Page 31 of When the Scoundrel Sins

She’d gotten caught up in him, in the anger he always brought out in her, and then in the wonderful wickedness of his breath-stealing kisses and forbidden touches. But when she’d heard Angus Burns calling out for her, the aching arousal that had been surging through her vanished, replaced instantly by self-recrimination to find herself once more in that scoundrel’s arms. And so shamelessly enjoying it.

To fall for his charms again—Of coursehe’d wanted that wanton encounter, because he was leaving and so could scamper off scot-free from any problems he might leave behind. She was such a goose! And especially since he’d refused to help her, putting her closer to losing Glenarvon.

When she approached the workmen at the ditch gate, she noted the progress they’d made in her absence, which only added more remorse to the mountain of guilt she already carried over Quinn.

“Looks to be done ’fore noon,” Angus Burns announced as he climbed out of the ditch to stand by her side. Together, they watched as two men finished applying the mortar around the stones that held the gate in place. “’Tweren’t much damage done. More o’ a bother than anythin’.”

“Boys from the village causing trouble,” she muttered with a long sigh, her hands on her hips in frustration. If Quinton didn’t send her to Bedlam, this string of recent troubles would.

“’Tweren’t no boys,” Angus countered in a low voice. He gestured toward the stones. “See them scrape marks there?”

She nodded faintly.

“Used a metal bar t’ pry the gate loose, an’ the force from the water took it the rest o’ the way off. Whoever did this had strength i’ his arms, lassie, an’ meant to cause problems fer ye.”

Her shoulders slumped. The self-recrimination and anger she felt over Quinn completely disappeared beneath Angus’s grim words. What were a few kisses and touches compared to the reality of protecting the estate and the slew of problems that had befallen it lately?

Deliberate destruction meant to do harm…Butwhy?

“Let’s put a padlock on it,” she instructed with a defeated air, not knowing what else to do to prevent it from being vandalized again.

“We’ll build up th’ side tracks, too, wi’ more stone an’ mortar. When we’re through wi’ it, lass,” Angus assured her, nodding confidently at his men, “the only way to open this gate wi’out permission will be to hack through it wi’ an axe.”

She stared glumly at the new gate as it lay on the grass beside the ditch. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

“Aye.” Then he slid her a curious, sideways look. “Ye came back from yer walk alone. Has the Englishman returned t’ the house, then?”

She didn’t dare raise her eyes to look at him for fear of what her old friend might see in their depths. “I would assume so.”

They watched in silence as the men finished placing the last stone, then Angus pressed, “Is that Englishman visitin’ fer a reason?” He lowered his voice so none of the men could overhear, “Perhaps ’cause o’ yer birthday an’ what it signifies?”

She grimaced. What it signified was a loss of any hope for a happy future, no matter the outcome. The exact opposite of what Lord Ainsley had wanted by including that entailment in his will.

But knowing Angus was fishing for information about Quinn, she dodged, “Lord Quinton is headed for America. Glenarvon is only a stop on his way to the coast.”

“A demmed shame, then,” Angus muttered. “’Cause he could be the solution t’yer problems.”

“No,” she assured him, turning to help the men with the last of the mortar. “Quinton Carlisle is a problem all his own.”

CHAPTERFIVE

Damn damn damn damndamn!

Quinn stomped into the house and nearly growled at a footman when the man offered to take his coat and hat. “Where’s the nearest whisky?”

The young man pointed toward the drawing room, not blinking an eye that the long case clock on the stairway landing hadn’t yet struck ten. “Behind the potted palm, sir. Shall I fetch you a glass?”

“No.” He blew out a frustrated breath and ran his hand through his hair. “I’ll get it myself.”

The footman nodded and wisely retreated. And Quinn charged toward the drawing room and the promised whisky.

What on earth had he been thinking to kiss Annabelle like that? Along with so much more he had no business doing with her at all. Something to remember her by? He laughed bitterly. Well, he certainly hadthat. Although remembering her wasn’t what he wanted to do to her now. The infuriating bluestocking had gotten into his head and under his skin, and what he wanted to do was dribble scotch over her ripe body and lick away every tempting drop, teach her all kinds of pleasures not found in her blasted books—

He threw open the drawing room doors and froze.

Lady Ainsley looked up from the settee, a cup of tea lifted halfway to her lips, while in the chair across from her lounged a man dressed in a tweed hunting costume. The man’s eyes flicked disinterestedly in his direction, and he climbed slowly to his feet only when Aunt Agatha rose to hers.

“Quinton.” A smile brightened her face. “Come join us for tea.”