If You Desire by Mara (3)

 Today. Surely, today they would arrive.

 When she tenderly brushed a lock of black hair from his forehead, his gorgeous dark eyes eased open. Seeming still half-asleep, he reached his hand up to stroke her cheek. When she smiled, his brows drew together in puzzlement.

 Then he shot away from her.

 After stabbing his legs into his pants, he paced for long moments, the muscles in his upper body growing more and more tensed. “This should no’ have happened, and it canna happen again,” he finally said.

 His tone implied that they were discussing a tragedy, something akin to a death in the family—not the most mind-boggling pleasure she’d ever imagined. She couldn’t help but feel insulted, and sat up, drawing the sheet up to her chest. “Honestly, Hugh, you’re making a mountain out of a molehill.” She waved her hand dismissively. “We…trifled a bit.”

 Instead of being grateful as she’d expected—after all, she could have called him a cad and pressed to stay married—he appeared furious. “If we’d ‘trifled’ an inch lower, there could be dire consequences. Have you forgotten that we both agreed no’ to do this? We agreed at the outset. Do you want to get stuck in this marriage?”

 “I wish you would stop living in terror that you might get trapped in marriage with me. We didn’t make love. Now, it’s very simple. We put this behind us and never speak of it again.”

 “I’ve never met a woman who could skewer a man’s sense of self-worth like you can. Whoever marries you in truth will need to be a better man than me.”

 She glared up at him. Skewering had never been her intention, but at that moment, she didn’t regret the outcome. “You are making too much of this,” she insisted. “Why are you so angry when nothing permanent occurred? You’re acting like a provincial.”

 “Maybe you can easily put it behind you, but that trifling affected me.” Suddenly his eyes narrowed as he lunged forward to grab her elbow. “You’re no’ a virgin, are you?”

 She drew back her head in bewilderment. “Why would you ask that question?”

 No, no, Hugh. Don’t be like this. For ten years, he’d been out sowing his wild oats; yet he probably expected her to have been waiting for a husband. Of course, she was a virgin, but, as was often the case, right now she wished she weren’t.

 Such a narrow-minded expectation was galling.

 “Answer me.”

 Her tone cold as ice, she said, “Darling, I’ve been as celibate as you have been since we last saw each other.”

 He released her, but kept his hands raised as he backed away, as if he couldn’t believe he’d touched her.

 “Why would you care if I bedded a dozen men?” she asked in confusion.

 He raked his fingers through his hair. “Because women like you doona get ‘easy annulments.’ No’ based on lack of consummation.”

 Women like me.

 He hit the wall, making her jump, then turned to her with the air of some trapped beast who knew the end was near. He was that averse to having her as his wife?

 “How in the hell did you plan to end the marriage?” he demanded. “How?”

 “I’m sure my father can manage something—”

 “It will no’ bloody stop me, Jane. I dinna sign on for more. If our annulment does no’ go as planned, I will still leave you.”

 Her heart went cold. Memories of loneliness and hopelessness washed over her.

 He’d left her before without a warning. He would again, this time after telling her to her face that nothing would cleave him to her—even as she sat naked in a bed still warmed from him.

 No longer would she open herself up to him. She couldn’t. Self-preservation, Janey. Hugh MacCarrick was the only man who could ever make her cry. False smile in place, she said with all honesty, “Of course you will leave me, darling. I never expected anything else from you.”

 He shot her another disillusioned look, then strode away.

 After his behavior the night before, this morning had already been grueling enough. But now to learn that Jane had definitely had at least one man was punishing for him.

 He’d suspected she and Bidworth had been lovers, but to know …

 The idea of Bidworth, or another man like him, taking her innocence made Hugh’s stomach clench, made him want to roar with fury. He felt this even as he knew he had no right to, no right to hate the fact that she’d welcomed another—or others—into her bed.

 He’d said those things to Jane out of jealousy and because he’d been furious with himself—for one foggy moment when he first awakened, he’d been about to start the madness again. Even now, he found himself wishing he’d just gone ahead and taken her last night, or even this morning, when she’d looked so tousled and well-loved.

 He’d taken his frustrations out on her, sounding like some inflexible old-guard Tory, and she hadn’t deserved it.

 Jane was unique and independent, and she couldn’t be judged by others’ standards. She was twenty-seven and had a very healthy sexual appetite. Even as he understood this, the idea of her appeasing her needs with others maddened him.

 Because he was obsessed with her. He wanted her to lavish that desire on him, wanted her all to himself. The idea of Bidworth trying to handle all her passion was laughable. After last night, Hugh knew that he was the man for it—even as he knew he could never allow himself to have her.

 He’d given her a few hours to get over her pique, but now they needed to talk about what the hell they were going to do about their annulment. Hugh loped to her room, but found no sign of her. He made his way to the upstairs parlor. After dressing this morning, she’d sat in the window seat there for hours, gazing out at Vinelands as she had for the last two days.

 He and his brothers used to do the same constantly. They’d first traveled down to this property at the suggestion of concerned relatives in the clan. Ethan had just received the injury to his face and would be able to heal in a more private setting; Court would have no one to fight….

 They’d been there only a week before the Weylands had descended on the area.

 From the lofty vantage of Ros Creag, the three brothers had sat and watched the goings-on at Vinelands. Always a huge fire burned outside, people danced in the yard, and singing and raucous laughter carried across the water.

 Hugh, Ethan, and Court had gawked in confusion. Their existence had been dour, their home in the north of Scotland dark ever since the death of their father. They’d rarely spoken to their mother, Fiona, who couldn’t recover from the loss of her beloved husband Leith.

 The day he’d died, Fiona had pulled at her hair, screaming at her sons, “I told you no’ to read it! How many times did I tell you? It always wins!”

 Hugh shook himself, preparing to face Jane as he entered the parlor—the empty parlor. She wasn’t in the window seat. Excellent, she was avoiding him again.

 Or would she have tried to leave, after his callous words this morning?

 A sense of unease settled over him. He bellowed her name. Nothing. Just as he was about to go tearing through the house, some movement outside caught his attention. He glanced out the window, saw bairns piling out onto the front lawn at Vinelands, with some harried woman running after them. Adults alighted from carriages. Weylands were here? Now? Brows drawn, he strode forward to peer out.

 And spotted a glimpse of Jane’s green riding skirt on the shore path to Vinelands.

 He bounded down the stairs, then outside onto the terrace, disbelieving his eyes. As though she sensed him, she turned back, gave him a sarcastic salute, then turned away dismissively. Sprinting for the stable, he vowed he’d tie her arse to a chair before she did this again. He looped a bit on his horse, not taking time for a saddle, before charging hell-bent along the path.

 As he neared, Jane began racing for Vinelands as if for a friendly country’s border. But Hugh dropped from his horse to the ground and snared her around the waist in one fluid movement.

 Swinging her around to face him, he snapped, “Never, never leave like that again!”

 “Or what?” she asked, panting.

 He clutched her slim shoulders. “Or I’ll tie your arse to a bed.” When had chair become bed ?

 “Not likely, you brute—”

 “Brute? This brute’s tryin’ to protect you, yet you treat all this like it’s a game.”

 “How can I not when you tell me nothing? You’ve given me nothing truly tangible to worry about! You and Father both said Grey isn’t in England, so how could he have followed us here?”

 “Why take that risk?” Hugh said, loosening his hold on her shoulders. “Why’re there Weylands here now?”

 “They like the quiet season.”

 “You knew they were coming?”

 She nodded. “Hugh, I need to go there. It’s important to me.”

 “Why did you no’ just ask me to take you?”

 She rolled her eyes. “I knew you wouldn’t let me. But I’m asking you now to come with me.”

 Go with her? To the other side? No’ bloody likely. “I canna keep an eye on you among all of them.” He was so unused to being around groups of people, it made him constantly wary. Much less around these people. “And how would you explain us?”

 “I’d tell them the truth.” Her chin went up. “We’re married. That’s all I’d say, for right now. In the future, I’ll explain what happened.”

 “Too many people,” he insisted. He had no wish for Jane to know how utterly inept he was in social situations.

 “This is my family. They’ll never say a word. You’ve never seen such a loyal family.”

 “Jane, you’ve got to understand that your life is on the line.”

 “Look me in the eyes and tell me that a day at Vinelands will put my life in more danger than staying at Ros Creag.”

 Hugh opened his mouth to speak, then closed it directly. If Grey had somehow made it past the net into England, then he would have Ethan breathing down his neck long before he ever thought to approach Ros Creag. And if he somehow got past Ethan, Grey would have to traverse the lake by ferry, which could be seen from Vinelands.

 Technically, Hugh deemed it safe enough. But the last social event he had attended as a participant, not just skulking in the shadows, had been the festivities the night before Ethan’s ill-fated wedding, and Hugh had never seen any of those guests again.

 His next attempt was to be a day at Vinelands? A trial by fire? Damn it, he’d avoided this all those times in the past—yet now she expected him to voluntarily walk among the mad, carefree Weylands. He’d be more comfortable walking into a hail of bullets.

 And God help him if Jane told her cousins about his behavior the night before. He shuddered at the possibility. A trial by inferno. “Does no’ matter. I’ve told you we’re returning. So that’s what we’re going to do.”

 She bit her lip and gazed up at him with those big, green eyes. When he realized she was about to ask in a way he hadn’t yet figured out how to deny, he cut her off, snapping, “No’ a chance,” and dragged her toward the horse.

 He was biting out Gaelic curses, she slapping at his grip on her elbow and kicking at his shins, when a voice cried, “Jane?”

 They both faced forward and froze.

 Twenty-five

 “Oh, bloody hell.” The seventh circle of hell. That’s what Hugh looked like he’d ventured into as more and more of her family filed out of the house and approached them. Belinda was here with her husband and children, and Sam and her family had arrived as well.

 She had to laugh evilly. “Too late to run. You’re snared,

 I’m afraid.”

 “Aye, and you’d best enjoy it,” Hugh muttered. “You go back to a locked cellar.”

 “Jane!” Samantha cried again, her russet curls bouncing. “What are you doing here?”

 “Aunty Jane!” five children called as they besieged her, trampling her to the ground as she laughed.

 Belinda clapped her hands in delight. “But you said you couldn’t come this week!”

 Then they noticed Hugh behind her, and everything went silent while jaws dropped. The children stared up at the towering Highlander in wonder. To break the awkward moment, Jane held up her hand, and as expected, Hugh shot forward to help her to her feet.

 “What’ she doing here?” Sam asked, never one to mince words.

 Hugh gave Jane an expression as if to say, “Indeed.”

 “Well, he’s…we’re married.”

 Sam’s jovial husband, a physician named Robert Granger, murmured to Sam, “Not four days ago, you told me she was marrying Bidworth.”

 From the side of her mouth, Sam answered, “That’s because she was .”

 “Well, obviously that did not happen,” Jane said blithely. “So wish us well and meet my new husband.”

 Hugh knew her cousins—barely—so she introduced Hugh to Robert, and they shook hands. If Hugh’s threatening look hadn’t deterred him, Robert would likely have bear-hugged him a welcome into the family.

 Then she presented Hugh to Lawrence Thompson, Belinda’s husband, a prankster and a considerable wit with a ready laugh, who cradled his hand after Hugh shook it.

 Seeing all of them lifted Jane’s spirits and made her realize how much Hugh’s awful words had hurt her. I’ll still leave you.

 Hugh eyed everyone with such a leery demeanor, so noticeably out of his element, that she couldn’t resist. She knew she had a diabolical gleam in her eyes when she faced Hugh and said, “I absolutely must catch up with my cousins and show off my new ring. In private.” He was subtly shaking his head. “Hugh, why don’t you get to know the other husbands —they like to drink scotch and sit on the lawn about this time of morning. Talk about the stock exchange and such.”

 She hadn’t missed his wary glance at the children either. “Oh, and, children, your new uncle Hugh loves to buy presents and treats. You’ve only to tell him what you want!”

 “Off of him now!” Robert exclaimed as he shooed bairns off Hugh. “Run along and play!”

 Hugh wanted to fall down with relief when the last one made yet another request, released his leg, then scampered away. Jane really was going to do this—she truly was leaving him to deal with these men. She and her cousins had gathered up bottles of wine and strolled out on the dock without a backward glance.

 “Don’t know what Jane was thinking, to set the hounds to you like that!” Robert flashed him a sheepish grin.

 “But, finally, it’s just men.” He led them over to a set of wicker lawn chairs and, once seated, began pouring a round of drinks, though it was not nearly ten.

 “So, what do you do, MacCarrick?”

 Hugh reluctantly sat and accepted the glass, not knowing his way around this. “I’m…retired.” He’d never been forced to make conversation. Never spoke unless something needed to be said. In more than one way, he’d been perfectly suited for his occupation.

 “That’s the way to do it, my boy!” Robert raised his glass—then drained it. “Retire, take a beautiful bride, and enjoy life.”

 Lawrence worked on his drink more slowly, but not by much. “Are you and Jane starting a family straight away?”

 Hugh shrugged. After seeing her happiness when all those bairns waylaid her, he had never been more keenly aware that he could never give her children.

 Robert sank back with his second drink on his knee. “We waited, Sam and I, nearly three years to start.”

 Waited? So odd to hear these upper-class gentlemen speak of topics like this. “Waited” meant contraception.

