Much to Noonan’s disgust it was five weeks before Brandon finally returned to the Highlands. All hope had faded, and his father’s wry remarks were less painful than his mother’s warm sympathy. There had been no trace of Emma anywhere, not at the hospital that was quickly scrambling to replace two of their missing surgeons, not at her neat rooms in that wretched area by the docks, not at the newly restored Dovecote in Upper Rippington or the charities of London. She had disappeared completely, taking nothing with her but a few medical tomes, and he was beyond desperate. He was also getting nowhere.

Had she somehow managed to take ship for America, or someplace even more exotic? His parents had just returned from a tour of South America—if she’d headed there he might never find her. The east was also a possibility, and the thought that she might decide to head toward India or even Afghanistan filled him with horror. It would be just like her to volunteer as a medic for the army—the military couldn’t afford to be too picky. His stomach roiled at the thought, but he wouldn’t hesitate. He would find her, no matter where she had gone, he would find her and bring her back.

Fate wouldn’t have interfered—not once but twice—if they weren’t meant to be together, but winter was closing in. Like it or not, he had to settle a few things in the north before he went after her. He hired men to look for her before he left London, to comb the shipping manifests, with the hope that once he returned there’d be some word of her.

The trip north was endless. They could have gone by carriage, a slower but marginally more comfortable mode of transportation, but he didn’t give a damn, and Noonan was impervious to trifles like the weather. The biting rain suited Brandon’s mood perfectly, and his mare, Emma—damn, why had he named his horse after her? But of course he had—even in his drug-addled blankness he’d thought of her.

They mostly rode in silence, stopping at inns along the way just long enough to feed and rest the horses, and then they were moving again, over the endless, miserable roads. He barely noticed the changing landscape, as the fallow fields turned rockier, as the trees rose sturdier, the forests grew deeper, the coast wilder. He was in no mood to admire the world around him, he simply needed to get home, lick his wounds like Tammas, his old spaniel, and decide what he could do next. It would make no sense to take the next ship to America if she had set sail for India.

He knew what to do with the reckless anxiety, that wild impulse that drove him. He needed to go home, to the Highlands, where he could be calm and still and make some sense of it all.

It was in the darkest hours of night that they arrived back home, and the gamekeeper’s cottage rose against the ebony sky, an unprepossessing building that had somehow managed to become safety to him. He should have had Noonan make arrangements for one of the village women to come in and tidy up—there would be rodent droppings on most surfaces, the fire would be cold and empty, the beds tumbled and the laundry scattered. Normally Noonan would see to things, but neither of them had been paying attention to details when they left, and they’d been gone far longer than Brandon had ever anticipated. There was a light breeze on the air, and he told himself he could almost smell the coming of spring, or what passed for it in this cold, unforgiving climate, and he felt some of the tightness that had been twisting his insides begin to loosen.

God, he loved it here, the wildness, the beauty, the fierce independence of the people in the small village. Unlike other landlords, the Rohans had never participated in the Highland Clearances, uprooting villagers and sending them to the cities to make room for grazing sheep. The Rohans had never had any passion for commerce, and small Glen Bally was self-sufficient if not profitable, and that suited Brandon. This had been the home of his great-grandfather who’d died on Culloden Moor, this was the home of his heart.

Except that his heart had gone wandering, and he had to bring her back.

“You want to start the fire and clean away some of the mess?” Noonan asked as he slid down from his horse with surprising spryness, “or do you fancy taking care of the horses?”

“House,” he said.

“You can’t cook.”

“Neither can you,” Brandon shot back, and Noonan chuckled.

“You’re right about that, me boy. We’ll find food tomorrow—tonight I just want to settle me bones on me own bed.”

Brandon managed to laugh as he pushed open the heavy door to the cottage. It was pitch black, but the smell was surprisingly fresh—no stench of mouse piss or rising damp. He found his way to the tinder box and lit a candle, watching as it slowly pushed back the shadows, and he stared around him in surprise before taking the taper and lighting everything he could find to illuminate the place.

