The Marquis was enjoying a late supper, the woman informed her as they walked in customarily rapid fashion through the lower floor of the keep. Ysmaine nearly had to run to keep up, which did her leg no favors.

She also wished to take her time so that she might better appreciate all that was around her. They passed so many open doors, but there was no time to even glance inside. How did a Marquis live, after all?

“Are you hungry?” the woman inquired, not bothering to favor Ysmaine with so much as a backward glance.

“I am,” Ysmaine admitted. “Excuse me, but what is your name?”

“Why do you ask?”

Ysmaine blushed. “I wished to thank you for your assistance, but I do not know how to address you.”

“I am Madame Jean,” she replied. “I have the run of the household.”

That much was evident from the way the woman need only clap her hands to issue a command. “Thank you, Madame Jean,” Ysmaine smiled. “I was very much in need of a bath. It helped greatly.”

“Yes, you were.” Ysmaine could not see the woman’s face, but she would have wagered there was a sneer on those thin lips.

She did not like Madame Jean.

The smell of roast duck cast all other concerns from Ysmaine’s head—every concern but Quinn—and she followed the intoxicating aroma to the banquet hall which sat at the far end of the keep.

The walls were rounded, bringing to mind to the two rounded corners which Ysmaine had noted from outside, giving the room the appearance of a half-circle. A long, wide table ran the length of the room, with several smaller tables positioned nearer the windows. Candles burned up and down the table’s length and in the trio of chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.

All of that for one single man, seated at the table’s head with a feast spread out before him.

The first thing Ysmaine noted was his considerable girth. The man was not merely portly. He was enormous, with several chins and a stomach which hung far past a leather belt positioned low on his hips.

His thick fingers expertly picked meat from the bones of the roasted bird before him before wide, purple-tinged lips opened to accept a new morsel.

He was a man who enjoyed food and drink, to be sure. He had the wealth with which to do so.

“So, you have finally graced my home with your presence,” he declared, wiping both hands on the linen tablecloth before standing. She found him to be shorter than herself by half a head, and his thick hair was more gray than black. He was likely older than her father, perhaps a contemporary of her grandfather.

“I offer my sincere apologies for the delay,” she smiled as he helped her into a chair at his right hand, trying not to look directly at the stain in the center of his chest. Judging from what she surveyed before her on the table, he had dripped gravy.

“I understand you ran into a fair bit of trouble along the way, my dear.” He patted her hand—leaving grease behind which she dearly longed to wipe clean—before taking his seat once again. “Please, eat your fill. You look as though you need the nourishment.”

She helped herself to roasted potatoes and turnips, stewed apples, a duck leg, a hunk of crusty bread.

Quinn will not be eating so well. The thought robbed her of an appetite, no matter how enticing the aroma which filled the air. Rather than tucking in, she pushed the food back and forth on her plate.

“What did you do with the man captured in the village?” she asked. “He never harmed me, I swear to you.”

The Marquis shrugged as he licked something from his fingers, turning her stomach even further. “He held you captive, did he not? He wished to collect a ransom for your safe delivery. I can only imagine the terrible things you endured while in the presence of such a brute.”

He was all kindness and sympathy, but Ysmaine was sharper than he gave her credit for. She sensed an undercurrent of disgust, even anger.

Would she not be angry, too, upon finding out that a man had endeavored to take money from her?

“He saved me from a true brute,” she argued. “A man who wished to… take me away and harm me greatly.”

“Killed him, then, did he?”

“Yes, he did. There was no other choice in the matter. I was wounded before the man died, and the wound became gravely infected. Quinn—the man you captured—took me to a healer and paid dearly for her services. I would most certainly have died were it not for him.”

The Marquis nodded slowly. “I see. You do realize, however, that you would never have been attacked in such a manner when left in the care of my guards? And that you would not have needed the attention of a healer were it not for that attack?”

“One of your guards had already been killed by a band of thieves, shortly after leaving my home,” she informed him. “Leon.”

He sighed, shaking his head mournfully. “A great loss, to be sure. What of Geoffrey?”

“Quinn tied him to a tree,” she admitted, her cheeks flushing at the memory.

“So, you are telling the truth.”

Her eyes widened. “Why would I lie?”

“Why would you write a letter, claiming you were in danger from a man who you now claim did you no harm?” He did not wait for her reply before continuing. “Geoffrey returned to me two days ago. It seems a rescuer found him tied to that tree and provided him with clothing and passage to France.”

So he had already known of her kidnapping before they had stepped foot on French soil. What fools they had been.