 Robert and Lawrence then mused on how their wives had behaved and looked when pregnant (“quite lusty” and “pleasingly plump”), how children changed a man (“didn’t know what I was about before them”), and other things Hugh tried his damnedest to block out.

 He kept glancing over at Jane and her cousins deep in conversation, knowing she was telling them everything about last night. Each time she closed in to whisper to the two women, he cringed, feeling his face flush violently.

 After a grueling hour of conversation Hugh barely heard, Lawrence suggested that the men target-shoot. Hugh ran his hand over the back of his neck, knowing he would have to miss. Though he had a powerful desire to impress Jane, to shoot as these people had never seen, he stifled it, aware how unwise it would be to demonstrate exactly what he excelled in.

 A quick glance told him that Jane had shaded her eyes with her hand to see. Would she remember that he could shoot? She used to tag along with him on hunts all the time, had tromped with him over every inch of woodlands in the area.

 Hugh recalled one of the first times Jane had accompanied him. Afterward, she’d bragged to Weyland about Hugh’s shooting: “Papa, you wouldn’t believe how he can shoot—so calm, and steady as a rock! He hit a duck at seventy yards at least in a stiff breeze.”

 Weyland had eyed him with new interest. “Did he, then?” Hugh hadn’t understood why at the time. He’d had no way of knowing that Weyland was sizing him up for a lethal profession—one that had provided wealth to a second son who’d had none, and laid out the path to walk with death….

 Twenty-six

 “So how is your Scot in bed? As good as you’ve always dreamed?” Sam asked.

 Jane rolled her eyes. Of course, the conversation had wended its way to this topic, and Sam was going to needle for details until the entire truth came out. So Jane related everything—well, almost everything.

 She told them of her stunned hurt over Lysette, and her subsequent relief when she’d found out Hugh had been true to her. She admitted that they’d been intimate last night but hadn’t consummated the marriage, and she related their last conversation—or, more accurately, fight.

 She confided her suspicion that Hugh was a mercenary of some sort.

 Sam said, “I can’t imagine what Uncle Edward is up to, forcing you to marry MacCarrick.”

 “And Hugh being a mercenary?” Belinda glanced in his direction. “Does sort of fit.”

 “But, marriage of convenience or not, why haven’t you rendered it very inconvenient already?” Sam asked.

 Jane surreptitiously rolled down her stockings, discarding them and her shoes to dip her feet in the water. “Hugh doesn’t want to be trapped and will do whatever it takes to get out of it. He’s made that abundantly clear. I believe his words were, ‘I will still leave you.’”

 Belinda had pre-opened the cork on the second wine bottle, but still couldn’t get it open. She handed it to Sam and said, “Jane, I can see why you wouldn’t want to chance this, but I don’t understand why he is so averse. Does he have a lover?”

 “No, he said he is ‘between.’”

 Sam took out the cork with her teeth, then spat it into the lake. Recorking a bottle was something of a crime at Vinelands. “Does he make any money as a mercenary?”

 “Father told me he had some. But then, Father also neglected to tell me his true occupation.”

 Sam asked, “So sure he’s a mercenary?”

 Jane nodded. “His brother is. And Hugh was just down there on the Continent fighting with him. That’s how he got those marks on his face.”

 Sam handed Belinda the bottle. “Which brother?”

 “Court. Courtland. The angry one.”

 After they both flashed expressions of recognition at that, Belinda said, “At least he wasn’t as bad as the oldest one.”

 “The one whose face was all cut up! He used to give me night terrors,” Sam admitted.

 “Oh, me too!” Belinda said. “One morning I was out berry-picking with Claudia, and we met him on a foggy lane. We froze, and he scowled as if he knew what was about to happen. When we dropped our baskets and ran, he roared curses at us.”

 For some reason, Jane felt a brief flare of pity for Ethan. He would have been only twenty or so.

 “Later we felt awful. Silly.” Almost as an afterthought, Belinda muttered, “But we didn’t go back for our baskets.”

 “So what the devil is MacCarrick’s hesitation?” Sam frowned. “He’s got enough money to support you, he doesn’t have a woman, and he’s completely lost for you.”

 Jane gave Sam an unamused expression, then turned so Hugh couldn’t see her take a gulp of wine. After his rant this morning, Jane figured he’d be displeased to find even a temporary wife stockingless and passing around a bottle. “He’s so lost for me, he tells me twice daily how our marriage will end.”

 Sam waved her comment away. “I’m merely saying what I see. It is a puzzle. I do so love puzzles.”

 “Maybe he’s got a lusty Scottish lass waiting for him back in the clan,” Belinda offered, taking a more ladylike taste of the wine. “Someone with ample breasts and wide hips, someone who can cook.”

 Jane’s brows drew together. Suddenly, she found the idea of traveling to his clan’s seat decidedly less appealing. Jane would be the outsider, not speaking the language, not understanding exchanges between Hugh and his kinsmen, or between him and any lasses he’d left behind.

 Sam said, “At least Jane has the lusty part down pat.”

 Jane didn’t bother contradicting that. Her cravings before had been an irritation, but now with Hugh—and after last night—they seemed to consume her. “I swear”—she leaned in as Sam’s two daughters ran by the end of the dock, chased by a heaving nanny—“I swear, sometimes I believe that I think about making love as much as a twenty-seven-year-old male. There are people obsessed with all things carnal. Maybe I’m like them.”

 Sam rolled her eyes. “This, coming from the twenty-seven-year-old virgin.”

 “Samantha, you mustn’t judge,” Belinda chided in a prim tone. “Jane never asked to be a virgin.” She snapped her fingers for the bottle. “So what happens if you don’t consummate the marriage? What happens at the end of this adventure for you?”

 Jane put her hands behind her and leaned back, inhaling deeply. The air was redolent with the scent of wild roses, not yet checked by the autumn’s first frost. “Our marriage is dissolved. Hugh goes back to mercenarying or marauding or whatever his secret endeavors are.”

 Then Sam asked, “Janey, just a thought. Do you want to stay wed to him?”

 Jane had wondered if Sam and Belinda were tiptoeing about Jane’s past fixation on Hugh, focusing only on his motivations. They most likely feared Jane would cry over Hugh yet again.

 As she contemplated the question, she watched Hugh purposely miss yet another shot, even with Lawrence slapping his back and elbowing him. Hugh could have embarrassed the two men, but he hadn’t. And she’d seen him eyeing the way Robert held his rifle and knew he badly wanted to correct it, but he’d said nothing. He really was trying to rub along with her odd family.

 Jane sighed. After their encounter the night before, she knew she could spend the rest of her nights with that man. Even after their row today, she knew he’d make a good husband.

 At an early age she’d discovered his personality and temperament were devastatingly attractive to her. She’d set her cap at him, and after he’d left, she’d never met his equal.

 She gave them a tight smile. “Doesn’t matter, does it? He couldn’t have made it more clear that as soon as this is over, he will leave and not come back. I swear, you should have seen the look on his face when I told him I hadn’t been celibate.”

 “To be fair,” Belinda began, “an easy annulment was one of the terms of the deal he agreed to. Without it, this could get tricky. He might even fear you’ll have to divorce. Which cousin Charlotte can tell you is nasty business, after all the hours she’s spent at the courthouse.”

 Sam was shaking her head. “No, he’s jealous. He reacted to the thought of you with another man, or men.”

 Belinda covered her mouth with three fingertips, stifling a hiccup, then snapped her fingers for the bottle again—this time from Jane. “Jane, I’m actually going to have to agree with Sam on this one. He does look at you like he’s been starved and you’re a feast.”

 “You’ve only seen us together for the shortest time!”

 Sam said, “But he keeps looking over here at you. Watch for it now. Give it five seconds. Five, four, three—”

 Jane tugged one of Sam’s russet curls, but Hugh did, in fact, turn to look at her two seconds later. “He might appear a bit possessive,” she allowed. “But he should. He’s protecting me.”

 “Come on, haven’t you ever seen a Highlander madly in love? No?” Sam jerked her thumb over her shoulder toward Hugh who was staring at Jane with a smoldering expression. “Behold!”

 “Madly in love. That’s ridiculous.” Yet her heart had started knocking hard in her chest.

 Belinda frowned. “Jane, where’s your famed confidence?”

 “Embattled. Running screaming for the hills. Which happens when one’s husband regards his marriage as a sprung bear trap. When he appears determined to gnaw off a paw to escape, well, that never helps, either.”

 “Maybe he doesn’t think he’s rich enough or good enough for you,” Belinda said. “After all, you were about to marry an exceedingly handsome and wealthy earl.”

 “She’s right,” Sam said. “This smacks of self-sacrifice to me.”

 “So you think he’s here, ready to risk his life for me, because he’s in love with me and couldn’t stand to see me hurt?”

 Belinda nodded. “Why, that’s it, precisely.”

 Why was Hugh doing all this? Yes, she knew he owed her father for his livelihood. But surely this was above and beyond repayment. “Any ideas on why he’d leave before and be furiously resolved against marrying me now?”

 “No, but in your place, I’d be finding out,” Sam said. “And I’d develop a strategy.”

 “A strategy for MacCarrick,” Jane said, tapping her chin. “Why do I have a sense of history repeating itself?”

 Sam shrugged. “True, our last plan wasn’t utterly successful—”

 “Utterly successful?” Jane asked with a laugh. “We endeavored to get him to marry me, and instead, he disappeared for a decade.”

 “Well, then, what are you going to do?” Belinda asked.

 Brows drawn, Jane said, “Wait until an answer comes to me from nowhere, then act impulsively and inappropriately?”

 Sam rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “It might just work.”

 Twenty-seven

 Toward sundown, Hugh caught her just as she was leaving the house through a side door. “You canna avoid me all day.” He eased her against the wall, and she let him.

 “I stayed within your eyesight,” she said, surprised when he rested a hand beside her head and leaned over her. “Besides, I thought you were enjoying spending time with Robert and Lawrence.”

 He narrowed his eyes. “Oh, aye. Today, I’ve shot, fished, and smoked, and because I’ve had to keep my eye on you throughout it all, they’ve ribbed me without cease for being ‘wrapped ’round the old finger.’” He sounded so gruff, she almost smiled. “Did you tell your cousins about last night?”

 “Of course I did.”

 “You told them how I…how we…” He trailed off with a groan, bending down to rest his forehead against hers. “Jane, you dinna.”

 “Have you been worried about this all day?”

 He pulled back his head. “Christ, yes.”

 She studied her nails. “Well, you deserved to agonize over it, after how hurtful you were this morning.”

 “Likely, but I doona want our private business bandied about by your cousins. After one day’s post run, all seven will know.”

 “I did tell Sam and Belinda, but I didn’t give details. I merely told them we’ve been…intimate but haven’t, well, made love.”

 “That’s too much still,” he said, but he relaxed a fraction, leaning in again. “I dinna think you would voluntarily speak to me after this morning.”

 “I’m going to make myself forget what you said.”

 “I’d appreciate that—”

 “If you make a deal with me. Every time you brood over the next two weeks, you have to give me a hundred pounds.”

 “A hundred? Why do you want this?”

 “I’ve realized today that just because we’re forced to spend this time together, it doesn’t have to be miserable. I want to enjoy myself—with you—and it’s impossible when you’re mired in thoughts of something else.”

 “I canna just change myself—”

 “Make the deal, Hugh, or I won’t forget what you said this morning, and Iwill divulge everything to my cousins, right down to the exact words you were saying when you were above me.”

 He looked away, jaw clenched so hard that she thought he could chew metal, and gritted out, “I’ll make the deal.”

 “Good. But be warned, those pounds will add up rapidly.”

 “I think I can handle it.”

 “The expense or the not brooding?”

 He was saved from answering when Sam’s daughter Emily appeared.

 “Come on, Aunt Janey,” the girl cried, grabbing Jane’s hand and pulling her toward the lawn.

 Jane caught Hugh’s hand, and over her shoulder, she explained, “Emily’s like I was when I was little—running wild all day until I dropped where I stood.”

 “When you were little?” Hugh raised his brows. “You were still like that at thirteen.”

 She chuckled, which seemed to surprise him. When they reached a blanket on the lawn, Jane sat and tugged Hugh’s hand until he dropped down beside her. Emily crawled into her lap.

 “Aunt Janey,” Emily whispered loudly, “is he the rough Scot you married?”

 Jane saw his face grow cold immediately. “He is.”

 Emily eyed him suspiciously. “Am I really to call him uncle, then?”

 “Um, yes, sweeting, he’s your uncle Hugh.”

 “Is he really going to buy us presents?”

 To Emily, she whispered loudly, “You should ask him.”

 Emily tilted her head. “Are you going to get me the dollies I asked for?”

 Hugh looked at Jane briefly before answering. “Aye.”

 “You won’t forget?”

 When he shook his head, Emily flashed him one of the beatific smiles that, in the past, had gotten Jane to promise her—and deliver—a brown-spotted, white pony that Emily could name Freckles. Hugh merely gave Emily a nod, like a man greeting an acquaintance at a club.

 Before Emily scampered away, she said, “Bye…Uncle Hugh.”

 Jane frowned at him. “You act like you’ve never been around children before.”

 “I have no’. No’ in years.” Then he tensed. “What should I have done?” He seemed to be waiting intently for her answer.

 Hugh tries….“Well, you could have said, ‘Yes, sweet, but only if you are good all week long,’ or something along that line.”

 He seemed to be filing that away. “Dinna know you liked bairns so much.”