Some charitable soul had been there, and recently. There was no dust, no damp ashes but a fresh-laid fire, a spotless table with, good God, spring flowers in a crystal vase that had to have come from Ballykeep itself. The main house had been locked up for decades, but someone had clearly made free with the contents. He supposed he would have to do something about that, and he really didn’t want to. He just wanted a few days of peace, for solitary hikes in the woods and long swims in the icy waters that ran through his lands. He had no interest in wasting time dealing with petty thieves.

He’d leave it up to Noonan. If they robbed him blind, so be it. He’d always thought, in some unspecified but rosy future, that he would be bringing his bride there. Then the war had happened, and nothing was the same.

Any right-minded woman would hate it here. It was cold and windy, it rained almost daily, the terrain was rocky and challenging. It was breathtakingly beautiful, but remote, and women liked company, didn’t they? They liked society, and shopping, and even if he couldn’t imagine Emma ever giving a damn about those things, she’d want a hospital, some place to use her talents and knowledge, and there weren’t enough people here to justify one. The last sawbones had been old Dr. Letcher, but since he’d retired and moved south there was no one to see to the problems of the parish, no one he’d been able to bribe into moving there. It took a special person to thrive in the Highlands, and the doctors he knew were too delicate for this rough life.

Emma was far from delicate, but he’d go wherever she wanted him to go, as soon as he could find her. He would follow her if he couldn’t go with her, and he would stay near her till the end of their lives.

Noonan had followed him into the front room, looking around him with an odd expression on his face. “Doesn’t look half bad,” he announced. “One of the local women must have come in and gotten it ready.”

“How did they know we were coming?”

Noonan scowled. “How the hell should I know? I’ve been by your side the entire time we’ve been gone. Well, perhaps not the entire time, you randy dog, but enough so that I don’t know any more than you do.”

`“At this point I really don’t care.” Brandon was bone weary—too many days in the saddle. His bad leg had seized up, his bum ached, and he wanted sleep more than life itself. “We’ll find out in the morning. I’m for bed.”

Noonan nodded, thoughtful. “You go ahead, me boy. It’ll take me a while to settle down—you know how I get. I’ll have a wee dram, maybe go for a walk. There’s a bit of a moon tonight, and I’m feeling restless.”

“Suit yourself. Just don’t wake me when you go to bed.”

“You sleep like a winter bear—nothing wakes you. Get on with you now, and I promise not to slam my door when I come in.”

He was right about one thing, Brandon thought. He did sleep too heavily. If he didn’t, Emma wouldn’t have disappeared on him, twice now. Three times, if one counted the hospital. Every time he got too close she ran, and there was no way he could force her to stay. He was just going to have to hope he could change her mind.

He fell into his bed, his bones aching, his head pounding. It was better than sleeping on the ground, as he and Noonan had been doing the last few days, but only marginally so, and he remembered his own bed, back in London, and the woman who had lain beside him in it. Beneath him. He’d give decades off his life if he could have her in this narrow bed, in the cool damp air.

It wasn’t going to happen.

He woke late. He didn’t hear Noonan come in—for all he knew the man had been up past dawn, prowling around the estate, walking the hills, drinking whiskey in the cold night air, but he was up and stirring when Brandon wandered into the kitchen. “Where’s Tammas?”

Noonan looked up from the food he was cooking, and Brandon could see the bright gold of real Scottish eggs. He’d missed them.

“That fool dog? I haven’t seen him. Didn’t you leave him with the crofters over by Thorsby?”

“I did. I just thought that since some good fairy seemed to know when we were returning then maybe Tammas would be around as well.”

“Don’t be worrying about the damned dog,” Noonan said severely. “He’ll be back sooner or later—you can’t get rid of the things. Leave ‘em in the forest and they’ll beat you back home. Ridiculous creatures!”

Since Noonan was devoted to Tammas, as well as any other dog he happened across, Brandon didn’t bother arguing. “Eggs,” he said in a tone of satisfaction, heading for the table.

`“Not for you, my boy. I only found three and I’m hungry. You might want to go check the big house—someone’s been there, and that’s a fact.”

Brandon looked at the eggs longingly. “You’re my man—you take care of it,” he said, knowing what Noonan’s reaction would be.