“I am glad to hear Geoffrey is well,” she murmured, looking down at her plate. “As for the letter, you can imagine the pressure I was under to say and do what I felt must be said and done. I wanted only to make my arrival, finally, to settle my grandfather’s estate and come into possession of what was mine. I would have returned the ten pounds to you from the state, I swear it. It seemed so little an amount for a man such as yourself, while to Quinn it would mean the world. He needs it for his brother—”

“I care nothing for what a thief needs,” the Marquis sneered. “And as for returning the sum to me from the estate of your grandfather…”

She waited to hear how he would finish his statement. Once again, her instincts screamed a warning. Something was very wrong.

“My dear,” he whispered, leaning toward her. It took all of her self-control not to lean back, away from him. “My dear, you seem to be mistaken as to the nature of this arrangement.”

She swallowed, suddenly glad she had not taken a bite of food from his table. It might come back up.

“What do you mean?” She twisted the tablecloth around her fists, under the table, her nerves strained to the breaking point at this turn of events.

What had only just been a solicitous, sympathetic look in his eye turned hard. Cold. “You see, your grandfather did not leave the entirety of his estate to you.”

She stammered. “But—but your letter—”

“I did not tell a lie,” he informed her, drinking from his chalice as though he had not a care in the world. He might just as well have been holding a conversation with a friend. “The estate is to be yours, or rather is meant to pass into the hands of your family.”

“My… family? My family is dead,” she whispered, knowing this was not his meaning but needing to stall for time because his words made no sense.

“I was not speaking of that family,” he chortled. “I know they are dead. Your grandfather was well aware of it, too. He kept accounts of their dealings over the years, which was how he knew of your existence. Louise certainly never sent word. Perhaps she forgot how to write, living with heathen brutes as she did, and she certainly never deigned to reply to the letters which sent her.”

“I take offense to that,” Ysmaine was quick to reply, no longer caring whether this terrible man found her rude or unbecoming. “My father was not a heathen nor was he a brute. He loved my mother very dearly, and she loved him. They were dear parents, always kind to me, and we lived quite happily.”

“I do not care one way or another for your memories.” He sounded bored now, leaning back in the chair with his hands folded over his bulging stomach. “Louise was far too good for any filthy Highlander. She was raised to be the wife of a nobleman, to hold court with the brightest of French society. Instead, she chose to debase herself.”

“You cannot say that in my presence!” She was close to flying into a rage of temper, and she knew it, but it mattered little. If anything, the Marquis seemed amused.

As a cat would while toying with a mouse.

“At any rate,” he continued, waving a greasy hand in her direction, “there was no chance of a fine, upstanding man such as your grandfather leaving his estate to the daughter of a brute and his bride. Not entirely to her, that is.”

She was beginning to see the truth of her situation. Why had she not seen it before? It had all been too good to be true, had it not? When her father had taken such pains to leave her a small parcel of land, how could even a powerful nobleman leave everything he owned to a mere unmarried girl?

The Marquis raised an eyebrow. “Did you know your mother was betrothed before she took the ship to Scotland?”

“She was?”

“Oh, yes,” he whispered, his voice dropping to something like a snake’s hiss. “Yes, she was. She was to wed someone more worthy of her. Someone who would offer her everything she deserved, who would allow her to shine like the jewel she was. For she was the most beautiful, the cleverest, the most sparklingly witty young woman in all of Cherbourg.”

And all Ysmaine could do was hold back tears of pity for her poor mother, for she now understood what had sent Louise to Scotland. She had been on the run from an arranged marriage and had happened to meet the man she’d been destined for along the way.

Otherwise, she might have married the Marquis d’Orsay.

The very thought was an abomination in Ysmaine’s opinion. To think of her beautiful, gentle, delicate mother marrying this disgusting animal of a man, and he thought Connor Fraser was beneath Louise? It was nearly amusing in light of the slovenly manner of the man before her.

“She refused you, and you intend to right that wrong,” Ysmaine whispered, eyes locked with his.

A slow smile spread across his thick lips. “I had heard you were a clever girl. If you intend to claim your inheritance, you must marry me. Otherwise, any claim you stake is considered null and void. Your grandfather wished for the family line to be brought back to France, to have the Highlander blood bred out. And it will be, my girl.”

“I do not have to do this,” she insisted.

“Oh, but you do. You have no say in the matter,” he reminded her. “You, a woman? Who are you to stand up to what’s been set forth and agreed upon? You will marry me, and you will inherit the estate. Those are the terms of your grandfather’s will.”

He leaned in again, his wine-soaked breath hitting her like a sour cloud. “And I intend to see to it that you abide by those terms.”