ONE NIGHT IN SCOTLAND is the story of Mary Hurst (her sisters were the heroines of the final two MacLean Curse books, SLEEPLESS IN SCOTLAND and THE LAIRD WHO LOVED ME) and her travails in Scotland where she’s gone in an attempt to regain possession of an ancient Egyptian artifact that her brother, who is being held for ransom, left in the care of a business associate. The man, the dark and mysterious Earl of Erroll, is a recluse and was scarred by the loss of his wife years earlier in a horrible fire. He now wears a scarf over his neck and lower jaw to hide the horrible scars and refuses to leave the safe confines of his castle and lands. When Mary arrives on his doorstep, Erroll believes she’s a common thief come to steal the artifact away.

Unwilling to let Mary just leave until he discovers who sent her on her ‘mission,’ Erroll locks Mary in the turret of his castle until he can either prove or disprove her story. But locking up a Hurst is never as easy as one might think and Mary quickly proves her mettle, much to Erroll’s surprise!

EXCERPT

Piqued at being ignored, Mary wandered near Angus’s desk, pretending to examine a globe that had been placed on a low shelf near him. From there, she could peer almost over his shoulder and see—

"What in the hell are you doing?"

She jumped, her heart pounding at the crack of his voice. “N-Nothing!”

His brow lowered. “You are trying to read over my shoulder.”

She had been, of course, and it occurred to her that a prudent woman might lie and say she’d done no such thing. But Mary was tired of being prudent. So instead, she took a short breath and pointed to the drawings on his desk. "May I see those?"

He blinked, apparently astonished at her request. "Why?"

"Because I'm curious about them. I frequently do drawings myself, you know, so I—"

"I know, I know. According to you, you do the drawings for your brother's research and also write the serial about him for the newspaper. I daresay next you'll tell me you authored his research papers, too."

"I wasn't going to say any such thing." She plopped down in the chair beside his and peered over the desk. "If you won’t let me see the drawings, the least you can do it tell me what you’re reading that has you so engrossed.”“No.” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his broad chest, his icy green gaze boring into her. "And I did not invite you to sit there."

"I know." She reached over and picked up some of his papers. "Ah, from the Royal Society. This is one of yours." She began reading, noting that while he continued to stare at her with hostility, he didn’t take the paper from her.

After a few minutes, she replaced it upon his desk.

"Well? Are you going to tell me I should have mentioned the Euphrates connection or that I needed to expound a bit more on the evidence supporting that Ramssess II was involved?"

"I would never be so rude." At his disbelieving glance, she flushed for she’d done just that thing earlier today. "Well, I wouldn’t be so rude unless someone goaded me mercilessly. Then I might say something."

“Pray don’t begin holding your tongue now. I’m beginning to get used to your critiques of my life.” He picked up the paper and looked at it. "You've already told me that my drawings are inferior."

"I was a bit angry."

"You meant it."

"Well . . . yes."

His green gaze gleamed with something other than irritation. "And you think you could do better?"

“Why, yes. I could.” She lifted a brow and grinned. "Want to see?"

He returned her look for a long moment, then he reached into his desk and withdrew some paper and a small golden statue that could fit easily in the palm of one’s hand. He placed them both before her on the corner of his desk and then set the inkwell and pen beside it.

Mary flexed her fingers. Finally, a chance to prove myself!

She examined the object for a few moments, then dipped her pen into the ink, tapped it carefully on the lip of the inkwell, and began to draw.

This was the part she loved, transcribing the minute details of an object so it could be shared with others. Some may see drawings as an artistic endeavor, and indeed artistic talent was required, but Mary knew the drawings for a scientific paper were far more important. Unlike works of art, these renderings were required to be true to life, precise, and detailed. They often provided clues for other discoveries.

Her pen began to cross the page, growing in steadiness and smoothness as Mary got lost in the process.

Beside her, Angus watched, mesmerized, as her calm gaze seemed to take in the small gold statue and measure it, shape it, and then reproduce it, tiny line by tiny line.

The clock ticked over the mantel, yet she never halted. Twice, she squinted at the small statue and then bit her lip and added another small detail. Yet another time, a wisp of her golden hair fell onto her cheek and she brushed it aside, not knowing that his fingers mysteriously itched to do the same.

Damn, but she was a lush woman, all curves and silken skin and-

"There!” She replaced the pen in the holder. “It's still wet, but it's done." She slid the paper across the desk to him.

Angus instantly recognized the same delicate hand that had drawn Michael Hurst's papers.

The impact of this didn't have time to register for as he lifted his head to address her, the end of his scarf fluttered down and he realized it had come unwrapped, the scars along his lower jaw and neck in full views.

Her eyes widened as she caught sight of his burned, scarred skin.

His heart thudded sickly and he yanked the scarf back in place, refusing to meet her gaze. He had an instant vision of her face twisted in disgust and the thought was like a knife turning in his stomach.

A warm hand came to rest on his cheek.

Too startled to move, Angus found himself staring into Mary’s golden brown eyes.

