The dowager arrived from London the next morning with luggage and servants in tow. Emma received her in the castle’s main salon and placed a dutiful kiss on the lady’s powdery cheek. After ringing for tea, she took a seat on the adjacent chaise.

“Where is Strathaven?” the dowager said immediately.

“He’s caught up in a meeting with the land manager. He’ll be out shortly.”

“Well, you two have been naughty children,”—Lady Patrice wagged her finger, the rust-red stone upon it gleaming dully—“but I forgive you. Impetuosity is the privilege of the young.”

“There was no sense in waiting,” Emma said prosaically. “We both knew what we wanted.”

Lady Patrice studied her with alert blue eyes. “One can’t blame you for jumping at the chance to be a duchess.”

Annoyance flared in Emma. “That isn’t why I married him.”

“Why then?”

“I love him,” Emma said, “and he loves me.”

“Well, that is a different story. One that I hope shall not be a repeat of Strathaven’s last marriage.” Shadows flitted through the dowager’s gaze.

Emma’s irritation waned. Lady Patrice was just being protective of Alaric. Knowing Alaric’s past as she now did, however, Emma found that she couldn’t quite forgive the dowager for failing to protect a vulnerable boy from the old duke’s abuses. Yet what good would it do to hold a grudge against an elderly lady?

“I will do my utmost to make Alaric happy,” Emma said.

At that moment, the subject of discussion strode in, and Emma wanted to sigh at the sight of her husband. He was so handsome, his Prussian blue jacket and buff trousers molded to his muscular form. More than that, it was the love glowing in his jade eyes, softening the wicked perfection of his face. He looked younger, happier.

And he was all hers.

Picking up her hand, Alaric pressed a warm kiss on her wrist. “Manage to sleep in, love?”

She nodded. For once, she’d slept past dawn, and she’d awoken to find him gone, a single red rose next to her pillow. Who would have thought Strathaven would turn out to be such a romantic?

“I’m glad you got some rest.” Turning, he greeted his aunt and said, “I’ve been instructing Emma on the duties of the duchess. I must say she is an apt pupil and most willing to learn. She’s been applying herself most … vigorously.”

Emma narrowed her eyes at her husband. His expression remained impassive; his eyes, however, danced with the devil’s merriment.

Oblivious to the by-play, Lady Patrice said in approving tones, “I’m glad that you appreciate the importance of your new position, my dear.”

“As it turns out, Emma can adapt readily to any position,” His Grace said outrageously. “I am indeed a lucky man.”

The dowager frowned. “Is something the matter, Emma dear? You’re looking rather flushed. Perhaps Strathaven has been working you too hard?”

Cheeks afire, Emma tried not to look at Alaric whose shoulders were silently shaking.

“Actually, I’ve enjoyed learning the ropes here,” she said, “although certain aspects of Strathmore are rather complicated and exasperating to manage.”

“As I was the mistress of the keep for many years,” Lady Patrice said mistily, “perhaps I could be of assistance?”

“Are you free on the morrow, Aunt?” Alaric said. “I just met with the land manager. The storm that blew through here last month apparently did damage to some of the cottages, and I’ll be out late tomorrow surveying the repairs.” He smiled at Emma. “You ladies can keep each other company and talk about Strathmore.”

Lady Patrice’s lips curled. “I would dearly love a chat. Would you care to meet me at the dowager house—say at two o’clock?”

Emma told herself that there was naught to be gained from holding onto animosity, especially against a lady who, as Alaric had said, had been powerless to stop her husband’s cruelties.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Emma said. “That sounds lovely.”

* * *

The next day, Emma arrived at the dowager’s residence at the appointed hour. Lady Patrice’s home was situated on a slight rise overlooking the loch. It was an impressive building, echoes of the castle in its neo-gothic stone facade and small decorative turrets. To Emma’s surprise, the dowager met her at the door.

“I gave the servants the afternoon off,” the lady said, her putty-colored skirts swishing as she led the way to the drawing room. “After the long journey from London, they deserved it. I hope you don’t mind that we’ll be fending for ourselves.”

She gestured toward the tea tray on the coffee table.

“I don’t mind at all.” Emma smiled as she sat adjacent to her hostess. “I’ve been fending for myself for most of my life.”

“How very industrious. Now I hope I shan’t bore you by starting with the history of the Strathaven family?”

“I’d love to hear it.”

“Excellent.” The dowager beamed. “Let me pour you some tea, and we’ll begin.”

Sipping the brew, Emma listened as Lady Patrice told a tale of a powerful clan with roots reaching back to the thirteen century. Over the years, different branches of the clan flourished, although there was plenty of bloody history within the family as well. Conflicts pitted one branch against another, and the winning side did not take kindly to the losers, harassing their people and pillaging their lands.

Despite the fascinating topic, Emma had to stifle a yawn. Perhaps it was the dowager’s voice—it had a mesmeric drone to it. Feeling groggy, Emma drained her cup in hopes that the tea would revive her.

“Our branch was particularly astute,” Lady Patrice said fondly. “When it came to the wars with the English, we made sure to have family supporting both causes. By playing both sides of the field, we were always assured of a winner. In this way, we secured the Duchy of Strathaven and the lands we hold to this day.”

“How ... clever.” Emma couldn’t stop the yawn this time. “I’m sorry. I—I must be more tired than I realized.”

“I know. You have been busy after all. Taking my role, my boy away from me.”

Emma blinked as the dowager’s smiling face split into two. “P-pardon?”

“Don’t fight it, dear. You must be feeling tired. Just lay your head down.”

The room grew blurry, the dowager’s voice slow and distorted. Emma’s lashes felt as heavy as lead, and she couldn’t keep her eyes from closing. Gentle hands guided her down into an abyss of darkness.

* * *

On horseback, Alaric galloped through the fields back toward the castle. He’d completed the task at the cottages ahead of schedule. Dusk was falling, the sun sinking toward the horizon, casting blood-red streaks into the sky. He wondered if Emma was watching the sunset, thinking of him as he was of her.

His lips curved, and he urged his stallion to go faster.

As he neared the gates of the estate, he saw approaching plumes of dust. Riders ... two of them. Strange, he wasn’t expecting visitors.

He halted his mount for their approach.

His surprise deepened when he recognized the faces.

“Kent? Will? What are you doing—?” he said.

“Where’s Emma?” Kent said tersely.

For Emma’s sake, Alaric had hoped that her family had accepted their decision to elope. That they’d accepted him. Jaw taut, he said, “We’re wed. There’s no changing—”

“The dowager poisoned you,” Will cut in.

Alaric jerked. “What?”

“That’s why we’re here. Lugo tracked down the actress. Lily White confessed that it was Patrice who hired her to lace your whiskey.”

No. No, it can’t be.

Panic punched Alaric in the gut.

“We’ll explain the rest,” Will said. “First we need to know that everyone is safe. Where’s your lass?”

Alaric was already spurring his horse toward the house.

“With Patrice,” he shouted.