Later that day, after an excellent dinner featuring the roasted sirloin and salad of fresh peas and potatoes she’d planned with Cook a few days earlier, Fiona rose to her feet, as did Isobel.

“If you’ll excuse us?” she said to Alasdair and Duff.

Alasdair also stood up. “You’re going to the Great Drawing-room?”

“Yes.” Her tone was just as chilly as it had been all day. “As we always do. In the evening. After dinner.”

His tone was a trifle grim as he said, “May I join you?”

Fiona didn’t know who was more shocked, herself or Duff, who sputtered:

“What? I thought we’d go to the village, or to Hewie’s, or—or—”

“You are certainly free to, Uncle.” Alasdair turned to Fiona. “Madam?”

“You may do whatever you like, laird.”

He bowed, slightly. “I await your convenience, then.”

“Well!” exclaimed Isobel. “Isn’t this nice? Of course we’re only going to sew, and no doubt Fiona will read, and we may, perhaps, work on our puzzle—it’s very complicated, with hundreds of pieces, so tiny, you know, and so finely cut! An historical map of Glasgow—very educational! Fiona is exceptionally clever at it, laird, I assure you! Why, she found all the pieces for Bogton House in one sitting!”

“I’m not surprised to hear of Fiona’s cleverness,” Alasdair answered, albeit rather grimly still, and Fiona haughtily wrapped her fine woolen shawl more tightly around her, as if encasing herself in impenetrable armor.

Together they left the Great Hall, Isobel fluttering and animated, herself and Alasdair silent, with Duff trailing behind them, brushing crumbs from his shirtfront and also—ugh—picking out a few stray peas from his beard. Servants had preceded them to the drawing-room, and so several candelabra had been lit, as well as a fire in the hearth; the green velvet window-hangings had been closed against the chill of the evening.

Fiona sat on the same sofa, near the cozily crackling fire, where she’d had her first extended conversation with Alasdair. She and Isobel had just that day arrived at Castle Tadgh; there had been that long, formal banquet during which those other three women had tried very hard to catch the interest of Alasdair Penhallow. She, on the other hand, had composed in her head a letter to Mother. And little Sheila had come up to her, and said:

You look but you do not see.

It seemed like a lifetime ago.

She hadn’t dreamed she would become Alasdair’s wife. It was the last thing in the world she wished for.

And yet here she was.

Now, her back very straight, Fiona reached automatically for her sewing but only held it on her lap, and let her gaze wander round the room.

Isobel had gone to the large marquetry table on which lay the Glasgow puzzle, and was instantly absorbed in it. Duff, disgruntled, was stretched out on a sofa on the other side of the room, his feet, in scuffed evening shoes, resting on the sofa’s arm, providing anyone who cared to look an excellent view of his laddered stockings with spectacular runs in them.

And Alasdair had seated himself opposite her, just as he had that very first time. She had not, then, found him the least bit appealing. But even a person who was furious and ashamed and all frozen inside would have to admit that he was very distinguished in his tartan kilt, patterned in dark greens and reds, and close-fitted black jacket.

He crossed one long leg over the other, thus also providing anyone who cared to look an excellent view of nicely shaped calves in checkered hose and garters. Also a pair of sturdy knees and even a bit of his thighs, muscled and attractively hairy.

Fiona repressed a sudden stupid gladness that she had on one of her prettiest gowns this evening, a robe of carnation-pink crêpe worn over a white silk slip, along with the lovely diamond necklace that had been a wedding gift from her parents. Hastily she dropped her eyes to her sewing and picked up her needle.

After a while, Alasdair said:

“We got a great deal accomplished today.”

She didn’t glance up. “Yes.”

“The wagons for the Sutherlainns will leave tomorrow at first light.”

“Excellent.”

“Thank you for all your help.”

“I was glad to do it.”

“Were you glad? You gave the impression of wanting to murder someone.”

“I was glad,” she clarified icily, “to help the Sutherlainns.”

“Oh, and murder me?”

“Maybe,” she answered, because she couldn’t help herself, and looked him right in the eye. He still had that baffled expression on his face.

“Why?” he asked, simply.

And the words just came out. “Because,” she hissed, “you left me last night, and didn’t come back.”

“But—”

“But what?”

