Hit Me With Your Best Scot (Wild Wicked Highlanders #3) - Suzanne Enoch Page 0,10

of a very attractive, if severe, face softened by a deep Scottish brogue. Turning her gaze and attention from the towering Highlander, she tucked her shawl a little closer around her shoulders and took a deep breath as Charlie Huddle pulled open the rear stage door. She’d requested the helpful mountain’s assistance. It remained to be seen whether he was as efficient at disbursing crowds in public as he was at ousting earls in private.

The second she stepped outside, men young and old pressed in around her, cheering and complimenting and offering flowers or begging for locks of her hair. At least the earlier rain had tapered off.

“If you’ll excuse me, good gentlemen,” she said as she always did, her own private play performed at the back door every night, “but I’ve had a very long evening and I’m quite tired.”

“Thou art the fairest damsel in the land,” one young man shouted above the volume of the others, a bouquet of red roses aimed, weaponlike, at her head, “I should swoon if thee would but give me thy hand.”

That caused a round of booing, which she mentally joined. She performed Shakespeare. Why that made some men think they should recite bad poetry written on the back of a betting slip, she had no idea. “Make way, gentlemen, if you please.”

“’She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless sk—”

“That’s Lord Byron. I summon Shakespeare,” she interrupted, and some of the vultures laughed at the odd fellow out.

The jostling became worse. Just as she was beginning to consider using her bag as a weapon, a space opened around her miraculously. Persephone glanced over her shoulder, half expecting to see a dragon looming behind her. Rather, it was the Scotsman, his arms outstretched as he shoved would-be suitors away like rag dolls.

“The lass wants ye to make way,” he stated. “Dunnae make her ask ye again.”

Well. Public acts of heroism it was, then. When Claremont accompanied her, the earl liked having all the hangers-on about, so he could be certain they all saw that she left in his company. She took a half step sideways and wrapped her free hand around one muscular Scottish arm. “Thank you,” she said, offering up a smile and silently praying that she wasn’t in the process of making a horrible mistake. Another horrible mistake, rather. Turning this man away could well take a battalion of elephants, which she didn’t happen to have anywhere handy. But she did have friends and admirers about, and she had a good … feeling about this Coll MacTaggert. Or it could be as simple as the fact that she’d been enjoying looking at his fine form for most of the evening, but he had proven helpful thus far.

He gave her a nod and continued plowing a path through the lingering theatergoers until they reached the corner, where her coach waited. She tugged on his arm, and he stopped. “I have a coachman wait here for me each evening,” she said.

Of course, she’d suggested he see her home, but that had been mostly meant as a jest, a small bit of carnal excitement brought about by this wild, kilt-wearing mountain of a man before her, with a little part gratitude added in for someone finally ridding her of Claremont. The earl was more persistent than a mosquito.

This moment would be the test, though. Would he let her leave, or insist on accompanying her? MacTaggert, as he’d named himself—despite Charlie Huddle informing her that he was actually Lord Glendarril—wasn’t at all pretty like James Pierce, the Earl of Claremont. Rather, his slash of straight brows, the confident, open expression of his face, unruly dark hair, and amused green eyes spoke of something Claremont had likely never before encountered as a rival—a man. A very handsome, muscular, virile-looking man. One who was either mad, or simply untroubled by the amount of influence Lord Claremont wielded and the trouble he could cause.

“Is that yer way of sending me off to Hades?” he asked in his thick brogue, one of those brows lifting.

She found herself listening to the sound of his voice, studying the inflection of his words, and told herself it was because she was about to begin rehearsals to play Lady Macbeth and that it had nothing to do with the way his deep voice seemed to reverberate into her bones.

“More politely than that, but yes, it is. I do thank y—”

He pulled open the door and shifted to offer his hand to help