Her fingers slipped down to the scarf and she pushed it away, once again revealing his scars.

He reached for the scarf to replace it, but she caught his hands, her fingers surprisingly strong on his. “Don’t!” Just . . . leave it."

Angus's jaw tightened. "Why? Haven't you seen enough?" His voice was harsh, crackling through the air like the snap of unexpected thunder.

She released his hand and chuckled, the sound as warm and gentle as her touch. "There's not that much to see. Frankly, the scars are far less noticeable than always wearing that silly scarf."

He frowned. "How can you say that?"

"Because it is the truth. But what do I know, being a woman much addicted to fashion? Definitely listen to your cousin, the fashion plate."

"I beg your pardon?"

She sat back in her chair and regarded him with a flat look. "Your cousin Neason is the one who told you that faradiddle about a huge black scarf looking better than a few unimportant scars, isn't he? For I see no other confidants running about the castle."

In fact, it had been Neason who had suggested the scarf, but Angus was suddenly loath to admit it. This woman, with her warm skin and impetuous nature, kept him on edge and he hated it. "The scarf serves a purpose; people don’t stare so much as they did. When I was first burned—" He couldn’t continue.

She shrugged. "When you were first burned, I daresay the scars were very colorful. Now, they’re visible, but not unusually so. And not nearly as much as that hideous scarf.” She waved her hand. "All scars fade, even ones you might think won't."

That was true about physical scars; he couldn't vouch for other kinds.

“Interesting.” She propped her elbow on the desk and rested her chin in her hand, her gaze flickering over his face. “I never noticed that.”

He eyed her suspiciously. "Noticed what?"

"I was just looking at your eyes."

Of all the things he expected to hear, that wasn’t it. "You were looking at my eyes?" he repeated, astonished. "Why?"

"They are a most unusual color; the green of a new leaf. They stand out more now that huge scarf is no longer swathed about your neck and jaw. Now, your eyes just seem so vivid, almost beautiful and—" Her cheeks pinkened at his incredulous stare. "I'm sorry. That sounds silly, doesn't it? I don't know why I was staring—"

"Don't even pretend you were looking at anything other than the scars,” he snapped. “People stare all of the time. I'm used to that." He slapped the cap onto the ink well and returned the pen to its proper holder. "You can stop trying to make things better with your lies. I'm beastly looking and I know it."

"Oh, you’re beastly acting,” she returned without pause. “That I would agree with."

He looked up, obviously surprised. For a long moment, they simple stared at one another and then, surprisingly, he burst into laughter, the rich sound warming Mary thoroughly.

She found herself grinning back, infected by his sudden humor. "That was a bit rude, wasn't it?"

"It was honest."

"See?" she said pertly. "You can trust me."

“I don’t care about trusting you right now.” His lips still curved with a faint smile, he pointed to her work. "What I do care about is getting some of your excellent drawings for my research."

Her brows lifted as did her heart. "You . . . you want me to illustrate your work?"

"Yes." He pulled a small black velvet bag forward. "I have some stone pieces here that form a very interesting hieroglyph. Do you think you could draw them for me, in a way that shows the characters, but also the worn state of the stone, for that's an important detail?"

“Of course.” She scooted her chair to his side and looked at the objects as he explained them, though her mind was upon the man rather than his words.

The earl was a conundrum, innately forbidding and stern and yet when his guard was down, he possessed a surprising amount of warmth and humor. Even more confusing, when he wasn’t storming about or glaring menacingly, there was something endearingly gentle about him.

She glanced at him from under her lashes and watched his sincere enthusiasm as he described the relevance of the stones now spread upon the black velvet before him. He was such a handsome man, though not in the classical sense. Except his mouth, which held the masculine beauty of one of the carved Greek statues she'd seen at the British Museum, the rest of his face held a more unconventional beauty – his nose bold and decisive, his brows strong slashes over his unbelievable eyes. He had the raw strength and beauty of a raging hurricane, inspiring both trepidation and fascination.

All of it drew her forward. Even now, her heart beating rapidly against her collarbone, she found herself leaning forward – closer and closer until she could smell his subtle cologne.

Lost in his description, he didn’t realize her intent until it was too late as, with the gentlest of kisses, she touched her lips to the ridge of scars that traced along his jaw.

For a long moment, they sat frozen in place and then Angus slowly turned to look into her eyes, astonishment and disbelief in his gaze. And at that moment, Mary knew that she wanted him to reach for her, to pull her from her chair, to lift her into her arms and –

“No.” He leaned back, away from her touch, his face bleak, and yet his voice was colored with the same heated desire that held her in its thrall.

Her heart stuttered and then burst into a flurry of yearning. Her entire body ached with the need to be touched, her breasts peaked, her skin tingled. She realized she was holding onto the edge of the desk so tightly that her fingers were bloodless.

"Mary, I’m not—" His husky voice thickened with desire. “You can’t want—“ He closed his lips over the rest of the sentence, his expression anguished.

And it was then that she knew that no matter how she tempted him, or how much he might desire it, he would not reach for her.

If she wanted him, she had reach for him first.