Scotsman of My Dreams by Karen Ranney

step. This man was taller than most men she knew. She had never been so conscious of a man’s size before or of his potential strength.
    He bent his head until his face was only inches from hers.
    â€œYou smell of cinnamon,” he said. “Are you some sort of errant baker who breaks into homes to make biscuits and scones?”
    The question summoned her smile.
    â€œUnfortunately,” she said, “I’ve never had any talent in cooking. Even when I attempt to toast bread, I burn it.”
    â€œIf you aren’t a thief, then who are you and what are you doing in my house?”
    The surge of relief she felt was almost enough to knock her to her knees.
    â€œYou’re the Earl of Rathsmere, then,” she said. “Just the man I want to see.”
    â€œAnd you’ve come to see me at midnight?” His voice held a tinge of astonishment.
    â€œYour secretary wouldn’t let me see you.”
    â€œAt midnight?”
    She truly couldn’t blame him for being annoyed, but she’d been desperate.
    â€œWhere is my brother?”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œMy brother, Neville Todd. He went with you to America, but he hasn’t returned.”
    â€œAnd you think I know where he is?”
    She frowned at him. “Who better?”
    To her surprise, he turned away from her.
    â€œ Y OU COULD have injured me dreadfully with that pot,” she said.
    â€œNext time you break into my house after midnight I’ll have to remember that. Are you going to exit by the window or do you want me to escort you to the front door?”
    â€œI want you to tell me where my brother is.”
    â€œI haven’t the slightest idea,” he said, making his way to the fireplace. To his relief, there was nothing in his way. He jerked on the bellpull before turning back in the woman’s direction.
    He could hear her moving toward him. He stretched out his hand to stop her and encountered a female arm. Instead of pulling back, he allowed his hand to trail up to her shoulder.
    She didn’t move. Was it pity that froze her in place? Had he fooled himself and there wasn’t a Stygian darkness in the room?
    He splayed his fingers, thumb touching her chin. Her skin was incredibly soft. He wanted to cup his hand over her cheek, keep her still to better measure the shape of her face. He wanted to stroke his fingers over her, marvel at the differences women offered from men. He wanted, in an odd and disturbing way, to tell her it had been a great many months since he’d touched anyone willingly, and never a woman in all that time.
    â€œThey depended on you to be their leader,” she said.
    The words, said in a dark parlor in the middle of the night, held a tone he couldn’t decipher. Perhaps it was condemnation. Or partly regret. Something lingered there, just below the surface, an emotion that warned him not to examine it too closely.
    He finally pulled back his hand, wanted to apologize for his effrontery. Or question hers. Who was more at blame here? Her, for breaking into his house to demand answers? Or him, for daring to touch her?
    â€œAren’t you going to light a lamp?”
    â€œNo, I’m not. Nor am I going to discuss America,” he said. Nor would he talk about Neville Todd.
    â€œI don’t give a flying fig for America. Or MacIain’s Marauders or whatever you called ourselves. All I care about is my brother. Where is he?”
    He should have expected the next question. In fact, it probably should’ve been the first one she asked.
    â€œIs he dead?”
    â€œI don’t know,” he said, “but I sincerely hope he is.”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    â€œYour Lordship?”
    He turned, grateful to hear Mrs. Thompson’s voice.
    â€œWe have an unexpected guest,” he said to her. “Show her to the door. If you have any trouble, summon one of the stable boys.”
    He retraced his steps with more