A Scandalous Scot by Karen Ranney Page A

virgin be repulsed? Horrified, certainly. She did need to leave, and quickly. Before she lost her position. She’d already lost her virtue. Not in the actual sense, of course, but she was nowhere near as innocent as she’d been a scant five minutes earlier.
    His organ stretched even farther, growing harder, and pointing at her like a one-eyed serpent.
    She had the strangest compulsion to reach out and touch it. Her hand opened and closed, wanting to grab it, fist it, hold it in admiration of its beauty.
    What could she possibly say?
    Your Lordship, it’s quite astounding.
    Did women ever talk about such things?
    She could feel the warmth of her cheeks, knowing she should have left the very instant she realized he was naked, instead of studying him as if he were a dusty statue.
    Taking a step back, she hit the door, reached back and opened it with one hand. She garbled something, starting with, “Your Lordship, I’m sorry,” and ended up with a squeak and a couple of pants before sputtering to a halt.
    She pointed toward the tins of soap with a shaking hand, still unable to speak.
    At least she’d stopped looking at his snake.
    Her nose was hot.
    Her lips were trembling, and she felt as if she was going to cry at any moment. Instead, she wanted to put her apron over her head and just disappear.
    She’d give anything to be a ghost at the moment.
    Turning, she rushed out of the sitting room, flying down the stairs. Instead of taking the corridor back to the main part of the castle, she ducked beneath the stairs, heading for a wooden door consisting of thick, weathered planks banded with iron. She removed the bar, placing it against the curved wall, then escaped into the private garden drenched in the afternoon sun.
    Her aunt had instructed her never to use the Laird’s Garden, since it was strictly for the use of the Earl of Denbleigh and his family. But she didn’t want to meet anyone right now. Besides, what was one more infraction? The last two days had been filled with them.
    The garden had been tended to recently, in preparation for the earl’s return. The stone bench sat along a curved walk glittering with oyster shells.
    She sat on the bench, wrapping her arms around her body. Her face was flaming and her hands were still shaking.
    Dear God, what was she to do? What could she do?
    She was going to be dismissed for certain now. If, by chance, some miracle prevented that, she’d ask her aunt to assign her to a different part of the castle, so she wouldn’t come in contact with the earl ever again. She’d gladly work in the laundry, rather than see the Earl of Denbleigh. She’d dissolve in a pool of humiliation and embarrassment.
    But, oh, he was a fine specimen of man.
    She drew herself up, horrified at her thought. Who was she to be lusting after the earl? If that’s what it was. She’d never had much experience with lust. Attraction, certainly, but she’d never witnessed a man standing naked before her with no sense of embarrassment.
    In fact, the earl had looked decidedly proud of himself. Arrogant even in his nakedness.
    The very first thing she should do is forget the entire episode. Dismiss it from her mind. Eradicate it, even if it was very difficult.
    Especially since she could see him even when she closed her eyes.
    She should concentrate on other thoughts—such as how she was to survive these two horrible days without losing her position.
    The very last thing she should be thinking about was the Earl of Denbleigh, naked or clothed.

Chapter 8
RULES FOR STAFF: Never initiate conversation with your betters.
    W henever he’d disobeyed an order or was guilty of some infraction, Morgan had been called to the library and made to stand in front of his father’s acres-wide carved desk. Rumor had it the desk had been crafted in France, a gift of one branch of the MacCraigs. Remembering Jean’s story of the French Nun, he wondered now if the desk had some connection.
    He’d never been punished for his