What Happens in Scotland by Jennifer McQuiston Page B

Pale as new milk, with a delicate pattern of veins he had traced with his tongue. Quality breasts, those had been, the fully rounded tease of a woman. He regretted their loss almost as much as he regretted the disappearance of his purse.
    Only he was damned well going to find his purse again. Her tits he was going to do his best to forget.
    With his mind so inappropriately occupied, James stepped off into the street. The world slanted in a dizzying array of dust and noise, and only William’s strong arms saved him from falling face-first into the business of Moraig’s main thoroughfare. “Ach, Jamie,” his brother muttered, hauling him vertical. “I don’t think home is where I should take you, at least not the home I think you mean. You are not well, have taken a serious blow to the skull. Let me take you to Kilmartie Castle.”
    James recoiled against his brother’s well-meant suggestion. Home. At least, his family’s home, rather than the dreary little house he kept with Patrick a few miles outside of town. There was no way in hell he was going to Kilmartie Castle. Not with such uncertainty about the events of the previous evening.
    Not when he was such a disappointment to the family that waited for him there.
    “No.” He fit the word between his lips, knowing he had never meant anything so much as this.
    “Father might be able to help . . .”
    “ No .” He was relieved to hear his tone was stronger now, brooking no argument. It was his best impression of a solicitor, a “no” that would serve him well when and if he ever made it to London.
    James shrugged off his brother’s faithful arm and stepped out, more carefully this time, into the clogged artery that was Moraig’s Main Street on market day. He dodged children and loose dogs and the odd steaming pile of horse manure. “Near as I can piece together,” William called out from behind, “you made quite the spectacle last night. Don’t you think Father will hear about your escapades soon enough?”
    “Perhaps,” James tossed back over his shoulder. “But I intend to have everything set to rights before it comes to that.”
    And he did. He was as determined to make his own way in this matter as he was determined to succeed in his chosen profession. And he would be beholden to himself and no one else, or by God he would die trying.
    He tried very, very hard not to think about the fact that he currently owed William six pounds. He would take care of that injustice as soon as he could. But first, there was the little matter of procuring transportation.
    James stopped on the edge of the paving stones at the far side of the street and twisted around in agitation. “Have you seen my horse?” he asked William as his brother caught up with him.
    William’s brown eyes crinkled at the edges, and concern colored his words. “I don’t think you are in any condition to ride.”
    “And yet, that does not explain where I left Caesar,” James snapped.
    Together they turned in a circle, scrutinizing every four-legged animal in sight, and even a dog that was gnawing on some prize bit of refuse under a parked cart. William gave a long, low whistle. “Did she take your horse too?”
    For a moment, James gave himself over to the idea, but a clear memory asserted itself over the more tempting spectacle of calling foul. “Er . . . no.” He shook his head. “The livery stable. I am quite sure I left him at the livery.”
    William clapped him between the shoulder blades. “Thank goodness. Didn’t know how I was going to explain that one to Father.” He laughed. “Wouldn’t seem right, you losing the horse you first refused as Father’s gift, and then negotiated to buy behind his back. Nearly sent the old man into an apoplectic fit, that one did. Quite the good joke.” He came up for air from the chuckle-inducing memory. “Which livery?”
    James let his mind massage the question a moment. There were two stables in town, and they were of highly