What Happens in Scotland by Jennifer McQuiston Page A

fierce retribution.
    Someone had enjoyed a rip-roaring good time last night, and according to the proprietor, it had been he.
    On either side of them, a dozen townsfolk gawked and whispered. The same stab of guilt he had felt earlier at the mention of his father hit him now. This was no small mistake, to be swept under his mother’s Persian rug and left forgotten. This was a fall from grace witnessed by half the town.
    He stepped off the paved sidewalk and cursed again the ill-mannered female who had caused all this trouble. If he was going to be forced to pay six pounds for a night of violent debauchery, it seemed unfair that he couldn’t fully remember the positive aspects of the evening. A few things lurked in his mind, knocking about like rocks in a tin bucket. His bed partner, whoever she was, had smelled of lemons under the scent of brandy, a sharp, pleasant combination of flavors that teased his senses. Even now, he could separate both fragrances from the collar of his shirt.
    The unbidden thought occurred to him that he would have liked to have seen her in his shirt, the tails tangling around her knees. Despite the prevailing town opinion, he had never taken a woman to his bed indiscriminately, had always selected his bed partners with care and appreciation. The flashes of memory that lined his scattered thoughts told him she had been very fine, indeed.
    He closed his eyes. He had a sense of a pert chin, gray eyes, and a soul-bending laugh that escaped her lips like a sudden breeze. He recalled the feel of her in his arms, vibrating against his chest as she had chuckled over something. His senses had been dulled by her brilliance.
    He wondered if that had been before or after she filched his purse.
    “Where to, Jamie-boy?” William asked as if they were out for a casual stroll and not stumbling from the scene of a crime. “The church, perhaps?”
    James opened his eyes to confront his brother’s amusement. “Whatever would I want to go to church for?”
    “To seek forgiveness for last night’s sins.” William chuckled, an obscene sound that made James want to throttle him. His brother knew he hadn’t set foot in a church in eleven years, not since that business with the rector, and James wasn’t planning on having an epiphany today. He had but one thing on his mind, and that was to track down a woman he couldn’t fully remember.
    “Or maybe you’ll find another woman there in need of marrying,” William went on, apparently oblivious to how close he was hovering to a lethal outcome.
    “I dinna marry her,” James ground out, hating the way his Scottish burr came out. It was the stress of the morning, he knew. Though he fought hard against the telltale cadence, his heritage came sneaking out at the most inopportune times. He shoved it to the hidden place his own forced Cambridge education had drilled into him. “At least, I do not think I did.” He enunciated with care, his uncertainty tucked around the improved bit of grammar.
    William inclined his head then. “Should we make sure?”
    “How do you propose we make sure of that?” James snapped. “I cannot remember shite about last night, nor of this morning either. You were not there, and I would bloody well rather dig a hole to Hades before I ask the innkeeper for any more information about what I may or may not have done.” He paused for breath and near choked on his annoyance. “The man would probably charge me another six pounds for my trouble, only to tell me I married a man.”
    William’s eyes widened in mock horror. “Was the girl a man, then?”
    “Shut up and help me home,” James muttered, shaking his head to clear away the thought that surfaced as a result of the absurd conversation. The sprite who featured in the snippets of memory he carried with him had been no man, nor mere girl either. For some reason, he remembered her breasts. Not her name. Not the sound of her voice.
    But her breasts . . . ah, they had been glorious.