On her fifth morning at Strathmore, Emma decided that she’d had enough.

Not of her new home, which turned out to be magnificent despite it not being an authentic castle. She was certain her sisters would be tickled pink over the grand turreted towers and the view of the rolling green hills and shimmering loch from the battlement.

She didn’t even mind her new role as duchess, which was not as intimidating as she’d imagined. Returning from London, Jarvis had offered felicitations with a twinkle in his eyes and then proceeded to introduce her to the staff. Emma took pains to remember everyone’s name and was relieved to find them an efficient, no-nonsense bunch. She especially liked the cook, Mrs. Murray, who’d generously shared the recipe for the duke’s favorite Scotch pie.

Overall, Emma thought she was settling quite nicely into her new life—with one exception: her husband was driving her mad.

As she descended the sweeping staircase, she reflected that her present state of exasperation wasn’t due to his cool reception to her words of love. His reply had smarted—but, truthfully, it hadn’t surprised her all that much either. He’d told her his views on love, and she didn’t expect him to change overnight, especially knowing what she did of his history.

Her love was a gift; she’d offered it without strings.

At the same time, she didn’t expect him to block her out because of it.

Ever since their wedding night, Alaric’s behavior had been ... strange.

On the one hand, some of his old impassiveness had returned. ’Twas as if the progress they’d made before their marriage had eroded. Any time she brought up a more intimate topic of conversation, he regressed to politeness. Or shut her out with excuses—he had tenants to visit, correspondence to dictate.

Paint to watch dry on a wall, perhaps?

Her fear that she’d made a mistake in her marriage might have turned into full-fledged panic ... if Alaric hadn’t expressed his need for her in other ways.

Because even as he withdrew from her emotionally, he couldn’t seem to get enough of her physically. When they were together, he couldn’t keep his hands off of her. Yesterday, they’d had a picnic in one of the estate’s wooded glens, and blood rushed beneath her skin as she recalled their lusty frolic outdoors. How he’d bade her to sit atop his mouth, his tongue impaling her as she writhed in helpless pleasure. After her bursting climax, he’d pressed her onto her hands and knees, entering her swiftly from behind, the passionate sounds of their coupling echoing through the forest …

Then he’d brought her home to his bed and made love to her until dawn.

There were the tokens of his affection as well. He showered her with things. Everything from baubles to bonbons—and yesterday he’d given her a beautiful silver-white mare that he planned to teach her to ride. The day before that he’d bought her a desk inlaid with mother-of-pearl and had it set up for her in his study so that they could work in each other’s company.

Emma was patient, but Alaric’s contradictory behavior was testing even her limits. She was a practical sort and didn’t require words to tell her that he cared for her, enjoyed her company—his actions in this regard spoke clearly. Why, then, was he simultaneously trying to erect a wall between them?

Perhaps he was adjusting to being a husband.

Well, she’d given him five days. That was long enough.

Arriving at the door to his study, she marched in, ready to do battle if necessary to get her answers.

“Good morning, pet.” Rising from his desk, he came to her. The smile that warmed his eyes turned her knees to water. “You look good enough to eat.”

Her wits scattered. Breathlessly, she said, “So do you.”

“I’ve created a monster. Lucky me,” he murmured as he drew her in for his kiss.

The entry of a footman—followed by his hasty apology and retreat—made them come up for air.

“Goodness, what will the servants think of us?” Emma said with a flustered laugh.

“They’ll think I’m a red-blooded Scotsman with an itch for his wife.”

As tempted as Emma was to give into the seductive gleam in his eyes, she knew they had matters to address. She smoothed her skirts and, to distract herself from licentious impulses, wandered a safe distance over to the shelves that covered the far wall of the room.

As she tried to marshal her thoughts and strategy, her gaze caught on an object. Sitting alone on a shelf and encased in a glass box, the Grecian urn looked ancient: its ebony glaze was crackled, one of the two curving handles missing. Nonetheless, the red-brown drawings on its surface remained intact and raised goose pimples on her skin.

She recognized that figure. The soldier with the crested helmet, his anguished expression, those raised fists pounding against the walls of the urn for eternity.

She’d seen that same character depicted in that horrid painting in Alaric’s bedroom.

Intuition flashed: what significance did this suffering soldier have for Alaric? Why did this ravaged figure invade his innermost sanctuaries?

“Who is that?” she said, pointing at the urn. “The man, I mean. He’s the same one in that painting you have in London, isn’t he?”

Silence. For an instant, she thought he might not respond.

“That’s Ares. The Greek God of War,” Alaric said tonelessly. “The painting and urn depict a myth about him.”

Foreboding crept over her. “What is the myth about?”

“According to legend, Ares was born of immaculate conception. His mother, the goddess Hera, conceived him on her own to gain revenge on her unfaithful husband Zeus. Not surprisingly, Zeus felt no kinship toward Ares, who was not of his blood.” Alaric retreated behind his desk, shuffling papers as he continued to tell the story with cool detachment. “After giving birth, Hera’s vengeance was accomplished so she, too, was indifferent to the child. Thus, when Ares one day went missing, neither of his parents noticed—or cared particularly.”

Emma’s throat cinched. “What happened to him?”

“Being a lad, he liked to play with his friends. It happened that he chose his friends poorly.” Alaric shrugged. “He got caught up with a pair of Giants—twins with a nasty sense of humor. For fun, they trapped him in a bronze jar and locked the lid. They held him captive for years, and the isolation almost made him lose his mind.”

She couldn’t bear the bleakness of his tone. She crossed over to him, yet the wintry cast of his eyes warned her not to approach too closely.

Facing him across the desk, she said, “How did Ares get out?”