 “I love them,” she said, glancing over at the children playing, getting grass stains all over themselves. “I love everything about them. How their hair smells like sunshine at the end of the day, and how they feel everything so strongly and they’re so quick to laugh….” She trailed off at his darkening expression. “Did I say something?”

 “Why have you no’ gone about getting your own?” he snapped.

 She drew back. “Alas, there’s an intermediary necessary for ‘getting’ them—he’s called a husband.”

 “Seems like you should no’ have been so stringent about your ‘qualifications’ for a husband, then.”

 “You make it sound like it’s too late—I’m only twenty-seven! My mother had me when she was twenty-nine. There is no reason for me to settle. Or there was no reason to settle—oh, I’m confused. I swear, it’d be so much easier if I was either completely married or completely single.”

 “But right now, you’re half-married to a rough Scot ?” he grated.

 That had really gotten to him. “They don’t mean anything by it.”

 He looked away and plucked a piece of grass as he asked, “Were you…were you shamed to have me here as your husband?”

 “Oh, heavens, no!” she said, then wished she’d been a little more poised—and a little less exclamatory—in her answer, even as his grim expression eased somewhat.

 She didn’t care what her cousins said. She’d always found Hugh’s rugged looks handsome. He dressed simply but well, and he had good manners for all that he didn’t talk much—and for all that his handshake was a “bit excruciating,” as Robert had told Sam, who’d told Jane.

 “Besides, rough Scot is a lot better than what they call Robert.” When Hugh raised his eyebrows, she said, “They call Robert the laughing quack. He thinks the two of you are fast friends, by the way. He told me he got a good sense about you, though he couldn’t wrangle more than two words out of you. He’s usually right about these things.”

 “Good sense, huh? Then why…?” He never finished the question, as he’d caught sight of Lawrence starting the bonfire. “There’s to be a fire?” He eyed his surroundings warily. “Here?”

 She nodded. “We eat supper out here whenever the weather’s this nice.”

 “I ken that.” His gaze was watchful as Belinda and Sam began setting out food and wine.

 “We will stay, won’t we?”

 He swung a look at her as if she’d just asked him to drink from the Thames.

 They intended to sit out here. All of them. Together. Oh, no, no.

 “No, we canna stay.” He rose, pulling her up with him. This, Hugh would not do.

 He and his brothers had been invited to attend those fireside dinners, but they’d never accepted, all of them too uncomprehending of the strange behavior of this family. Men drank readily and smoked cigars in front of their wives, trilling laughter sounded throughout the night, children slept draped over their parents wherever they’d fallen asleep, not waking even at the loud laughter.

 How many nights had the three brothers sat out on their terrace, listening, giving each other looks of bewilderment?

 Now he was to be on the other side of the cove, for the fire?

 He must have shown how dismayed he was, because she sidled up to him, a smile playing about her wine-reddened lips—the lips he’d burned to sample when he’d pressed her against the house just minutes ago.

 “I’d really like to eat here tonight,” she said.

 He shook his head sternly.

 “Please?” she asked in a soft voice, making him wonder which was worse—that she could manage him, or that they both knew she could.

 She took his hand, easing them back down to the blanket. “We’ll just sit here.” He knew she was manipulating him, but he was also aware she would clasp his arm and mold her body to his as they sat. Withstand the fire; get this attention.

 He would win this one.

 Leaning close, her breasts soft against his arm, she trailed her hand up to the back of his neck, then made slow, lazy circles with her nails. “This is not so bad, is it?”

 Not with her, but the others had all convened—from nannies to bairns to couples—all lazy on blankets around the fire, with delicacies spread about on china dishes. Though Jane prepared him a selection, and the food smelled delicious, he had no appetite.

 Once the children had dropped off—with the wee lass Emily bundled in a blanket and curled over Jane’s ankles—and the nannies had retired, more bottles of wine surfaced. The talk grew lively and the language turned frank, even in front of the ladies, even by the ladies.

 Hugh glanced up when he heard Robert say, “At least Hugh knows what she’s like. Imagine if he’d married her without having known her for so long.”

 Samantha said, “Well, I’m sure he knows that Janey’s the wildest of the Eight.”

 “I am not!” Jane cried.

 “Does Hugh know about the Russian prince?” Samantha asked, and Jane gave a self-satisfied smile.

 Hugh’s no’ sure he wants to know about the Russian prince….

 But Samantha had already begun. “Just this spring at a ball, a horrid old lecher of a prince stuck his hand down Charlotte’s bodice. Little Charlotte was so mortified! So we all went on the offensive, spreading rumors about his eleventh toe of a male appendage.” Samantha’s eyes were glinting with amusement. “But Jane merely watched from the side like a tigress sizing up prey, waiting for the right moment. I saw the whole thing happening. As he strolled past her, she flashed him a come-hither smile. His attention was so fixed on her that he never saw her foot sweep out from under her skirts to trip him. He crashed face first into the gala-size punch bowl.”

 Hugh felt the corners of his lips quirking. Fierce lass.

 Belinda added, “Jane sauntered up to us, brushing her hands off, and remarked”—she mimicked Jane’s sensual voice—“‘Darlings, all men bow before the Weyland Eight. Or they fall.’”

 Hugh raised his eyebrows at Jane, and the words slipped out: “They bow, do they?”

 “Weren’t you listening?” she asked with a saucy grin. “That, or they fall. And the big ones like you fall hard .”

 No bloody kidding.

 Everyone laughed. After that, the conversation devolved into a dirty limerick contest. When Hugh found himself on the verge of grinning, he grew guarded. He forced himself to draw back. That’s what he did—he was always on the outside, looking in. Always. It wasn’t difficult—he was so different from these people, it was like night and day.

 Everyone here was so bloody comfortable in their own skin, so settled and sure in their relationships, affection displayed openly, unconsciously. Samantha laughed with her lips pressed to Robert’s neck. Belinda and Lawrence held hands to walk ten feet to go retrieve her shawl.

 What would it be like if he belonged here, if Jane truly were his? What would he be like without the constant shadow of the Leabhar over him? How he envied this life.

 One family so blessed, one cursed.

 When he exhaled, Jane absently stroked the back of his neck with her nails, as though she sensed he needed it.

 He stared into the fire. Just weeks ago, the woman his brother loved—the only one he’d ever loved—had almost died. Because of Court’s brash actions, the two of them had been hunted down by the Rechazado.

 Two had followed Annalía’s brother to the MacCarrick home in London, and had seized her, dragging her outside. When Court had charged after her, one shoved a gun against her temple so hard she’d been bruised. Court could do nothing to help her, could only grate out a strangled plea to Hugh, who, as usual, had been on the periphery and able to back away.

 Hugh had made it upstairs to his room, snatched up his rifle, and drawn a bead from the second-story window. Never had a shot meant so much—he knew his brother would be destroyed if the girl died.

 Hugh had succeeded in killing the target in a way that prevented the man from firing, but Annalía had had to crawl away from the dropped body that still clenched her. Before Court could get to her, she’d slipped in the pooling blood, crying softly.

 And as he’d seen Court rushing to her, Hugh had been shamed to feel relief—that he himself had never risked Jane. He remembered thinking, “I’ll die before I expose Jane to something like this.”

 But he was….

 Jane kissed his ear and murmured, “A hundred pounds and counting. Care to make it two?”

 Twenty-eight

 Grey felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up just before the tavern went silent.

 He shook his head, grinning into his cup. The unrelenting bastard had just entered the very lakeside tavern where Grey had reposed during the day—and the one he was departing from by ferry as soon as darkness fell.

 Grey had already determined his means of a swift exit and slipped toward the side door, but he hesitated in the shadows to get a closer look at his pursuer.

 Ethan MacCarrick. Ah, the fiend that fiends feared.

 That made Grey want to chuckle.

 Ethan’s eyes were intent, surveying the scene for threats. His face was set in a scowl, his scar bone white. Grey had always hankered to know who’d dealt Ethan that blow, but Hugh wouldn’t speak of the subject and resented being asked about it. Yet Grey knew that whoever had done the job had had skill—Ethan’s scar whitened with any expression—and he had done it when Ethan was still a young man.

 Backing to a wall, Ethan continued searching the crowd, no doubt for drunken patrons who looked like regulars. Grey knew that they were the gatekeepers—the ones with all the information—because drunks could be remarkably perceptive, and no one was guarded enough around them.

 Under Ethan’s watchful glare, a patron suddenly bolted toward the door. Within the space of a heartbeat, Ethan had the man by the hair, hauling him outside.

 Grey skulked out the back, trailing as Ethan pulled the man into a foggy alley. From a distance, Grey watched him slowly strangling the man with one hand, then allowing him to gasp out words in violent intervals. Grey rolled his eyes. Ethan’s style had always been blunt and dependent on power.

 When the mark yelled a name that was actually a roundabout lead to him, Grey supposed Ethan had had some success with it. After knocking the man flat, Ethan returned to the tavern, inadvertently trapping Grey—the bloody ferryman was inside , guzzling ale, waiting on Grey to give the word to depart.

 Damn it! Although Grey was only a half-hour ferry ride away from Ros Creag, he felt he needed to move quickly. He suspected that Hugh wasn’t planning to remain at the lake much longer. Hugh must know Grey would eventually discover his den.

 If Ethan didn’t withdraw from the tavern directly and ride from this small town, Grey would have to kill him tonight. Grey hadn’t planned to—at present; he wanted to murder Jane. He’d always found it prudent to prioritize these things lest one overextend oneself, and yet already he’d deviated from his plan by pursuing Lysette.

 In this matter, however, Grey might not have much choice.

 But Ethan wasn’t exactly an easy target. To strike without detection, getting close enough to the man to gut him, would take hours of work—hours Grey didn’t have.

 After a quarter of an hour passed and Ethan remained inside, Grey realized he was going to have to shoot Ethan….

 Assessing the area for a serviceable vantage, he found a balcony that faced the tavern’s front entrance with a view of the side alleyway as well. As he climbed up one of the balcony’s iron filigree supports, each old bullet wound in his chest screamed in protest.

 But once he’d set up his position, time crawled by as he waited for Ethan to emerge. He watched people strolling on the street, or entering and exiting the tavern’s groaning front door. Was Ethan eating in there? Interrogating? Grey knew he wasn’t likely buying a woman. Ethan took no pleasure in life, not even pleasure in women any longer.

 After well over an hour, Ethan exited from the side door. Grey aimed his pistol, though his hand shook wildly. With his other hand, he slipped medicine between his lips to ease it.

 Immediately, Grey knew something was different about Ethan. In the light of a flickering street lamp, Ethan looked distracted, off his game.

 Grey knew of only one thing that could make the man look like that, because he’d seen a similar expression on Hugh’s face many a time.

 Ethan MacCarrick had a woman on his mind.

 In the past, Ethan had put on a good show, seeming uncaring about his appearance. But now, when two boys stopped and stared at his face, his brows drew together, as if he were only just comprehending how people saw him. He glowered at them, but evinced no satisfaction when he made them flee. Instead, he ran the back of his hand roughly over the scar.

 Grey wouldn’t pity him, though. Not when he remembered sweating with pain while locked in that dank basement. A flare of rage began to burn inside him, until it overrode even the most assiduous chewing of his medicine.

 When Ethan had finally released him, Grey had acted as though he were grateful and on his way to wellness. Hugh had appeared so bloody relieved—and so guilty for hitting Grey. “Ach, it’s good to have you back,” Hugh had said. But Ethan had given him a look that said, “I’ll be watching you.”

 Now Grey watched him. Again, he took a bead with a tremulous hand, willing it to grow steady.

 Though Ethan couldn’t have heard the sound from his distance away, the instant Grey cocked his pistol, he froze. He either sensed Grey at last or realized how careless he’d been, walking into an alleyway with vantages all around, without so much as a cursory scan of the area.

 Ethan gazed upward and spotted Grey. His expression was disbelieving; so was Grey’s—he’d never thought he would take out the great Ethan MacCarrick so easily. Then Ethan’s face became a mask of rage. He yanked his gun free and fired.

 When the bullet merely whistled through a deceptive billow in his bagging clothing, Grey pulled the trigger.

 Blood spurted straight into the air from Ethan’s chest, then cascaded over his fallen body.

 A pathetic shot? Not tonight. Grey had aimed true.

 Twenty-nine

 Hugh rode back to Ros Creag with Jane dozing in his arms. She’d fallen asleep tucked against his chest in front of the fire, with the girl still slumbering over her legs. Once Robert had scooped up Emily, Hugh had gently lifted Jane, then quietly refused offers to stay the night.

 Now Hugh found himself almost grinning as he imagined the looks on his brothers’ faces when he told them he’d endured an evening at the Weylands’. They’d never believe him.

 Yet it hadn’t been that bad. No, he admitted to himself, it was one of the most enjoyable times he’d had in years. And now he was holding Jane again, and the moon was out, and she was…nuzzling his chest? He drew back his head. “Jane, are you awake?”

 “Only just,” she murmured, sliding her hands up to clutch his shoulders.

 He frowned down at her. “Then are you drunk, lass?”

 “No, I feel very clear.”

 In a voice gone hoarse, he asked, “Why’re you unbuttoning my shirt?” There was no way she could miss his instant reaction, seated as she was. Grabbing her upper arms, he shifted her until she wasn’t directly on his stiffened shaft. “No, Jane, you ken we canna—” Sweet Christ, had she just touched her lips, her tongue, to his chest? He threw his head back and stared up at the moon. All of the vows he’d reiterated to himself today grew indistinct in his mind, and he shook his head hard. “You continue to treat this like it’s a game.”