The bark of laughter verified it. “And you can go fart in the wind, milord.”

“Coffee?” he asked plaintively. He had smelled it, he knew he had.

“Gone. Maybe you’ll find some down at yer big fancy house.”

Noonan was being odd, but Brandon didn’t give a damn. The old man was crotchety, and argumentative, all fairly standard, but he seemed to be nursing a hidden amusement, and Brandon couldn’t begin to fathom why.

He bypassed the chair to move to the open window. Scotland had defied predictions and offered a watery light at the beginning of the day, and he might as well take advantage of it. “It’s not so big and fancy as all that, Noonan,” he said. “It hasn’t been opened in years, and moths and rodents have probably eaten into everything.”

“Mebbe not. You ought to check anyway.”

“It’s waited this long—it can wait till I swim. I need something to wake me up, since there seems to be no coffee,” he said pointedly.

“Suit yerself,” Noonan said amiably.

If he hoped the small stream would have warmed in the sun he should have known better. Stripping off his clothes, he slid into the icy water, striking out towards the middle before he could think better of it. Tammas usually swam with him, a water dog to his very soul, and once more Brandon wondered where he was. He had the best nose in three counties—he would know that they’d returned. Where was he?

The water was cold enough to freeze his balls off, and he only wished that was a possibility. At least numb them for the next few months or however long it took him to find Emma. He dove under the water, trying to shut his brain off and came up with a sputter. He was already numb, every part of him except the area he didn’t want to think about, and if he stayed in the burn’s icy embrace much longer he wouldn’t be worrying about a thing.

How demoralizing was that—to be found stark naked in a pool of water not much bigger than an ornamental pool on his sister’s estate in the Lake District? If he was going to die he’d at least hope for some dignity in the process.

But he had no intention of dying. Pushing himself out of the water, he shook like a wet dog, and the early morning air felt like a warm blanket after the near frozen water.

His chilled body felt better after the long days of riding, reminding him why this was such a good place for him. Even after the icy numbness wore off his leg was much more responsive to his demands.

He would have to figure it out. Surprisingly, the sun was peeking out from behind the ever-present clouds, and he let the water bead up and dry on his skin before dressing in the clean, rough clothes he’d brought with him—breeches and a loose shirt, plus a long waistcoat to keep out the chill. It was a relief not to have to deal with all the fussiness of fashionable clothing—the cravats and tight-fitting coats, the fancy shoes and ridiculous trousers that would rip the moment he went into the woods. He’d learned to get used to them to them—after all, he’d spent most of his life in London and the family estates in the south. At eighteen he’d been a regular dandy.

He’d do whatever was needed. Whether he liked it or not, he wasn’t going to spend any more time here than necessary. Noonan was infinitely capable of taking care of things, for all he liked to pretend he was a simple Irish peasant, and he was proving surprisingly amenable to the notion of staying behind. Brandon knew he could leave with a clear mind and conscience.

Noonan was older than he looked, and their breakneck pace of the last week must have taken its toll. Perhaps he was finally learning to accept the inevitable limitations age demanded.

“You’re looking all bright and shiny,” Noonan observed sourly. There was still no coffee, much to Brandon’s sorrow, but there were bannocks on the kitchen dresser that looked fresh, and he picked one up, biting into it with pleasure.

“I’m going back,” he announced. “Today.”

“Are ye, now?”

He’d expected a more dramatic reaction from the old man, but Noonan continued as he was, puffing on an evil-looking meerschaum pipe.

“And you’re staying behind. I need someone to keep an eye on things, make certain the tenants are doing well, check the land, see to Tammas if he ever returns. He’s a good dog but he’s too much of a burden for the Wallaces to take on.”

“The dog’s no burden—he earns his keep,” Noonan said, mildly outraged. “And he’ll turn up, I promise you. He’s your devoted slave—an Irish dog would be more discerning.” Noonan was taking this all too casually—something was up.

Brandon narrowed his eyes. “You’re not coming with me.”

“So you said,” Noonan replied, unruffled.

Was the man sick? Noonan never gave up without a fight. “It would be too much for you,” Brandon added deliberately, waiting for the explosion.