“Another god ended up freeing him. Ever since that incident, however, Ares was filled with uncontrollable fury and a taste for destruction. He was mindlessly aggressive—it wasn’t for nothing that he became the God of War. Needless to say, the other gods didn’t like him much.”

“He was misunderstood,” Emma said fiercely. “All he needed was love and compassion.”

“He was a bastard—unloved and unwanted.” To her disbelief, Alaric turned back to his papers. “Now if there’s nothing else, I have work to—”

“Why does Ares matter to you?” she said.

Alaric flicked a glance at her. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“He’s in your bedchamber, your study. You named your deerhounds after his companions. Surely there must be a reason for it.”

“Perhaps I merely find his story interesting.”

“Perhaps you could do me the courtesy of telling me the truth.”

The indifference fled his eyes. He quickly masked it with distaste. “Emma, I’m busy. I don’t have time for this nonsense.”

Her simmering temper boiled over. “Our marriage is not nonsense. Stop shutting me out—I won’t stand for it.”

“You’re giving me an ultimatum?” His expression hardened.

“I am not your dead wife,” she said in annoyance. “What we’re having is known as a conversation. It’s what married people do.”

“And if I don’t want to talk?” he said icily.

“Then be a coward and hide in your blasted jar!”

“What the devil is that supposed to mean?”

He was white-lipped, livid. She was too angry to care.

“It means that you’re the one putting up the wall between us,” she snapped. “If you’re too afraid to tell me what’s really going on, then you deserve to stay right where you are.”

A hush fell over the study.

“You want to know?” he said with menacing softness. “Fine, I have something to show you.”

* * *

On the way over to the banks of the loch, he questioned himself again and again.

Do you really want her to know the truth?

He’d never taken anyone to the cave. Not Laura—not even Charlie. Yet something in him would not relent, and it was too late anyway; Emma had issued the challenge, and he could not back down. The looming dread that he’d been battling since their wedding night now suffused him completely. Perhaps it was better this way. The waiting—the anticipation of the blade’s descent—was too much to bear.

Best to get it over with.

Best to be done with illusions of love once and for all.

So now he found himself with Emma at the loch, its blue surface gently rippling and studded with diamonds of sunlight. A rock-strewn beach ringed the water, and green hills rose all around. His steps grew heavier and heavier, yet he trudged on until they reached the place that he was looking for: the opening to the cavern that time and tides had carved into the bank.

“A secret cave?” she said.

He helped her over the boulders and into the sheltered grotto. Although he hadn’t been there in years, it was exactly how he remembered it. Humid and dark, the silence was buffered by the sound of lapping water and wailing gulls. He smelled moss and earth and remembered loneliness.

Emma was looking at him, her head canted. Waiting for him to speak.

“This was the place I escaped to as a lad.” The words emerged matter-of-factly. “When I could manage to get away from my uncle’s cruelties, I came here.” He placed a palm against the mossy wall, remembering how he’d huddled against that stony pillow, retching, gutted by pain. “Sometimes I prayed the water would rush in. That it would cover everything. End everything.”

He heard Emma’s sharp intake of breath.

Now she would see how weak, how disgustingly pathetic he’d been.

Ruthlessly, he forced himself to forge on. “When I got sick, my uncle believed I was faking my symptoms to gain attention. He said I was a weakling and a liar. He valued strength and perfection above all else—and he despised me for being a failure on both counts.”

“Did he … hurt you?”

“I preferred the beatings to his other punishments,” Alaric said flatly. “To the isolation, starvation, and scorn. There wasn’t a day that went by without him telling me how contemptible I was. How worthless.”

“Why didn’t your aunt stop his abuses?” Emma’s voice quivered.

“She worshipped her husband and never went against his wishes. Not that it would have mattered if she did. His will was law.”

“What a horrid man! He had no cause to treat you so.” Emma tugged on his arm, and he turned, meeting her eyes, the unexpected fire in them fighting back some of his inner frost. “How was it your fault that you had an illness, for God’s sake? The fact that you survived and regained your health—that’s a testament to your strength and courage.”

Her conviction was like a beacon in the darkness. His beautiful Emma—his soul hungered for her light, her warmth. Yet he couldn’t go on letting her believe that she loved him when she hadn’t seen all that he was. His dark inadequacies and failures.

“Then why did my father and stepmother want to be rid of me? Why was my mama unhappy until the day she died?” The words were razors in his throat. “Will—he was always loved. But not me.”

“I didn’t know your family, so I can’t explain why they acted as they did.” Emma gripped both his arms. “But I know you, Alaric McLeod, and you are strong and clever and honorable. That is why I love you.”

Those words ... sweet cruelty when they were all he wanted and could not have.

“You’ve a loving heart, Emma,” he said roughly. “You could love anyone.”

“That’s untrue.” She stared at him, gnawing on her lip. “If my love doesn’t convince you, think of all the other ladies who have wanted you through the years. From what I’ve heard,” she said, her tone dry, “that accounts to hordes.”

“What do they know about me?” he said with a dismissive shrug. “They see the title, the money. They do not see me.”

“I see you,” Emma said fiercely, “and I love you.”

She’s going to find out sooner or later. Better to face her disappointment now. She’ll hate you less in the long run …

Bracing himself, he said, “Laura claimed that I wasn’t capable of love. That I took her love for granted. The last time we argued she said I’d only understand if … if I lost everything. That was why she took Charlie with her when she left.”

The last time Alaric had come to the cave was after Charlie’s funeral. Alone, he hadn’t been able to shed a single tear. Had just sat there as cold and numb as the surrounding stone. What kind of a man didn’t weep over the loss of his boy?

I failed you, Charlie. Because I couldn’t love you enough.

He forced himself to say what history had proven. “The truth is, I’m not deserving of love—because I’m not capable of giving it.”

The dark walls surrounded him, closed him in.