 She blinked open her eyes as if she’d just woken from a dream. “I don’t treat it—”

 “You knew better than to go anywhere without me.”

 “I had to talk to my cousins. I needed their advice. Badly,” she said cryptically.

 Though he knew she’d never answer, he asked, in a deadened tone, “About what?” Excellent. Yet another secret that would taunt him.

 “About the fact that…”—she leaned up to press her lips tenderly to his—“I want you to make love to me.”

 He almost slid off the horse and took her with him.

 Her light touches during the day had goaded him, stoking his need for her—which had only burgeoned after last night—to a fever pitch. And all day, he’d played the part of her husband. Despite himself, he’d begun to feel like one.

 Tonight, he wanted to demand a husband’s due.

 “You want me tae take you?” His voice roughened at the thought.

 When she nodded against his chest, he exhaled a breath he hadn’t known he’d held. He found himself positioning her on his lap, turning her until she was astraddle him. Once her legs hung over his, he ruched up her skirt high in the front and back. As he kissed her neck, one of his hands clutched her nape, the other rubbing far down her back to dip inside her silk pantalettes.

 Squeezing her bottom, he lifted her up against his erection, rocking her to it, making her whimper, and him curse in agony. When he set her back down, she sucked in a shocked breath, because he’d cupped her between her legs so her sex rested in his palm. Her flesh was warm and wet in his hold, and she moaned in delight at the contact. But her moan turned to an anguished cry when his finger eased inside her.

 Her sheath was incredibly tight and gripped his finger hungrily, making his cock ache to replace it. “I will no’ be able to stop myself,” he grated. “It will no’ be like last night.”

 His thumb and forefinger played, and her head lolled, but he retained his firm hold on the back of her neck to make her face him.

 Eyes heavy-lidded, she nodded.

 “Do you understand me?” He rubbed her sensuously, and she began to undulate against his fingers.

 “Hugh, oh, God! Yes, I do.”

 As soon as she’d panted the words, realization hit him and his entire body stiffened. “I’m going tae be inside you tonight.” After so long. “You want me tae be.” Another thrust of his finger to punctuate his words.

 “Oh, I do!” She was close. He could feel her body quivering, her thighs tightening and relaxing around his hips in seeking intervals until he thought he was going to explode.

 Inevitable. He ached to possess her, and she wanted him to do the same. Why had he ever imagined that he could fight this? At her ear, he rasped, “Come for me first.”

 “Hugh, I will…” She kissed him fiercely when her orgasm began, giving a wild cry against his lips. Her nails dug into his shoulders, and her wet little sheath clenched around his finger, again and again. His cock grew slick at the tip in anticipation of that tight heat.

 When she sagged against his shoulder, he moved his hands from her sex to cupping her bottom. Once they’d reached Ros Creag, he kept her in the same position with her legs locked around his waist, even as he dismounted and tossed the reins in the vicinity of the tethering post.

 By the time he’d bolted the front door behind them, she’d gone from resting her forehead on his shoulder to kissing him, clutching his arms, her hand colliding with his as they grasped each other.

 Desperate to bury himself inside her, he hastened toward his bed, bounding up the stairs two at a time, breathing hard against her damp neck. Inside his room, he laid her back on the bed, then shrugged from his jacket and pistol holster, tossing them both aside. After he’d yanked his shirt over his head, she reached her arms up to him.

 He had one knee in the mattress to go to her. After wanting her for so long—

 Hugh froze.

 Outside, the gate to the terrace creaked on its hinges.

 Hugh’s head whipped up, his dark eyes flickering over her face. He bolted to his pistol.

 “Hugh? What’s happening?” She felt so dazed from her recent pleasure that she could barely form words.

 “Stay there,” he snapped, striding to the windows, yanking the heavy curtains closed. “Doona move, especially not in front of the windows.”

 “I-is Grey out there?”

 “It could be nothing.” Hugh cautiously peered out one side of the drawn curtains.

 “I thought he hadn’t reached England yet.”

 “I doona want to take any chances.”

 She was startled by the idea of Grey being just outside, but she wasn’t afraid. She was too reassured by Hugh’s presence. “Should I have my bow?”

 “No, lass, you doona need your bow.”

 “How long will you stay there?”

 “Till dawn,” he answered.

 “What? Why don’t you come to bed? You bolted the doors—he can’t get in.”

 “If he’s out there, I might catch sight of him.”

 She asked slowly, “And what would you do if you found him?”

 His voice was quiet, cold. “Kill him.”

 “But he was your friend,” Jane said. “I always believed we were more or less absconding, not,  er…executing.”

 “He’s killed before.”

 “No, you’re not serious….” She trailed off when he caught her gaze, his eyes locked on hers.

 “Men. And women.”

 “Why? What’s made him do that?”

 “I’ve told you, his mind is damaged. His affliction is worse than it’s ever been.”

 Her eyes went wide. “Is he like Burke and Hare, or Springheeled Jack?” she asked in a breathless voice. “One of those compulsion killers that I’ve read about in the Times ?”

 “I’m sure he has much in common with them.”

 “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 “I didn’t want to frighten you needlessly,” he said, then added in a distracted tone, “And I never thought he would even get close to us.”

 “If you knew he was such a horrible killer, why did you agree to this? You could be risking your life.”

 He said nothing.

 “Hugh, you wouldn’t, um, risk your life for mine?”

 “What kind of question is that?”

 She made a sound of frustration. “Oh, just answer me, won’t you?”

 His body seemed to tense, and after an obvious struggle, he gritted through his teeth, “Aye.”

 “T-truly?” Her voice went higher.

 “Just try to get some sleep.”

 As if that was going to happen. After a few long moments, she asked, “How does he kill them?”

 “With a blade.”

 The blood drained from her face, leaving it cool. “Grey…stabs them? Even women? Would he do that tome ?”

 Hugh hesitated. “I doona know that telling you—”

 “I have to know, Hugh,” she interrupted sharply. “I need to know what he plans.”

 Hugh’s gaze flickered over her face. Finally he said, “He slits their throats—”

 A violent pounding on the door boomed through the silent home.

 Thirty

 Jane jerked with fright, then whispered, “Who in the devil would be knocking?”

 “Ethan.” Hugh relaxed a fraction, stowing his gun in his pants waist. It has to be . “My brother is supposed to meet us here. Jane, lock the door behind me, and doona come out until I return.”

 When she followed him to the door, he strode from the room, pausing outside only long enough to hear the lock click into place.

 His brother’s timing was as impeccable as ever—just when Hugh had decided to take Jane, just when he hadn’t had a doubt in his mind that he would…

 Hugh hurried down the stairs, then crossed to a front window. When he glanced past the curtain, unease crept up his spine. It was one of Weyland’s messengers—not his brother.

 In that instant, he realized something had happened to Ethan. Hugh yanked open the door and snatched the missive from the grim man. “Do you know anything about my brother?” Hugh asked, though it was unlikely since most messengers weren’t privy to important information.

 The man shook his head, then turned away directly to set off and confirm that the missive had been received.

 Locking the door again, Hugh ripped open the letter and read the one line. Disbelieving what it said, he crumpled the paper in his fist, then turned and charged up the stairs.

 As soon as Jane opened the door to him, he shouted orders. “Pack your smallest bag with clothes, essentials only. You can take your bow but no’ thirty bloody books. We leave in ten minutes.”

 “What’s happened?”

 “Grey’s in England. Has been for days.” If Grey could control the Network like this, deceiving and manipulating so many in the field, then his addiction wasn’t impairing him mentally as they’d suspected. It seemed the man had lost nothing, and was playing with them. “He could have followed us directly here.”

 Hugh had been so intent on getting into Jane’s skirts, he hadn’t been concentrating on protecting her from a man whose entire life centered on killing.

 Grey could attack in so many insidious ways. He could poison the well, or burn the house with a mixture of turpentine and alcohol, then pick off anyone who escaped. Toward the end, burning had become a particular favorite of his.

 Swooping together piles of clothes, she said, “How do you know he’s in England?” She must have sensed that he was about to hedge his answer, because she snapped, “This is no time to be secretive! I’m in the middle of this, too!”

 Hugh ran his hand over his face. “He killed Lysette.”

 She gasped, dropping the bag she’d been filling. “If he could be near, then what about my family at Vinelands?”

 “Grey has never gone out of his way to kill indiscriminately—only people he hates, or who fit his agenda. But to be safe, I’ll leave a letter for Robert explaining that they should make haste to leave.”

 “Only people he hates? Then why would he kill Lysette?” She resumed packing. “You said they were lovers.”

 “They had been, but it ended badly. He thought she betrayed him.”

 “Hugh, if he’s really out there right now, he could shoot us.”

 “He does no’ like to shoot,” Hugh assured her. “He was never verra good at it, even before he was afflicted with tremors.”

 “But why don’t we stay here? Stay locked in—”

 “He’ll have no qualms about burning the house down around us.” He strode up to her, grasping her shoulders. “Lass, I’m going to keep you safe, I vow it, but you need to trust that I know what I’m doing.”

 She gave him a shaky nod.

 “Now, dress to ride in the forest. Something dark if you have it.”

 “We’re leaving the coach?”

 “The driver’s off the property. Besides, Grey can track a coach, but he’ll never follow our trail on horseback,” he said as he scanned her suddenly empty floor. Was there a bloody system to her clothing that he couldn’t discern?

 “Remember that rocky trail up by the waterfall to the north?”

 “Yes, you wouldn’t let me ride it when I was younger.”

 “Well, we’re going to ride it tonight, and until we’re well away, we’re going to do it really bloody fast.”

 Fifteen minutes later found them riding in the woods through fog so thick, it seemed to swirl like an unctuous current in the moonlight.

 Hugh had her reins fisted in his hand, and Jane held on to her horse’s mane as it charged up and over the harsh terrain. Branches snatched at her clothing and at her hair until it came free, streaming behind her.

 At the first sign that her horse stumbled, Hugh brought her mount forward beside his own, and dragged Jane behind him. Making sure she was holding on tight, he took up a breakneck pace. His surefooted horse proved up to the task, her mount bustling along behind.

 Nothing in London could compare with this thrill—her arms around the torso of a Highlander as he rode faster than she’d ever ridden a horse, much less at night.

 Though it all felt dreamlike to her, Hugh was very purposeful and alert. All night, like a chess player anticipating his opponent’s moves, Hugh guided them north. Oftentimes, he would ride in one direction, then slow, cock his head, and turn back around.

 “How are you doing, lass?” he asked periodically, patting her leg.

 Now that she realized the danger she was in, she was overwhelmed by how much Hugh was doing for her. The image of him at the moonlit window, body tense, eyes watchful, ready to do battle, was seared into her mind.

 He’d admitted he would risk his life for hers. With that, she knew for certain that he couldn’t have left her before out of callousness, or neglected to tell her good-bye out of indifference. No, Hugh was so much more than what she saw on the surface. And she planned to investigate all the layers.

 She hugged him tighter, and all of a sudden she was seventeen again, riding behind him just as they’d always done when they’d explored new places.

 “Do you need to stop?” he asked over his shoulder.

 “No, I’m fine. I-I’m excited to go to the Highlands at last.”

 After a hesitation, he answered, “It’s no’ always like it is in English ballads.”

 “What do you—”

 “Duck,” he commanded. She did, just in time to skim under a limb. “There are brigands and reivers who are no’ as heroic as you read about.”

 “Oh.” Long ago, she’d looked up Carrickliffe on a map, and she remembered it was far to the north on the coast.

 “Are we going to your clan?”

 “No’ that far. No’ yet.”

 She stifled a sigh of relief. After all these years of yearning to go there, now she balked.

 “We’ll go to Court’s.”

 “Where’s his home?”

 “Southern Highlands. If it seems all right, we’ll stay there instead. I warn you, it’s no’ going to be luxurious, but I think it will be the safest place.”

 “Is Court going to be there?” Please say no.

 “No, he’s probably in London by now. Or he might have decided to stay on the Continent and go on a job to the east with his men.” He muttered something that sounded like: “As long as he didn’t go back for her.”

 “What’s that?” she asked, clasping her hands on his hard torso, fighting the urge to rub her face against his back.

 “Nothing, lass. Try to get some sleep if you can.”

 When he placed his big, rough hand over both of hers and warmed them, a realization hit her like a thunderbolt: she hadn’t been pushed off a cliff. She’d dived, and the ground was approaching, had always been approaching.

 She’d just had her eyes closed.

 Thirty-one

 As Jane bent down to the crystal-clear creek, cupping water to her mouth, a branch cracked behind her. She whirled around, but saw no one in the dying light of the day. She knew Hugh would have announced himself, and he wouldn’t have been finished unpacking the horses for the night. It must be an animal—the forests they’d been traveling through were teeming with roe deer.

 She sat on the bank, pulling her skirts up to dip her stockingless legs and a cloth into the chill stream. As she brought the cloth to her face, she reflected over the last four days, during which Hugh had taken them racing through thick woodlands and over craggy rock plains.

 The scenery continued to grow more and more breathtaking as they passed ancient Celtic fortifications and sweeping vistas. The leaves were staggering in color—shot through with scarlet, gold, and ochre. Now that they were officially in the Highlands, everything seemed crisper, sharper. Even the air was sweeter. London was dingy by comparison.