“That it might be,” Noonan said amiably.

Brandon slammed his fists on the table. “That’s it—you’re dying! Why didn’t you tell me?”.

Noonan’s look of withering disdain was a small reassurance. “Don’t be daft! What turned you into such a girl all of a sudden? Did that strumpet cut off your bollocks after all? She’s got the skills.” He glowered at Brandon. “Go on and hit me then. I can tell you want to, and I’m not some frail old man . . . oof.”

Brandon pulled his punch, letting out just enough of his frustration to convince Noonan. “Call her one more name and I’ll hold you down while she practices her cutting skills on you.”

Noonan let out a rusty chuckle, a truly bizarre occurrence. Noonan never laughed. “Before you go off on your grand adventure you ought to hike down to the big house. Ballykeep’s been lying empty for a long time, and if you’re off to find your str. . . your true love,” he corrected himself with a mock flourish, “then you’d best to see to your duties first.”

“I leave that up to you.”

Noonan snorted. “Happen I went for a walk last night while you were sleeping. Someone’s definitely been in the house.”

“See to it,” Brandon said briefly. “You’re my steward when I’m gone.”

“You’re not gone yet. Besides, I thought I saw yon Tammas down there. If you don’t get him he’ll go off looking for you and you’ll never see him again.”

Brandon hesitated. It was still early—he could reach Ayrshire if he left immediately.

But Ballykeep was more than a responsibility—he loved the old place, every mottled stone, every dirt-streaked window. Nor could he simply walk away from Tammas. When he’d first taken the tiny pup home with him he’d made a promise, not to the tenant farmer who’d bred him, but to the spaniel. He was no longer the man who ignored his responsibilities, he reminded himself. One day wasn’t going to make any difference in how fast he was going to find Emma.

“I’ll leave tomorrow.” He reached for another bannock, then took two. “Where did these come from? They’re certainly not from your miserable cooking.”

Noonan didn’t take offense. “Same place as the clean sheets and the flowers came from.”

“And where would that be?” he demanded.

“Go find your damned dog.”

The estate of Ballykeep had more than a thousand acres of well-kept tenant farms, for very little had been turned over to the sheep as had been on other estates in Scotland—a move that was profitable for the landowners and so devastating to the crofters and tenant farmers. For all their generations of notorious fecklessness, the Rohans had managed to amass a fairly staggering amount of land and capital, with large estates in Ireland, France, Italy and South America as well as the properties in Scotland and England. Ballykeep was neither the largest nor the most impressive, but he loved it, and his father had given it to him on his twenty-first birthday.

The road from the gamekeeper’s cottage was a long, gently sloping drive that led to an impressive first view of the main house. He didn’t need to see Ballykeep that way—he knew it in his heart, and instead he took the well-trodden path through the forest, calling for Tammas as he went. His frantic heart had calmed now that he had a plan. He would leave, and he would find her. It was that simple—no other outcome was imaginable. Leaving here again, so soon after he’d returned, would kill him, but he would do it for her. He’d do anything for her.

He crested the rise overlooking the house, and for a shocked moment he was dazzled. The sun, which had been playing a sullen game of hide and seek behind the clouds, had finally decided to change and do what it almost never did.

It was shining. The sun sparkled on the drops of water dripping off the leaves from the early morning mist, it shone from the vast array of windows that lined the front of the ancient house, the gloomy gray stones almost white in the sunlight.

It was shockingly beautiful, this home of his heart, and he was tempted to turn back, to keep that vision of Ballykeep secure, to remember on his travels.

But then the knowledge began to click in his brain. Filthy windows didn’t glisten. The old gray stones didn’t seem lighter in the sunshine—they actually were.

The massive front door of the house stood open, and he could see people moving around inside, including his blasted dog. Tammas had been sniffing around the freshly potted greenery by the front entrance, lifting his leg when he thought no one was looking, but then the sound of a piercing whistle made the dog lift his silken head and trot obediently into the house.

