A Scot to the Heart (Desperately Seeking Duke #2) - Caroline Linden Page 0,110

a wicked thrill from his harsh inhalation. I know these will be my last days with him. And I will let him go without a fight because he deserves someone much better than I.

She made love to him with her mouth, as he had done for her, until he pulled her up and rolled her under him to sheath himself in her body. Ilsa dug her nails into his back, hooked her legs around his waist, and urged him to ride her harder, wanting it to last forever, desperate for the oblivion this incendiary passion offered.

And when he slept beside her that night, his arm strong and comforting around her, she clasped his hand to her lips and whispered once more, “I love you.”

And that’s why I’m going to let you go.

Drew was ready to tear Glasgow apart to find William Fletcher.

He sensed a change in Ilsa when they arrived. A sort of melancholy seemed to steal over her, casting a shadow over everything, even when she looked at him and smiled or pulled him close in bed. The nearest thing he could compare it to was soldiers strapping on their weapons in anticipation of a battle, preparing to face their doom.

They located Archibald Lorde’s offices in Prince’s Street. Ilsa spoke to the clerk, who told them to wait while he disappeared into the inner sanctum.

After a lengthy wait the clerk ushered them back. Lorde was a tall, pale fellow with a beatific smile. “Mrs. Ramsay, Captain St. James, pray be seated.”

Ilsa waited until the door was securely closed. “Mr. Lorde, I am here to see my father, William Fletcher.”

Nothing betrayed the man. “I’m sorry, madam, I have not seen him.”

She nodded and bent over the desk, reaching for the pen. “Of course not,” she said as she wrote on a piece of paper. The solicitor watched with one brow raised. “If you should happen to see him or hear from him, give him this.” She dusted the page with sand to dry the ink and held it out. “Please, Mr. Lorde.”

He sighed. “Mrs. Ramsay. I don’t know what you mean.”

“I understand.” The paper remained steady in her outstretched hand. “Please, sir.”

With a jerk of his head he indicated to leave it on the desk. “I really can offer you no hope.”

“I understand. I will return tomorrow afternoon, though, just in case.” She curtsied. “Good day, Mr. Lorde.”

Out on the street again, Drew asked, “What did you write?”

“I wrote that Cordelia would be ashamed of him.” She tugged her cloak around herself. “Cordelia was my mother. If Papa can be lured out, her name will do it.”

That night he finally broached a question that had been nagging at him. “What will you say to him?”

She was silent for a long time. “When I was young, my father was an epic figure to me. Larger than life, the handsomest man alive, clever and witty and charming. Everyone admired him. I remember walking with him and ladies would drop their handkerchiefs in front of him. He always retrieved them with a gallant word and bow. I said Mary would have wed him—so would any number of ladies about town.”

“Why did he never remarry?”

“I think he liked the attention too much,” was her soft answer. “Why wed one woman when you could command the attentions of a dozen, flirt with them and dance with them and always have a smiling, fetching woman vying for your attention?”

To have a companion, he thought. To have someone to comfort and support you. To share life’s joy with. To give your lonely, motherless daughter a mother and siblings. To love and to cherish.

“It was not merely ladies,” she went on. “Men the breadth of town respected and deferred to him. My grandfather founded the cabinetry shop and was a deacon before him, but Papa is a brilliant carver and crafts beautiful pieces. He would have been successful if he’d started from nothing, but he has held an elevated position all his life. Losing that . . .” She sighed. “I imagine if you asked him, he would say he’d rather die than be shamed and reviled by those who used to solicit his advice and good opinion. He is a proud man.”

Her hair had wound around his fingers. Drew fingered the silky lock. “You don’t think he’ll return to Edinburgh.”

Barring incontrovertible proof of innocence, Deacon Fletcher faced a daunting prospect in town.

This time Ilsa’s answer was almost too quiet to hear. “I don’t see how he will.