 Late each night, they’d stopped to camp beneath the trees. Each morning, she’d watched Hugh rise in stages, wincing in sympathy as he clenched his jaw against what must be marked pain. And still he’d set to work, quickly readying them so they could make their way—as he’d told her—toward his brother Courtland’s property.

 Over each mile, as she rode beside him, she’d watched him study the land, much as he had done when he’d taken her hunting years before. He used every amazing skill she’d ever seen him demonstrate as a hunter, and she’d realized she was as awed by him as she had been at thirteen.

 And now he was her husband .

 His intense, focused expression drew her eyes again and again, reminding her of how he’d looked at her those last two nights at Ros Creag. Unfortunately, he’d made no move to touch her since then.

 She knew he would deem their last encounter a close call and be thankful they’d dodged a bullet. She deemed it an if at first you don’t succeed encounter.

 As she brought her wet towel to her face, she contemplated her future, wondering, as ever, if it would include him. The facts: He found her attractive, and he’d wanted to make love to her. He would die for her. That first night he’d returned to London, he’d been so dirty because he’d ridden for days to reach her.

 So why wouldn’t he desire her for more—

 Footsteps over crackling leaves sounded just behind her. Before she could whirl around, a hand covered her mouth; other hands seized her, dragging her away from the water and deeper into the shadowy woods.

 She dug her heels into the ground, furiously biting at the hand over her mouth, clawing wildly. The man holding her grunted and cursed. Just as his hand moved, she twisted around to see her attacker; cold metal pressed against her throat and she stilled in terror—

 “Get your hands off my wife,” Hugh said with a steely calm.

 The men froze. Jane frantically blew hair from her eyes and saw Hugh with a rifle, raised and steady, his eyes as cold as ash in the dying sun. He had it aimed at one of the two men who’d grabbed her, the one who had a hunting knife against her neck and a soiled bandanna hanging down around his own. The second man trained his pistol on Hugh. “Let her go, or I’ll kill you.”

 Raw fury emanated from Hugh, but somehow he controlled it.

 These two must be bandits, some of the very unheroic ones Hugh had mentioned. Why weren’t they hiding their faces with the cloths they wore?

 Because she and Hugh weren’t only to be robbed.

 Rattled by Hugh’s killing look, the man holding her swallowed audibly, his bandanna rising with his Adam’s apple, and pressed the blade harder to her skin. When she felt blood dripping down, she gasped.

 Hugh’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, just waited. Jane realized that she’d seen him go utterly still like this before—when he’d been hunting and had a target in sight.

 Time seemed to slow. How many times had she seen this uncanny concentration just before his forefinger smoothly pressed the trigger? When she saw Hugh’s thumb brushing his rifle, she realized these men were about to die.

 The one clutching her began dragging her away. The knife wasn’t so tight at her neck as they stumbled back. She should hit him…kick him…give Hugh his chance to shoot.

 Jane felt the bandit’s rank breath waft over her as he said to Hugh, “Yer bonnie wife’s about to be my—”

 The boom of the rifle made her jerk with fright, but the knife was gone. The man lay crumpled to the ground behind her, blood oozing from a hole between his sightless eyes.

 She glanced back at Hugh.

 Never taking his gaze from the second man’s shaking pistol, Hugh emptied the cartridge from his rifle as if he had all the time in the world. “Pull the trigger, then,” Hugh demanded, impatiently .

 Jane screamed when the bandit shot; a bit of dark cloth flew up, but she couldn’t tell where Hugh had been hit. When the man saw Hugh was still standing, he paled and hurled his gun at Hugh before spinning around to run.

 Jane tottered on her feet. So close. But Hugh must have been unharmed, because he tossed his empty rifle to the ground and caught the man in three long strides, his movements contained, lethally silent.

 Everything’s as silent as he is. The woods hushed by the shot. Or is my hearing weakened from the report? Then she heard a whimper, and didn’t know if it came from her or the wide-eyed man struggling to free himself. But his thrashing was useless—Hugh’s grip was unyielding, his massive hands and forearms clamped around the man’s head.

 How can Hugh move so quietly? What an odd grip he’s got on the bandit—

 Jane flinched as Hugh’s strong arms twisted in different directions. Suddenly, the thick pop of breaking bone was deafening. The man dropped to his knees, head lolling at an unnatural angle, before his body slumped to the ground.

 After a heartbeat’s hesitation, Hugh turned to face her.

 Thirty-two

 Jane’s slim body shook with ragged breaths. Her pupils were dilated and her lips were pale and parted in shock.

 A trail of stark crimson crept from the slice at her neck, and alarm flared in him. “Sìne, I need to look at you,” he said as he cautiously eased closer, fully expecting her to run. He knew what he must look like, and he knew that what he’d done to those two would terrify her.

 No response.

 “Jane, I dinna do this lightly,” he explained slowly, approaching her. “Those men would have killed you.” Eventually.

 Nothing. Her face was drawn, white with fear. When he stood before her, he prayed she wouldn’t run. Doona flinch from me…. He couldn’t take it if Jane feared him.

 He eased a hand to the slash on her neck, brushing his fingertips to it, then nearly sagged in relief to find it was a mere graze. Before he could stop himself, he put his arms around her. As he clutched her to him and lowered his head to hers, he groaned at the feel of her, warm and safe in his arms, but her body was quaking. “Shh, lass,” he said against her hair. “You’re safe now.”

 “Wh-what just happened?” she whispered. “I don’t understand what just happened. Were they bandits?”

 “Aye, of a sort.”

 “Are you hurt?” There was a burn mark and a small hole through the outside of his pants leg.

 “No, no’ at all. Do you think you can ride tonight?”

 “But what are we going to do with the b-bodies?”

 “Leave them. They will no’ be found for some time, if ever.” He drew back so he could look down into her eyes. Running his hands up and down her arms, he said, “We must leave this place immediately. Can you get dressed while I see to the camp?”

 She nodded up at him, and he forced himself to release her, knowing he had work to do, and quickly. Keeping a close watch on her as she dressed and daubed a wet cloth to her neck, he packed up their gear and re-saddled their horses.

 When Jane was ready, she said, “Can I…can I ride with you?” She glanced down as if embarrassed to ask.

 Without hesitation, he lifted her into his saddle, then swung up behind her, wrapping an arm around her. He exhaled a long breath, pleased she still wanted to be near him.

 “Try to rest—I’ll ride through the night.”

 She gave him a shaky nod.

 Eager to get her away from this area, he redoubled their already punishing pace. After an hour of hard riding, they reached a craggy, dry creek bed. When they had to slow to cross, she murmured, “Thank you. For what you did back there—for what you’re doing.”

 “Say nothing of it.”

 “Apparently, you’re more of an expert at this than I’d imagined.” When he was silent, she continued, “Which makes me wonder, in light of this and Lysette’s death, how much of an expert Grey is.”

 He ground his teeth.

 “You’re not a mercenary, and he’s not a businessman.”

 “No.”

 “Care to explain?”

 Finally, he answered, “I canna tell you, even if I wanted to.”

 “Do you want to?”

 “I…doona know.” Part of him did—to get her look of disgust over with.

 After long moments passed, she asked, “Are you angry with me?”

 “God, no, why would I be?”

 “Because I got you into this situation.”

 “Lass, you are no’ at fault here. I am. I should have been more aware—”

 “No, I wasn’t saying I thought I was at fault—neither of us is. I was saying that I’m sorry you had to kill because of me. I fear you’ll feel badly about it.”

 “Should I no’?”

 He felt her shoulders stiffen. “I will truly have my feelings hurt if you regret doing something noble and necessary to save my life.”

 Noble? He felt a deep welling of pride, and discovered then that noble was exactly how he wanted to be around her—exactly how he hoped she might see him.

 She’d watched him kill with his hands, but she understood he’d had no choice. Necessary. The thought came from nowhere: She could accept that I’ve killed. Without judging me.

 But could she accept the way he’d done it?

 In the papers and in literature, assassins were regarded as cowardly and were universally reviled—even those from one’s own country. In the last three major Continental wars, every army that captured snipers executed them summarily—there were no prisoners, no exchanges. Not that there would have been bargaining for gunmen like Hugh anyway….

 None of this mattered. Hugh couldn’t tell her of his involvement without divulging others’.

 “Hugh?”

 “I could have let the second one run for his life.”

 “What if there were others in his gang? Or h-he might have wanted revenge for the death of the other. Or he could have caused a commotion, and then Grey would know we’ve been here.”

 Hugh might have considered these factors, but he hadn’t. There’d been no thoughts in his head when he caught the second man—nothing but the need to kill him for daring to touch her.

 “You don’t feel guilty, do you?” Jane asked.

 “It dinna exactly improve my mood.”

 She twisted around, wriggling over his leg and against his arm so she could face him. Irritation was clear in her expression. “You act as if you’d had to shoot orphans and kittens! You killed killers .” She frowned, her voice growing soft. “Do you regret having to do that to save me?”

 His arm tightened around her. “No, lass, never. I relished it.”

 “I just would rather…I dinna want you to see that.”

 She blinked at him. “To see how brave you are? To see you just stand there while the man shot at you?”

 “It was no’ bravery. The odds were slim that he could have hit me in a place that would put me down before I could get to him. And I meant that I dinna want you to see blood and death. I doona want that memory to follow you. To hurt you.”

 “Ifit was a memory that could hurt me, I simply wouldn’t allow it to pervade my life. I don’t want you to think I’m glib, or cold.” She seemed to be choosing her words very carefully. “But I believe when the load gets too heavy, we have to shuck some weight from our shoulders. And Hugh”—she gently laid her hands on his forearm locked across her middle—“it really seems that you need to lighten your load.”

 What if I did? What if he just refused to feel guilt over his deeds and stopped dwelling on all he’d done? The temptation to do so was great.

 Another mile passed in silence. At length, she murmured, “Hugh, when you called me your wife like that…” She trailed off.

 He briefly closed his eyes. “I know. It will no’ happen again.”

 “Th-that’s not what I was going to say.” She was trembling against his chest, her wee hands tightening their grip on his arm.

 “Then what?”

 Her next words made him sweat for the first time that day. “When you called me your wife, I found I really…like it.”

 If Jane had been curious about Hugh’s life before the attack yesterday, now she was desperate to know more.

 Though they’d finally slowed their pace to ascend a slippery embankment, she wouldn’t question him now. She glanced over at him riding beside her in the morning sun, and her heart ached at how exhausted he appeared. He’d been ever wary, so vigilant to protect her—and they’d ridden hard.

 The attack had demonstrated yet again how stalwart a guardian Hugh was. When she’d had the knife at her throat, she hadn’t believed she was going to die—not then—but she had comprehended how her life would end if it came down to Grey.

 Jane wouldn’t take another minute with Hugh for granted.

 “We’re almost there, lass,” he said then, with an encouraging nod. “I ken how hard this has been for you.”

 “For me? What about for you?” He and his horse looked much like they had that night in London.

 He shrugged. “I’m accustomed to days like this.”

 “Of course,” she said absently as she tilted her head to study him.

 Hugh was a powerful protector, ready to unleash a chilling violence; yet, with her, he was tender and passionate. He had secrets, but she knew he’d be a faithful husband. He’d always desired her happiness above his own.

 Just then, a breeze blew a lock of his thick black hair over one of his dark eyes….

 She swallowed hard. Recognition took hold.

 The Scotsman is…mine. As she gazed at him, she realized he was still her Hugh. Jane wanted him, always had, but now she felt an abiding respect for him—a deeper, more mature…love. Oh, lord, she didn’t love Hugh as much as she had before.

 She loved him much, much more.

 Yet she’d barely survived his leaving before —now what would happen to her if she lost him again?

 She had decided he would be her first lover. Now she knew that this quiet, wonderful man had to be her last. How can I get him to stay wed to me? she thought, feeling panic rush through her at the thought of being forced to part from him. No! Calm down. Think!

 “Jane, what’s wrong?” he asked.

 “N-nothing.” She eked out a smile for him as a plan evolved in her mind.

 No teasing. Only seduction. And only for keeps.

 He frowned in return, and once they’d reach the rise, he increased their pace again. She was glad of the time to think.

 Obviously, she needed him alone to prove that living with her wouldn’t be a “wee bit like hell.” So, she was pleased anew they weren’t going to Carrickliffe.

 Unfortunately, the only thing more undermining than a clan of strangers would be Courtland MacCarrick —who’d always hated her.

 Hugh had said he didn’t expect Court to be at his secluded home.Perfect. And barring Court’s presence, nothing could keep them from staying there.

 Thirty-three

 A bit of work, my arse. Hugh stifled another curse.

 Upon reaching the border lands of Beinn  a’Chaorainn, Court’s property in the wilds of Scotland, Hugh had had his first sense of unease. The long, winding drive was overrun with fallen trees, strewn across it at irregular intervals. They were rotting, meaning no one had been here in ages, not even a caretaker with a work cart.

 By the time the house came into view, rain clouds had gathered, casting the manor in an ominous light. At the sight of it, Jane seemed to wilt in her saddle. The estate where Hugh had planned to hide Jane for possibly the entire fall…left a lot to be desired.

 With a sinking feeling, he surveyed the tangled, stunted gardens, the front door hanging askew from one rusted hinge, the windows either broken out or matted with dirt and dead ivy.