Brandon moved down the hill so quickly that he fell, twisting his bad leg. He rose again with a curse, ignoring the shaft of pain that sliced through him, and kept moving, not bothering to hide his damned limp. Maybe his mother had decided that opening the house would cheer him up, except that it was impossible that her orders could have arrived before he had.

The first person he saw when he reached the curving entrance was a maid, young, perhaps fifteen, with the bright red hair that was so prevalent in the Highlands.

She stopped dead still, staring at him like he was a ghost. His face, he assumed, but her sudden shy smile shot that theory to hell, and besides, young Scottish girls weren’t nearly as squeamish as their English counterparts. It was a hard life up here, and pretty faces and smooth skin meant nothing without a strong back and a willingness to work.

“Mr. Rohan,” she said breathlessly. “Welcome home. Everything is in order for you.”

He was staring at her like a village idiot, and he quickly shut his mouth. “Ready?” he echoed lamely.

“Oh, dear, should I have called you ‘Lord Brandon’ then? My mother said as I should, but the mistress told me not to, and I’m that confused. . .”

His damned mother! He should have known Charlotte Rohan would accomplish the impossible and arrive ahead of him. She hadn’t wanted him to go haring off again, and she’d done everything she could to keep him here.

It wasn’t enough. “Where’s your mistress?” he demanded in a dangerous voice. “I have a few words for her.”

“Last time I saw her she was in the kitchens. Cook is new, you see, and she was trying to explain simple country cooking. . .”

Brandon walked past her without another word, into the house that smelled of beeswax and honey and the earliest of spring flowers, straight into the kitchens that hadn’t been used for more than twenty years. The kitchens that had provided him bannocks this morning, he realized.

It had never looked so good. The massive copper pots were shining, every surface was scrubbed, the ancient flag-stone floor was spotless, and there was only one woman in the vast room, and it wasn’t his mother.

Tammas had been trailing at her skirts with abject adoration, but seeing his master was too great a temptation, and he bounded over to him, whining a happy little greeting, dancing around in joy.

And the woman turned around to face him.

She was beautiful, but there had never been a time when Emma Cadbury had been less than stunning, even battered and bruised and covered in mud. Her color was good—in fact, it almost looked like she was blushing. She’d added some healthy weight to her too-thin frame. Her thick dark hair was in some loose topknot, not the severe arrangement she usually favored, and the sun that speared through the windows seemed to capture bright crystalline wetness in her eyes. Emma didn’t blush, Emma didn’t cry. Emma didn’t suddenly appear where she knew he’d come—she ran away.

But she was definitely here, and she was trying very hard not to cry, her smile a bit wobbly, her gray eyes almost panic-stricken.

The maid from the front of the house dashed in, coming to an abrupt halt when she saw him before turning to Emma.

“Beg pardon, mistress, but Mr. Ellis says I was to inform you that Mr. Rohan has arrived. Er . . . that is . . . Lord Brandon . . .”

“Mr. Rohan will do,” Brandon said, never taking his eyes off Emma. She was trembling slightly, and he wondered what in the world she was afraid of.

He heard the girl scuttle away as they looked at each other. “Ellis,” he said finally. “As in my sister’s butler?”

She started to say something, choked, coughed, cleared her throat and began again. “He was tired of the Lake District,” she said finally. “And tired of the Scorpion’s ramshackle behavior. He wanted a more settled household.”

Brandon had been moving closer, slowly stalking her, but she held her ground, when he knew damned well that part of her wanted to cut and run as she always did. For once she held still, her gray eyes huge and uneasy, as if she were a cornered hare. “Mistress?” he said, and Emma’s flush disappeared.

“I know that’s not appropriate,” she said, eyeing him nervously now that he could almost reach her. “But I didn’t want to be Mrs. Cadbury and a simple ‘miss’ would be more difficult to explain.”

“You’ve never been a simple miss in your life. Mistress will do. Lovers. Bane of my existence. Harpy. Mrs. Rohan. Unless you prefer Lady Brandon. I’d think you’d hate that, but I’m game if you happen to want it.”

There were tears in her huge gray eyes. The tears he had never seen before spilled over, sliding down her cheeks.

