wine-colored waistcoat. “I might look for work.”

“What kind of work?”

“Find a bareknuckle bout or two.”

Laughter sprinkled out of her. “That’s your idea of work?”

“The best kind.” He was matter-of-fact, unbuttoning his waistcoat. “I like the thrill of a fight. And I’m good at it.”

Her gaze glued itself to the V where his shirt flopped open. Mr. MacLeod stopped at his waistcoat’s fourth button and scratched his exposed skin. When his hand fell away, meager inches of his chest were revealed. Hardly salacious. Still, she tipped forward, transfixed. His throat was sun-burnished and the flesh below it, intriguing shades lighter as though he’d worked shirtless last summer. Mr. MacLeod sat down on the mound of hay, thankfully oblivious. In the act of removing his velvet coat, he stiffened, air hissing through clenched teeth.

“You did hurt yourself,” she said.

He was gruff-voiced, taking off his coat with more care. “It’s not serious.”

“I could look at it.”

Mr. MacLeod pinned her with a knowing gaze, which she met with a smile. He was a puzzle, this Highlander, and the sight of him rolling his velvet coat into a pillow offered another revelation. With each twist of his hands, chiseled biceps rippled under linen sleeves.

“How can you expect to fight if you’re hurt?” she asked.

A manly snort and “I’ll manage.”

“And how will you do that? Just walk into the village and announce your intentions?”

He shook his head. “I’ll go south to Carlisle. With Hogmanay coming, it won’t be hard to find brothers of the blade willing to prove their mettle.”

“Because nothing welcomes the New Year quite like a hot and sweaty brawl.”

He laughed low and snapped his great coat like a blanket. “Words to win a man’s heart.”

“Then, you’ll want to visit The Spider and Fly in Carlisle. A rough public house, it’s frequented by soldiers garrisoned at the castle.”

“Thank you. I’ll look into it.”

Mr. MacLeod crossed his legs at the ankle and settled his great coat over the bulk of his frame. He’d left his boots on and set a finely wrought pistol on the straw beside him. Polished silver on the butt of his pistol glinted a warning: he was a man of action. A brother of the blade, he’d said. Both his bearing and stature stamped him a former military man, but the disorderly sort. She was sure of it.

Which made him perfectly suitable for her terrible idea.

Outside thunder cracked. The Highlander could be the answer to her prayers.

Sleepy-eyed, he laid back in the hay and hooked one hand behind his head. “Is there something else, ma’am?”

She bristled. Ma’am again. She was easily a half dozen years younger than him, if not more. Despite her mild irritation, something of greater importance niggled her.

“You don’t mind mixing with English soldiers?” she asked.

“I was in the Black Watch.”

Highlanders who’d served in the English Army. A number of them had mutinied just before the Jacobite rising of ‘45.

Tension knotted in her belly. “Was that before the rebellion? Or…after?”

Blue eyes glimmered behind dark lashes. He knew—something’s afoot.

“I was fighting for the crown in Flanders when the uprising started.”

She looked away. One could never be too careful. Emotions still ran high for some. Though a myriad of questions danced in her head, now was not the time to ask them. The filly snickered, her near-black liquid eyes taking in the two people interrupting her sleep.

Or the filly could be telling Sabrina to get on with it because she knew a good man when she saw one.

Sabrina eased off the post with deceptive calmness and petted the filly’s nose. “You’re not upset at my rather pointed questions.”

Hay rustled when he shrugged. “It’s understandable. You should know who’s sleeping under your roof.”

Heat climbed up her breast bone. Mr. MacLeod made sleeping under her roof sound sensual. The man, however, was in her barn—a fact that made not one whit of difference. Rain-soaked hair clung to her cheeks, her neck, but the dripping water would not cool her skin.

It’d be so easy to curl up on the hay beside him to converse with him…and see what happened next.

“Anything else, ma’am?”

She stopped petting the filly. She knew a gentle dismissal when she heard one.

“Have breakfast with me tomorrow,” she said.

He cocked his head. “That sounds like the beginning of a proposition.”

“Because, Mr. MacLeod, it is.”

CHAPTER2

A growling stomach drove Rory squinty-eyed out of the barn and into a slice of pastoral heaven. Cattle lowing, birds chirping, chickens scratching in winter-yellow grass. Water’s flowing hush teased his ears. The River Eden, he suspected. He cocked his head to listen and made his way through the yard. At the heart of all this splendor was Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford’s compact Palladian-style house—probably built when the first King George put his rump on the throne.

Rory held up a hand to shield his eyes from sunlight leaping off the Englishwoman’s eight polished windows, two of them arched.

“Poor lass must’ve married a fat squire.”

Not that her husband was any of his concern.

Rory trudged onward, mud sucking his boots. His father raised no fool. He’d have breakfast and leave after hearing the gentlewoman’s mysterious request.

Women and their propositions.

Typically, he’d say yes. Adventure was his byword. Or it had been until a few months ago.

That’s when a highborn woman nearly killed him.

He gritted his teeth at the memory. The Countess of Denton was a beautiful widow with a viper’s tongue. Knowledge of her—and there had been knowledge in the Biblical sense—left him…ragged.

But the fair lass he met last night…

Such wistful green eyes. Longing and flashes of kindness sprung from their depths. She’d opened her own door rather than rouse a servant. A good sign, that. Benevolent women were a weakness of his, especially if the woman’s voice was feather-soft when flirting.

Nonetheless.

“She’s married,” he said loud enough to send three hens squawking.

Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford was best forgotten.

He reached her front door, pain twinging him. Last night’s tumble left a wicked reminder, the ache made worse from winter’s chill. Grimacing, he gave the brass knocker a tap, tap and rubbed his shoulder until the door swung wide.

A rail-thin butler in plum livery greeted him.

“Mr. MacLeod, welcome to Eden House. Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford is expecting you.”

He blinked, mildly surprised. The butler knew his name.

“For breakfast, I hope.”

“Of course, sir.” The servant collected Rory’s hat and great coat. “Mrs. Throckmorton-Rutherford always sets a fine table.”

Rory dragged a muddied boot across the iron boot wipe. Good manners required it, but the small act allowed him to dally. A cheery place was the Throckmorton-Rutherford home. The entry stretched long. Its wood plank floors displayed a scuffed, painted-on black and white chess board pattern, a trick of the gentry who couldn’t afford marble floors. Pale blue walls, no friezes or fresh hot house flowers—and no fat squire leaping out of the woodwork.

Only the old butler beckoning from an archway.

“This way, sir.”

Rory followed though he could’ve found the small dining room by scent alone. Plump sausages, crispy bacon, fried bread, and coddled eggs heaped high in porcelain tureens on a sideboard. Marmalade glistened in two small bowls on the table, but, ah, that sideboard. He ambled to it, his stomach rumbling while he piled food onto his plate.

The butler disappeared, replaced by a bright-eyed blonde maid who curtsied with a pitcher in hand.

“Coffee, Mr. MacLeod?”