 At that moment, something wide-eyed and furry careened out of the front doorway.

 He glanced at Jane. Her lips were parted, her breaths little puffs in the cold air. Dark circles were stark against her pale face. Their pace had been furious, but Hugh had reasoned that they could rest and recuperate at Beinn a’Chaorainn. Yet even under the strain of their travels, she’d been trying to cheer him up, keeping her mood buoyant for him, sweetly scolding him for brooding.

 Now, Jane’s expression was guarded as Hugh dismounted and helped her from her horse. Without a word, he strode inside with his shoulders back, as if taking her here hadn’t been a colossal error. The next viable alternative was to go to the clan, and he’d wanted to avoid that at all costs.

 Hugh crossed the threshold, took one good look around. And so the clan it will be.

 Feathers and nests from grouse and pigeons littered the hall. It appeared that red squirrels, maybe badgers or even foxes denned here, and Hugh could hear teeming in the chimney. As if standing in sentinel, a pine marten was poised upright in the entry hallway, front legs bowed aggressively.

 “Look, Hugh!” Jane cried, showing genuine energy for the first time today. “It’s a ferret. Or part cat? I can’t tell.” She eased past Hugh, cooing, “It’s the most adorable wittle thing.”

 Hugh reached for her arm. “No, Jane, doona—”

 It hissed at her and scuttled away—back inside. Jane looked crushed, mumbling something about never liking “ferret cats” anyway.

 She followed him further inside, batting at the cobwebs that drifted in his wake, spitting frantically against one that brushed her lips. Freed of it, she gazed around the great room, her eyes wide with dawning horror.

 His face flushing, his tone defensive, he said, “This is the last place anyone will look for us.” He reckoned the manor had been broken into, and once the front door was lost, nature had moved in. Still, Beinn a’Chaorainn had never, by any stretch of the imagination, been habitable in recent memory.

 There wasn’t a stick of furniture to be seen, apart from three damp, pitted mattresses slumped against a wall. When Hugh’s further exploration found the kitchen empty of pots and dishes, Jane said, “It appears that I’ll be forgoing a bath.” Her tone was strained.

 He opened yet another cabinet—nothing. “I saw a loch out back.” He might even have spotted steam from a hot spring, adjacent to the rocky banks—hot water ready for the taking. “If I could just find one sodding bucket, a pot to bring water up—”

 He broke off when some unseen creature upstairs thundered into a run, crashed into a wall, then darted back the same way. Jane turned away, covering her face with her hands.

 Crossing to her, he muttered, “Ach, Jane, I dinna know.” He tentatively laid his hand on her shoulder, frowning as he pulled free a few feathers that had settled in her hair.

 He’d done it—he’d finally pushed her past her limit. As they’d neared the property, he’d again warned her it would be far from luxurious. She’d replied that as long as there was a bath, she would be fine. In fact, she’d dreamed aloud about soaking for hours—and that was before they’d been covered with dust, feathers, and spiderwebs.

 She was exhausted, she’d been attacked, and not only was there no bath, there was no bed and no fire, and the areas where there were precious stretches of intact windows seemed to be precisely where birds had nested.

 Hugh couldn’t believe he’d brought his lass to a place like this. How could she not cry?

 She bent over, and when her shoulders began to shake, Hugh vowed silently that he was going to beat Courtland to within an inch of his life.

 “Jane, I never would have brought you here if I’d known. And we will no’ stay.” He turned her toward him and gently drew her hands from her face.

 Jane was…laughing.

 “I’m sorry,” she said, biting back a snicker, holding up her palm. “Our situation is not funny.” With an expression of concentration, she tapped her temple and said, “Dire, Jane, that’s what it is. Not amusing.”

 She was likely delirious—Hugh’s expression indicated that he certainly suspected so. He was peering at her as if she’d just been released from Bedlam and would be returning forthwith. But then the accommodations would be sublime compared to this. Many fewer grouse.

 And she lost it again.

 Of course, this was where Courtland MacCarrick lived. She didn’t know which was worse: Court owning a place like this—or the fact that her determination to stay here was still unfaltering.

 “Jane?” he said slowly. Poor Hugh. He’d been so discomfited when they’d entered—his broad shoulders had been jammed back—and now his worry was evident. “Lass, what’re you laughing about?”

 When another feather wafted down to stick jauntily out of Hugh’s hair, she snickered some more. Wiping her eyes, she said, “It’s just that this is so much better than what I’d expected Court’s home to be like.”

 “And how’s that?”

 “It’s above ground.”

 Hugh’s eyes briefly widened, then he half-frowned, half-grinned.

 Jane inhaled, forcing herself to continue in a dry tone, “And I had no idea Courtland was such an animal lover. Look at all these beloved pets.”

 “Aye,” Hugh agreed, his tone as dry as hers, “since he was a lad—never could keep enough of the wee beasties. Names them, every one.”

 She gave a burst of laughter, surprised and delighted with Hugh, but reined it in to observe, “And Court’s quite clever with his menagerie. I never would have conceived of utilizing the chimney and the mattresses as pens for them.”

 Hugh nodded solemnly. “Makes it easier to feed them their steady diet of dirt and cotton. Look how they thrive.”

 Wrestling with laughter, Jane observed, “And the décor is quite fetching.” She tapped her chin. “Early hovel, if I’m not mistaken. Only the most studious and dedicated neglect could achieve this.”

 “Aye, this level of hovel is rarely seen. He’s been hard at it for years .”

 She did laugh then, having more fun bantering with Hugh in this awful place than she could remember. “Hugh, I think you’re enjoying yourself with me.”

 He looked at the wall to her right as he said, “When you can refrain from teasing me, I like being around you.” When he glanced back at her disbelieving expression, he added in a gruff voice, “Always enjoyed your company.”

 There was something in his expression, the smallest hint of vulnerability, as if he expected—or only wanted—her to make the same admission. “I enjoyed being with you as well,” she murmured.

 “And by enjoy , you mean that you liked having someone at your beck and call to retrieve anything you could no’ reach and to bait hooks.” Had the tight lines around his eyes relaxed somewhat? “Admit it—you never lifted a paddle to row around the lake when I was near.”

 “And you liked having me run my nails down your back, and filch for you whatever pie was cooling on the kitchen windowsill, and give you peeks of a transparent linen shift when we swam.”

 His eyes went half-lidded. “Christ, I did like you in nothing but wet linen.”

 Her toes curled in her boots, as much from his admission as from his sudden hungry expression. But then he seemed to grow bewildered by what he’d just said, and strode outside toward the lake. She was right behind him.

 At the edge of the water, they turned back to face the manor. Sidling next to him, she butted his arm with her head until he grumbled but lifted his arm to put it around her shoulders.

 “I truly dinna know, Jane,” he said, his tone weary. “I welcome your humor, but it does no’ erase the fault. This has added at least two days’ riding to get to Carrickliffe.”

 Even if she weren’t bent on staying here, the idea of more riding made her feel ill. “This was a fine property once,” she offered, planting the seeds for a later request to stay here. If she came out and asked now, he would think she’d completely lost her mind. But, in truth, the place had probably been incredible at one time. Nicely situated on a hill overlooking the crystal-clear lake, the manor consisted of two wings. But the wings weren’t connected at a right angle—they flared out so that all the rooms in each had a view of the lake and the glens unfolding behind it for miles.

 “Aye. Once.”

 “Just pulling down the dead vines covering the brick would make a big difference in the façade.” A hovel it might currently be, but the manor house had been designed in the much-lauded baronial style. The massive stones at the foot and the ancient beams inside shouldering the ceilings in that great room were all the rage in England.

 Most important, Jane could be alone with Hugh here. In her eyes, that meant it was perfect.

 Except for one thing, she thought, running her hand over the back of her neck and gazing around. She’d just gotten the eerie feeling that they were being watched.

 “Perhaps so,” Hugh said. “But that does no’ help us for tonight.”

 “Cheer up, Hugh,” she said absently. “Things can’t get worse—”

 Rain thundered down, like a loosed bucket of freezing water.

 Thirty-four

 “Well, the good news is that I got my bath,” Jane murmured in a drowsy tone. She lay on her side, her head resting comfortably in his lap as he sat back against the wall.

 Where her fortitude sprang from, Hugh had no idea.

 This afternoon, after they’d run for the manor in pounding rain, he’d settled their horses under a portico for the night, and then they’d investigated most of the interior.

 Dodging streaming leaks from the ceilings, they had finally stumbled upon a tiny bedroom off the kitchen, likely a servant’s quarters. It had only one window, and the panels, though cracked, were intact. The room was free of feathers, and no scrabbling sounded from its undersized fireplace. The chimney was only partially obstructed—the smoke from their small fire crept in flagging tendrils, but always up.

 After eating a dinner of biscuits from a tin, tea steeped in heated rainwater, and apples liberated that morning from some farmer’s orchard, they’d settled down for the night.

 “Hugh, why did Court let this place get so run-down?” she asked.

 “Now that I’ve seen it, I think it was probably neglected before Court even bought it.” After that, his brother had had no time to improve it. Court had been on the Continent with his gang, working to pay off this place, which he’d bought for pennies on the pound.

 Though the land was rich, and there was an astonishing amount of it, the manor was occupied by its own demolition crew. Hugh was amazed that Court had considered bringing Annalía, a rich and cultured lass, here to live. Annalía was a brave girl, but Hugh thought even she would have swooned at the state of Court’s home.

 Yet, hadn’t Hugh done the same? He’d brought a rich and cultured woman here.

 Lightning flashed outside, and when thunder rattled the structure, the creatures outside the room began to mew and tussle with renewed vigor. Hugh pinched the bridge of his nose, but Jane only chuckled.

 “I’ll take you to an inn tomorrow,” he said quickly. “There’s a village a few miles north of here, and they might have a place for us to stay. You can have a proper bath.”

 “Hugh, you’re brooding so hard, I can hear my money piling up. And you already owe me five thousand pounds, at least.” She sounded lazily comfortable and amused.

 “Five thousand, is it?” He stroked her damp hair, and they settled into companionable silence. But as ever, worry for Ethan weighed on his thoughts. Hugh was cut off from communication with London and daren’t leave Jane anywhere while he went to search for Ethan or hunted for Grey.

 Hugh had to assume that Grey was still loose, which meant Hugh and Jane could be together indefinitely as they waited for the bastard to be captured or killed.

 Indefinitely? Hugh gave himself ten days before he was in bed with her—and that would be drawing on every reserve of discipline he possessed…

 “Hugh, tell me something about your life, something exciting you’ve done since I saw you last.”

 Anything exciting he’d done fell firmly into the category of classified . He finally answered, “I bought a home in Scotland.”

 She turned on her back, gazing up at him with interest. “Oh, do tell me about it.”

 He ran his free hand over the back of his neck. “I stumbled upon the estate on the coast in a place called Cape Waldegrave.” She had to tap his hip to prompt him for more. “The waves are relentless and so lofty that you can see the sun set through them.” He admitted, “I could no’ rest until I owned it.”

 She sighed. “It sounds breathtaking. I think I’d like living in Scotland.”

 He berated himself for imagining the look in her eyes if she saw the cape. It was of no bloody consequence that she would love its wave-tossed cliffs, or that when he’d chosen the property, he’d specifically thought of her there, of wanting to impress her….

 Since leaving Ros Creag, he’d tried his damnedest not to think about how close he’d come to having her after all these years. He recalled how inevitable it had felt to be with her, as if resisting the need to be inside her was senseless. Especially since she seemed to desire it just as much.

 The idea that this stunning woman, who laid her head trustingly in his lap, had been willing—eager—to make love to him made him crazed. And the more time that passed, the less embarrassed he was about his actions those nights at Rose Creag—and the more aroused he became.

 Ten days? Mayhap a week.

 Doona look down…just doona look….

 Hugh hissed in a breath when he did look, glimpsing her naked body as he helped her from the hot spring into the cool morning air. He threw the towel around her as though she were on fire, but the image of her standing wholly naked, with water sluicing down her smooth flesh, was seared into his mind.

 A week without touching her? That had been an absurdly optimistic estimate.

 “This was such a wonderful surprise!” She gazed up at him as though he was her hero, her eyes sparkling with pleasure. She showed no visible signs of fatigue from their demanding journey, or from last night’s bleak accommodations in what was, in essence, a closet. Resilient lass.

 In a breathless voice, she asked, “Hugh, how did you find the spring?”

 “Yesterday, I thought I saw steam rising from this cove of the loch, but dinna want to get your hopes up until I explored it.”

 “I wondered where you’d gone this morning.”

 “I had no idea the water would be this clean.” He frowned. “Or that you’d be willing to shuck off your clothes and dive in.” After making sure the towel was firmly tucked in, he swooped her up into his arms for the five-minute walk back to the manor.

 She laughed, throwing her arms around his neck and clinging to him so sweetly. “I woke thinking I’d find you beside me, but that ferret cat was there instead. When it hissed, I tossed my boot at it, which it appropriated. I want to stay here. Can you help me find my boot?”

 “You’ve thrown me again, Jane.”

 “Well, I’ve been thinking, and I’ve concluded this place is not half bad.” When he gave her a stern look, she said, “I’m not jesting, Hugh. If I’m to be in Scotland for an indeterminate time, away from all my family and friends without any town entertainments, I’ll need something to do. This is actually the perfect opportunity. Since this tumbledown place needs work, we might as well see it done.” He said nothing, so she continued, “Together, we’ll compile a list of materials we’ll need, and you can fix and I can clean.”