“Brandon, you can’t marry me and you know it! The scandal would never go away. I’ll stay with you as long as you want me, but I can’t marry you. You’ve worked too hard to throw it all away on someone like me.”

“You mean to tell me that you ran off and nearly got yourself killed because you were trying to protect me?” he said, astonished, amused and infuriated at the same time. “You darling idiot! I’m a Rohan. We thrive on scandal. We wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She backed away from him, coming up against a cupboard. “But I’m . . . I’m barren. I know I can’t have children.”

He felt only the tiniest hint of pain and dismissed it. “I’m sorry for that, but more for you than for me. My sister is busy populating the Lake District and Benedick is trying to catch up. We’ll have enough little Rohans around to destroy the world, should they take it in their minds to do so.”

“Brandon, think about what you’re suggesting,” she pleaded but he was done, crossing the last few inches between them and pulling her into his arms.

“I’ve had five endless weeks to think about it, you cruel woman, and if you ever run away like that again I’m going to beat you severely.”

She looked up into his eyes, his beautiful wounded bird, no longer broken, no longer lost, and the wry quirk of her mouth told him just how seriously she took his ridiculous threat.

“And I’m not suggesting anything,” he continued. “I’m telling you. You’re marrying me and I’ll build you a hospital wherever you damned well please. I’ll go where you want to go, I’ll do. . .”

“Um . . .” she said, breaking into his declaration of adoration with her usual practicality. “I’ve already made arrangements in Inverness. I’ll go there twice a week for surgery and look after the local people the rest of the time. That is, if . . .”

He kissed her then, long and deep, cradling her head with his hands to keep her still, tasting, sucking, biting as she sank against him, and he felt the fight leave her body, leaving nothing but welcome.

Tammas had no sense of propriety and began leaping around them, making encouraging noises, but Brandon didn’t let it distract him. He had no intention of stopping until he . . . he had no intention of stopping, ever. He’d kiss her in the kitchen, reach beneath her skirts and lift her up onto the work surface behind her, unfasten his breeches. . .

“I beg your pardon, Mr. Rohan,” came Ellis’s precise voice, and Brandon lifted his head to growl at the man, while Tammas did the same in an act of solidarity with his oddly-behaving master, but Emma reached up, grabbed his long hair in her fist, and yanked him back to her mouth, and he wondered what Ellis might do if his new employer came in his breeches.

“Go away, Ellis,” he muttered when they both took a breath. “Or I’ll fire you.”

But Ellis wasn’t going anywhere, curse the man. “I’m afraid I have a confession to make, Mr. Rohan. I have been working here under false pretenses. I am still attached to your sister’s household—Lady Rochdale simply sent me here to ensure that everything was ready, but I do have the perfect candidate in mind for your permanent majordomo.”

Brandon dropped his head down to claim Emma’s mouth once more, but she put a hand against his lips, forestalling him. He ran his tongue over her fingers and began to suck one, well out of Ellis’s sight, and her eyelids half closed in reaction.

“What do you mean, ‘everything was ready’? Ready for what?” Her breathless voice held deep suspicion.

“Lady Rochdale and her family should be arriving in the next day or two, the Viscount and his wife a few days later, accompanied by his lordship’s parents. I believe your father will be bringing a special license with him.”

Emma appeared dumbfounded, a rare occurrence for his beautiful bride. “No,” she said. “That is . . . I didn’t say yes . . . I still think we should. . .”

Brandon took care of her protests in the most efficient way possible, and when she was too breathless to speak he glanced at Ellis. “Well, for the time being you’re my butler, and you will leave and see that no one disturbs us for the next hour.”

“Hour?” Emma said, sounding alarmed.

“Make that two.” He focused all his attention on Emma. “And take the damned dog.”

When they were finally alone he turned back to her, and she was wiping tears from her cheeks. “Damn these things,” she muttered. “I only started crying five weeks ago and now I can’t seem to stop.”

“That’s all right, Harpy,” he murmured. “I’ll always be here to dry them. Accept it—there’s no way you can win against the assembled might of the Wicked Rohans. You’ll marry me and live happily ever after.”

“No one ever does,” she said.

“You will,” he said firmly. “I promise you.”