 “You? Doing the cleaning?”

 She blinked up at him. “How hard can it be?”

 He opened his mouth to explain, then closed it. Jane had decided that cleaning wouldn’t be difficult; Jane would not be moved from this opinion until she’d tried it.

 “Why would I want to do this?”

 “It needs to be done. It’s your brother’s home. He can pay you back.”

 No, he couldn’t. Court was taking in a much larger income now, but overhauling this manor would be costly. Still, Hugh was warming to this idea. For one thing, setting this place to rights—to order—had a definite appeal.

 “And don’t you think we’d be safe here, surrounded by all this land?” she asked.

 Even safer than with the clan.If he could protect her here, provide her with something to occupy her, deaden his body with work, and be doing Court a favor, why not?

 She gazed up at him. “Can’t we stay here? Please, Hugh?”

 And so it’s settled.

 So he wouldn’t look like the easy mark he was with her, he waited until he’d deposited her back in their closet room before saying, “Aye, then. We’ll do it. But only if you stay near the manor and do as I ask you—to keep you safe.” He gently clasped her chin. “We canna let our guard down. Even here.”

 “I promise.”

 As he turned toward the door, he said, “Call for me when you’re dressed, and I’ll come help you reclaim your boot.”

 When she nodded happily, he strode outside. The morning fog had dissipated. As the sun rose higher, illuminating the front elevation of the house, he was better able to assess how much work would be required to make this place livable.

 In the morning sun, refurbishing it looked possible .

 Hugh believed he could do a lot of the work himself. Perhaps this wasn’t such a daft idea. Yes, work like this could deaden a man’s body and burn off a woman’s energy. This place might just be his salvation—

 Jane shrieked.

 Not a heartbeat later, Hugh was sprinting for her.

 Thirty-five

 Jane hiked up her skirts and dashed out of the house, bent on nabbing the Peeping Tom she’d caught spying on her through a cracked windowpane.

 She turned the corner and found Hugh steadying the peeper after he’d apparently run into him. The miscreant’s hat flew off, revealing a spill of long black hair. A girl? Yes, dressed in a bulky hat and clothing. She was likely eighteen or so, short, with a strong build and incongruous freckles.

 Jane pointed her finger. “She was watching me dress.”

 “I was no’,” the girl lied.

 “You most certainly were.” Jane was furious. She’d seen the peep’s jaw drop and they’d met eyes—Jane had clearly caught her red-handed—then she’d hied away. Jane had sensed a presence for some time, but had thought Hugh was watching her.

 The girl had seen a show indeed.

 “Why would I be looking at ye dress? I’m a girl, can you no’ see?”

 Provincial, she mouthed to Hugh, but he scowled at her. After steadying and releasing the girl, he asked, “What are you doing here?”

 “Been using the land, since no one else was.” She hiked a thumb over her shoulder toward the dilapidated stables. “Those are my chicken coops beside the stable and my turnip patch in the back. My horse, too,” she said. Jane spied a swaybacked pony, pulling weeds with very long teeth in a broken down corral. Corralled? As if it was going anywhere. “I’m yer neighbor of sorts, or as close as ye can get with this estate.”

 “What’s your name?”

 “Mòrag MacLarty—stress on the Mac, if it pleases ye. Are ye kin to Master MacCarrick?”

 “I’m his brother, Hugh MacCarrick. My wife and I are staying on for the fall. We plan to fix up the place.”

 She nodded slowly. “My brothers have the windows Master MacCarrick ordered last year stored in our barn. And they’ve got a fine share of lumber they’d likely be willing to sell before winter.”

 “That’s good news.”

 “And ye could hire them to help around here. Six of them, all strong as oxen.” The girl gave Jane a once-over, then said in a pert tone, “And ye’ll be needing help with the housekeeping?”

 That little peeping witch…

 “Aye. Are you interested?”

 Mòrag nodded, and named her price for daily cleaning, cooking, and laundry. He countered, and they settled.

 Without consulting her, he’d just hired a maid. Jane knew how to run a house, and knew that hiring servants was firmly in the woman’s sphere of the home.

 Hugh added, “But you’ll need to ride over every day for at least two weeks. And I expect you to work as hard as we do.”

 She snorted at Jane. “Should no’ be a problem.”

 “Why, you saucy little—”

 “Jane, a word with you.” As he grabbed Jane’s elbow, he said, “Mòrag, what are the odds that we’ll have a hot meal tonight?”

 “If ye can get the hearth flue cleared of the squirrels, ye can count on it.”

 He nodded, then dragged Jane across the weed-clotted yard. Jane glanced back, just in time to see Mòrag stick her tongue out at her before turning toward the manor. “I don’t want her, Hugh. She’s impudent.”

 Hugh glared down at her. “Why have you taken such a dislike to her? For watching you dress? She’s probably never seen anything like your Parisian silks and laces. And believe me when I tell you that anyone would have stopped and stared. She would have to be curious.”

 Jane couldn’t put a finger on why she bristled around the girl. Perhaps it was because Mòrag—or whatever her name was—clearly didn’t like her. “She stuck her tongue out at me,” she said lamely.

 “The last owner to live here was a verra foolish Englishman who was hard on all those around here. Keep that in mind.” When she remained unconvinced, he said, “Once we get the inside habitable, the outside is going to keep me busy from sunup to sundown. Do you truly want to haul water and pluck chickens? Surely, you canna cook?”

 Haul, pluck, cook. Not her favorite verbs, and not ones traditionally associated with Jane. Her idea of turning the house around by herself suddenly seemed very daunting and not quite as adventurous as she’d hoped. At that moment, they heard banging in the kitchen. The girl had found the cookware! Jane rolled her eyes at Hugh.

 Hugh pressed his advantage, saying, “She can buy us supplies in the village as well.”

 Jane put her chin up. “It might be nice to have someone around—but only to help me asI work.” She marched toward the manor, with Hugh following her. Inside, Jane made her manner brisk. “What can I do?” she asked the girl.

 “I’m thinkin’ no’ much, by the look of ye.”

 Jane gave Hugh a meaningful look, but he just squeezed her shoulder. “Is there a ladder anywhere around here?” he asked the girl.

 “In the stable, just behind my saddle and gear.”

 Taking Jane aside, he said, “You stay right in here. I’ll be back directly,” then set off for the stables.

 While Hugh was gone, Jane attempted to help the girl—who, she admitted, got things done —but Jane was under the impression that she only got in the way of Mòrag’s cleaning. Her first clue was when Mòrag snapped, “Git yer scrawny arse out o’ my way, English.”

 The squirrels sensed something was afoot with their chimney community, and began chattering their fury.

 When Hugh returned with firewood and a damp blanket, Jane frowned. “You’re not going to start a fire directly under them? There could be baby squirrels or injured ones or older ones—”

 “Squirrel stew is mighty tasty,” Mòrag interrupted.

 Jane gave her a horrified look, then whipped her head around to Hugh. “Squirrel st-stew?”

 He checked a grin. “Jane, I’m going to start a verra small fire, with damp wood that will smoke more than anything. Then I’ll drape a wet blanket over the hearth opening down here. It’ll give them enough time to run up to the roof.”

 When she still appeared unconvinced, Mòrag said, “Enough with the bluidy squirrels, English. Now, which do ye want to do? Dress chickens or scour pots?”

 When Jane merely bit her lip, Mòrag said, “Pots it is.” She nodded at an open closet full of them. “You can take all of them to the pump in the back and wash them. There’s soaps and brushes in the shed off this kitchen.”

 Though Hugh wanted to help, Jane waved him away. “I can do it by myself,” she said firmly.

 “Doona go anywhere but to the pump and back. Agreed?”

 “Hugh, really.” At his unbending look, she muttered, “Agreed.”

 When she began hauling pots out to the pump, he moved to a window where he could see her. “We’re going to need supplies,” he told Mòrag. “But I doona want anyone to know we’re here, nor any visitors out here.”

 “Why no’?”

 He’d thought about telling her something ridiculous, like they wanted to surprise his brother with the renovation, but the girl was smart and, he sensed, trustworthy. “There’s an Englishman who might come looking for us. A dangerous sort of man, and one we’d rather avoid.”

 She eyed him, knowing he was being less than forthcoming. He didn’t care, as long as they understood each other.

 “The sundries storekeeper will know ye’re here, and that means the whole village will know. But no one outside of it will.”

 He added another piece of wood to the small fire he’d started. “The villagers doona like strangers?”

 “Nay, no’ at all. Strangers are met with a tight lip and a surly expression anyway, and if an outsider asks any of the townsfolk about yer whereabouts, I’ll hear word of it directly. And I’ll make sure everyone knows ye’re honeymooning and are no’ keen on receiving any visitors just now.”

 Hugh raised his brows. They might as well have dropped off the face of the earth by coming here. Hugh and Mòrag understood each other perfectly. He nodded, finished draping the blanket over the fireplace, then strode outside. He chanced his tottering ladder all the way to the second-story roof to clear debris from the top of the chimney.

 From the higher vantage, he could keep an eye on Jane as she worked. When she disappeared inside, he took in the views, comprehending more and more what had possessed his brother to buy Beinn a’Chaorainn. A breeze rippled the loch, then stilled, and the water reflected sunlight in a perfect mirror. On a fine day like this, he could see twenty miles away to the rounded spine of mountains at the far edge of Court’s property.

 For the next half hour, Hugh dodged the exodus of fleeing squirrels and marked damaged spots on the roof to fix when Mòrag’s brothers could help with the major repairs. All the while, he checked on Jane, hard at work on her task.

 The pots were heavy and unwieldy, but she seemed content to transport only two or three at a time to the pump. Back and forth she went, again and again, until she’d finally collected a mound of pots, handles sticking out in every direction.

 At the pump, she rolled up her sleeves, then drew down on the lever—

 Black sludge exploded out of the faucet, splattering over the front of her dress and her face like paint from a dropped tin.

 “Oh, bloody, hell,” Hugh muttered, hurrying to climb down, snapping two rungs on the descent.

 Jane froze for long moments, then sputtered, wiping her face with her forearm.

 The girl had done that on purpose, no doubt of it. Mòrag could have told Jane to take the pots to the loch. Before Hugh reached her, Jane swung her gaze to him and raised one finger, her eyes murderous.

 “I will handle this,” she said between gritted teeth. “Don’t you say a word to her.”

 “Jane, this will no’ be tolerated—”

 “Precisely why I’m about to take care of this. If she wants to toss down the gauntlet, then I’ll pick it up.” After carefully filling the largest pot with sludge, she lugged it toward the stables. The weight was so heavy it dragged her arm down, skewing her balance.

 When Jane returned from the stables—where Mòrag’s saddle and bags were—the bucket was empty and swinging at her hip, jaunty as a berry basket.

 Thirty-six

 By the end of the first five days at Beinn a’Chaorainn, Hugh felt like a cauldron about to boil over.

 This unfortunate state was attested to by the fact that the property was already turning the corner. Every time Hugh thought about touching Jane, he worked.

 In his time here, Hugh had accomplished the labor of a dozen men.

 This afternoon, he sawed boards for the entryway floor, while Mòrag and Jane cleaned upstairs. The days that were clement enough for him to work outside were the days Mòrag aired the manor. Through the open windows, he could hear Jane humming or laughing as she cleaned, or spy flashes of her as she strolled down the hall.

 He found himself looking forward to those glimpses of her.

 With the three of them toiling, his and Jane’s living situation had improved dramatically. Hugh had selected the two best adjoining rooms in the manor for Jane and himself, and then Mòrag had gone to work like a dervish cleaning them, as if to embarrass Jane for her sneezing clumsiness with a broom.

 On Mòrag’s second day, she’d returned with a packhorse and a cart. She’d only purchased necessities for them-linens, mattress rolls, kitchen and cleaning supplies, foodstuffs—but the shopkeepers in Mòrag’s small village were quick to pile wares on her to take back to the brother of “Master Courtland.” They all saw Court as a savior, the ruthless warrior Scot who’d reclaimed the land from a haughty English baron—a baron who had insisted on raising sheep, and running off tenants to allow them to graze.

 Court had done nothing but capitalize on the baron’s bad business sense, but Hugh wasn’t going to enlighten the shopkeepers.

 In fact, Hugh was becoming more and more confident that staying on was the right decision. Having Mòrag around was ideal because not only was she transforming the interior and reluctantly teaching Jane how to help, but her presence kept Hugh from trailing after Jane’s skirts like a wolf licking his lips.

 The one problem with Mòrag was that she and Jane bickered constantly. Jane was bewildered to be ridiculed for the way she talked or disliked simply for being a foreigner. Hugh didn’t want Jane to be miserable, but he wouldn’t mind her understanding that “bloody English” was merely an equivalent to “rough Scot.”

 Sometimes Jane won an argument, and Hugh would hear her say, “No, no, I promised myself I wouldn’t gloat.” Sometimes she lost a spat and would sniff, “Oh.” Pause. “Well, obviously .”

 And they competed at everything. When he’d dragged some old furniture down from the attic and repaired it, Jane and Mòrag raced to paint or stain it, looking more at the other’s progress than their own. When he replaced the windows, they raced each other at cleaning them. In fact, Hugh feared Jane was working much too hard, toiling with an almost frantic zealousness. Hugh knew she was competitive by nature, but this seemed to be more than a mere rivalry.

 To distract her, Hugh had crafted a target for her out of a dense hay bale with a sheet stretched taut over it, and she’d painted the rings. Yet she didn’t practice in lieu of work; she woke earlier to do it all.

 Every morning, on the terrace between the manor and stables, she donned her three-fingertip hunting gloves and her quiver. Her breaths would be visible in the cool air as she drew her bow, her expression intent. It was a thing of beauty to watch, and he secretly did so every morning.

 Even Mòrag would pause at the kitchen window and stare in amazement.

 Though Jane had been behaving herself, his want of her never relented. Even if she wasn’t teasing him, she might as well have been. Jane exuded sexuality. Today, he’d passed her in a tight spot and had laid his hands on her waist. Her breaths had gone shallow and her cheeks had heated.

 If he passed her room and spied her stockings and little garters strewn about, his gut tightened with want. Because their rooms were so close, each night Hugh drifted off to the intoxicating scents of her lotions and light perfume and to recent visions of her laces and silk corsets. In other words, he went to bed every night hard as steel.

 On several occasions, Jane had approached him, nibbling her lip, appearing as if she needed to discuss something serious. He had no idea what she might be wanting, but always found himself relieved when she turned away without saying anything. Yet he knew soon she would broach whatever subject she wrestled with—and he sensed that this wouldn’t bode well for him.

 If he wasn’t tormented with desire for her, he was wracked with concern about his brother and Jane’s continued safety. And growing each day was a thick sense of foreboding Hugh couldn’t shake.

 Something had to give….

 As Hugh labored with his horse to haul debris away from the manor, Jane perched in the saddle, sitting backward so she could watch Hugh.

 She loved to watch him work, especially when he was shirtless. Whenever he stood and ran his arm over his forehead, the sweat-slick ridges of his stomach would tense, and Jane’s breath would go shallow. She didn’t think she’d ever seen anything half as beautiful as his muscles covered with sweat.

 Today was her first afternoon off since they’d arrived. Mòrag was harvesting kale today, so Jane was relaxing, which obviously pleased Hugh.

 He likely believed she worked so hard just to compete with Mòrag, but Jane feared her cleaning skills would be forever eclipsed by the girl’s.

 No, Jane worked to prove she could be an asset to Hugh, that she was a good wife and one worth keeping. She tended the gardens, she painted furniture, and she arranged the beautiful homespun rugs Mòrag had bought from local artisans. The house was already becoming homey and comfortable.

 If she lost Hugh in the end, it would not be from lack of trying….

 “Water, lass?”

 She blinked, tossing him his canteen. He drank greedily, then ran his forearm over his mouth. She loved it when men did that. And by “men” she meant “Hugh.” When he tossed the canteen back, she was so busy staring at him that she missed, fumbling the canteen twice before it thudded to the ground. She could barely contain her yearning—indeed, she’d ceased bothering to hide the depth of it—yet Hugh still hadn’t touched her. Again and again, she mulled reasons why.

 With a frown, he released the leather trace over his shoulder, then scooped up the canteen on his way to the saddle. When he dusted it off and handed it to her, she gave him a sheepish smile.

 He backed away from her with a guarded expression, then took up the traces again. The horse strained forward once more.

 She’d struggled to broach the subject of staying married to him, but his eyes always seemed dark with warning—just like now. She felt as if she would be all but proposing to him, and she could admit her confidence was shaken. Men were usually tongue-tied, stumbling over themselves to give her whatever she wanted. Hugh was distant, his countenance shuttered.

 She inhaled, grasping about for courage. There wasn’t going to be a better time than now. Before she lost her nerve again, she quickly asked, “Do you want to know what I’ve been thinking about?”

 He shook his head emphatically, so she waited several minutes before she asked, “Hugh, do you think I’d make a good wife?”

 After a hesitation, he slowly answered, “Aye.”

 “You swear?”

 “Aye.”

 “You’re not just saying that to spare my feelings?”

 “No. Any man would be proud to call you wife—”

 “Then why don’t you just keep me?”

 He stumbled over his feet, falling to his knee in the mud.

 “I want to keep you ,” she declared, as if her seemingly innocent question hadn’t just sent his body and mind reeling.

 He rose, inwardly cursing. Why did she have to start with the teasing once again? Damn it, all in all, he’d been having a good day. The unseasonably mild weather had held pleasant, and he’d been enjoying her company, as usual. As she’d chatted and laughed about this and that, he’d been sneaking glances up at her, marveling at how much Scotland was agreeing with her.

 Her cheeks were pinkened, her eyes appeared, impossibly, a more vibrant green, and her auburn hair was even shinier, seeming burnished with gold.

 The lass was growing so beautiful that at times, she rendered him speechless.

 “It’s a reasonable question, Hugh.”

 Now he felt himself growing cold. “This is no’ something to jest about.”

 Earlier, the expressions flitting across her face had gone from thoughtful to panicked to fearful, then to the determined mien she wore now. “I’m not,” she said in a steady voice. “At all. I want to stay married to you.”

 He opened his mouth to speak, but couldn’t quite manage it when he saw that she was serious. Unbelievable. His voice hoarse, he finally said, “It will no’ happen, Jane.”

 She wanted to be his lover and his wife? Right now, he wished to God he were selfish enough to keep her.

 “Why? If you give me a good reason, I’ll desist from this. Otherwise…” She trailed off, as if in warning.

 “I told you, I never wanted to be married.”

 “But why ? Give me one reason.”

 “That is just no’ the life for me,” he said simply. “Never has been and never will be. You have to accept that some men are no’ husband material.”

 “I think you are.”

 “You doona even know me anymore.”

 “Because you won’t tell me anything,” she countered.

 “Take my word for it.”

 “Are you certain you don’t want just totry staying married after all this is done? To see if we suit?”

 “Aye, I’m verra certain,” he said, making his tone cutting.

 “Really?” she said slowly. Raaaally. As if she hadn’t heard him, she slipped down from the saddle. “It’s a big decision.” She gave him a solemn nod. “I know you’ll want to think it over.” Before strolling off, she tilted her head and studied him, her bright eyes focused and clear.

 It was, he thought, swallowing hard, the same way she looked at her arrow’s target.

 Thirty-seven

 Having raised the subject of staying married, Jane returned to it over the next week with stubborn frequency.

 As Hugh worked a Dutch block plane over a new column for the rickety portico, he waited for a glimpse of Jane and mulled over her latest campaign.

 The night before, he’d been drinking scotch on a rug by the fire. She’d sat behind him, up on her knees to rub the sore muscles of his back, sharing sips of his drink. His lids had grown heavy as he’d relaxed against her.

 The fire, the scotch, his wife easing his body after a hard day’s labor.Bliss . He took a savoring sip—

 “Any thoughts on our marriage, my love?”

 He’d choked on his drink. She’d smiled innocently when he glowered.

 This morning on her way out to the terrace to shoot, she’d said in a casual tone, “I noticed you didn’t pack any reading material—except for that odd book—so I left a novel on your bed.” As he stared after her, she tossed over her shoulder, “And I marked the scenes I particularly enjoyed.”

 He knew exactly what kind of novel she spoke of. As soon as she was out of sight, he bounded up the stairs, eager to see what she would like. Set on his pillow was a book with her false cover, and he tore it open. Five minutes later, he sank to the bed, running a shaking hand over his dazed face.

 If these were scenes she enjoyed, then they would suit perfectly ….

 No, damn it, this was just the latest battle in her insidious campaign. Her continual sallies never let him forget that every day, here for the taking, was the woman of his dreams. He was like a stallion around a mare in heat—he couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t keep his mind on anything but how her hair smelled and how her skin tasted.

 His eyes followed her everywhere. When she worked, she’d taken to wearing a bandanna over her hair, and she’d begun unbuttoning her blouses to beat the heat of the kitchen or whatever chore she’d undertaken. It seemed to Hugh that her dampened breasts were always on the verge of spilling out. Jane, usually so elegant, looked like a lusty barmaid, and he loved it.

 In fact, he couldn’t decide which version of her he liked best: the clever beauty in London, the archer with her leather-tipped hunting gloves, or this carefree temptress.

 His need for her was unrelenting. He wasn’t thinking clearly. He was constantly hard during the day and couldn’t sleep a night through without having to spend. The other night, after dreaming about her riding him, he’d awakened soaked in sweat—and precisely three quick strokes away from ejaculating.

 She’d wrecked him, weakened him. And when she began staring at Hugh with a mixture of almost innocent curiosity and blatant yearning, only one thing kept him from answering the plea in her eyes.

 The book. He kept it out now, staring at it often. It reminded him of what he was….

 He frowned when he realized that well over an hour had passed since he’d heard humming or seen a flash of her going by. Hugh hoped she’d decided to sleep for an hour or two, instead of her usual exhaustive toiling, even as he doubted it.

 He laid aside his plane, dusted wood shavings from his trousers, then strode in the front door. He met Mòrag, returning to the kitchen with a basket of turnips.

 “Where’s my wife?”

 She shrugged. “Saw English in the north wing last. Said she was going to wax the floors.”

 He nodded and grabbed an apple from a bowl, then dropped it as he caught an unmistakable scent.

 The girl sniffed. “What the hell has she done now?”

 “Paraffin, Mòrag,” he barked over his shoulder as he took off at a run. “Think about it.”

 Mòrag gasped and dropped her basket to follow.

 Paraffin wax was for floors.

 And was easily confused with paraffin oil—another term for…kerosene.

 He burst through the closed door and swallowed at the sight. Jane had coated thirsty mahogany wood with jugs of kerosene.

 She tottered to her feet. “I wanted to surprise you and have this all finished.” She rubbed her nose delicately with the back of her hand. “But I feel quite foxed.” Shrugging, she picked up a chunk of sandstone and said, “I was just going to sand the dried area—”

 “No!” he and Mòrag shouted at the same time. One spark…

 Heart in his throat, he lunged for her just as Mòrag cried, “Are ye daft, English?”

 Jane blinked, sputtering as he hauled her outside to the well. “I assume I did something wrong?” she said as he quickly stripped her of everything but her shift.

 “Aye. I’m agreeing with Mòrag on this.” He pumped a continuous stream of water all over her wee hands and arms, scrubbing the oil away. “You’ve taken on far too much for one person with this project. And that oil is flammable and usually used by”—lanterns—“by professionals. If one drop of candle tallow hit your skirt just then, you’d have gone up in a blaze.”

 “Oh.” Jane bit her bottom lip. “You’re angry.”

 “Concerned.”

 “Hugh, be patient with me.”

 “God knows I try, lass.”

 When he spied Mòrag preparing to leave for the night, he ordered Jane, “Scrub your legs and feet. I’ll be right back,” then strode to the stable to catch the girl. “Mòrag, I want you to keep my wife away from any and all dangerous and flammable substances that might be on this property. Lock them away if you have to. And I’ll triple your wages if you can keep her out of the north wing till I can replace the boards.”

 Hugh turned back to Jane to bark, “Scrub!” and Jane jumped with fright, then dutifully scrubbed.

 Mòrag made a disgusted sound. “You’re no’ going to scold English worse? After ruining the room like that?”

 Hugh shrugged. “From now on, I’ll make sure she understands some things are dangerous around here, but, no, she’ll no’ know she damaged an entire mahogany floor.”

 “I’d have been tarred.” But then Hugh knew Jane had started growing on the girl when Mòrag glowered and threw her hands up. “English is no’ stoopid —you ken we’ll have to bluidy age the new floor, too?”

 “It’s time you told me why’re you’ve been working so hard, lass,” Hugh said when he returned.

 She was feeling tipsy and cold, and yet delightfully shivery as Hugh’s rough hands rubbed up and down her arms, checking for oil residue. She grinned drunkenly. “I’m endeavoring to impress you. So you’ll keep me. And let me live in your seashore house.”

 When he gave up a shadow of a grin, she said, “Actually, that wasn’t a joke.”

 His face creased into a scowl. “You bring marriage up? Again? You’re as stubborn as a Scot! Do you know that?”

 “I could make you happy,” she insisted. “And you’re in a position to take a wife.”

 “Damn it, lass, you would no’ like being married to me.”

 “How would it differ from what we’ve been doing?”

 When he’d agreed to this marriage, he’d anticipated her wanting out at the first opportunity. That was supposed to be the one constant. He’d never imagined he would be grasping for arguments against himself , as he stared at Jane’s shift getting soaked with cool well water and clinging to her plump breasts. His hands on her arms began to move more leisurely.

 He hadn’t been concentrating well anyway, but how could he be expected to formulate an argument when faced with her little nipples stiffening under every spurt of water that hit them? He was in a bad way. He remembered that last time he’d kissed them, he’d felt them throb beneath his tongue….

 He broke away, removing his hands completely from her body. “Jane, forget this plan of yours. I’m no’ a good man. And I would no’ make a good husband.”

 “This makes sense to me. It’s a logical move for us. We’re already married, and we’ve done the formalities.” She lowered her voice to say, “All you have to do is make love to me.”

 “Logical? You want this because it’s logical? That’s the one bloody thing it is no’.”

 Her brows drew together as she gazed up at him. “Hugh, what is so wrong with me?”

 He’d never imagined a woman like her could fear herself lacking. He couldn’t allow her to think that in any way. Which meant telling her the truth. At least, part of it.

 “It’s no’ you. It’s me .”