“I told you where I was going. That I was going to wait for the men who had followed behind with the cattle, see to their well-being. That it was important to me to greet them personally.”

“What?”

“Didn’t you hear me tell you that before I left our bedchamber?”

Fiona thought back to last night, to the confusion, the servants coming and going, and Cuilean romping around, and her own dazed exhaustion, and . . .

And Alasdair, in a warm and pleasant voice, saying something which she hadn’t quite caught . . .

“Oh,” she said, feeling rather like a balloon abruptly deflating. “Did you, laird?”

“Aye. And I told you I probably wouldn’t see you again until morning.”

“Oh.”

“I was sure you understood me. You nodded and smiled at me.”

“Oh. Well. I didn’t understand you. There was too much going on. But,” she added scrupulously, “it wasn’t your fault, laird.”

“Ah.”

“It was good of you to wait for your men,” she also added.

“They had a hard slog of it.”

“Was everyone all right?”

“Aye.”

“And the cattle?”

“Unhappy. But all right.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Suddenly Fiona realized that she was feeling like a balloon that was filling with air. She was, in fact, a light and happy balloon, floating up into skies of blue. So she said, “I’m sorry for the misunderstanding.”

“Is that why you’ve been so—”

“Murderous? Yes. I’m sorry, laird.”

“It’s fine. But yesterday you called me by my first name.”

“That is so . . . Alasdair.”

He smiled at her, and tentatively, she smiled back. Really, his face was quite pleasing when he smiled. It emphasized the strong line of his jaw, the firm beveled shape of his chin. She didn’t like it when men had weak chins.

Logan Munro has a weak chin, whispered a sly little voice in her head.

He did? Fiona tried to summon an image of Logan, but it seemed impossible here in an illuminated room, with her eyes open.

Wide open and looking at her husband Alasdair.

You look but you do not see.

“What are you working on?”

Fiona blinked, flustered, as if she had been caught out, caught between two worlds, one of which she had no business to be in. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your sewing. What is it?”

“An altar cloth.” She told herself to be here, now, and put her focus analytically onto Alasdair’s face. But a cool cataloging of his features—two eyes, two ears, one nose—fell away in a giddy rush of impressions, almost as if she was encountering him for the very first time. His broad shoulders, the sturdy column of his neck; the strong planes of his face, those remarkable amber eyes. The dark red of his hair, contrasting vividly with the black fabric of his jacket. Actually, now that she gave it her consideration, it wasn’t a dreadful color at all, that hair of his. It was thick, alive with color, with a charming tendency to spike upwards a little above his forehead. How unusual it was for someone with red hair to have dark eyebrows and eyelashes—how striking. He still smiled at her, highlighting those intriguing lines on either side of his mouth. They were sensual, inviting—

“What is the embroidery upon it?”

“What? Oh. A Nativity scene,” she answered, almost at random.

“Very nice.” That subject seeming to be fairly well exhausted, he fell silent, and shifted a little in his seat. She couldn’t help but notice as he did so the hem of his kilt moved up a little higher, revealing a more expansive length of muscled thigh.

Don’t stare, don’t stare, she told herself, and hastily picked up her needle again. She had once more splintered into a Fiona abrim with intense and contrary emotions, and it made her both excited and afraid. And awkward, gawky, jittery; her heart was beating a little more quickly than usual, she could almost feel her blood rushing faster through her veins. She remembered again how yesterday, in that horrible confrontation with Faing Sutherlainn, Alasdair had seemed to dominate, not with a weapon or through any kind of violence, but by his very presence, the sheer strength of his will. She had felt it in her bones, with an almost physical reaction juddering through her.

Now, with Alasdair sitting opposite her, she again responded to the pull of his being, as if his body called out to her body, and her mind—her busy, sensible, clever mind—had nothing to do with it. She was sharply aware of the smooth, silken fabric against her breasts, encasing her arms, surrounding her legs as if confining her, overheating her; very much did she all at once want to pull off her shoes, her stockings . . . her gown, her chemise. Everything.

Her hands, Fiona saw suddenly, were shaking, and so she put aside her sewing, reached blindly for the book that lay on the little table at her elbow.

“What are you reading?” asked Alasdair.

Fiona seized upon the title as a way of cleaving through the wild confusion that had taken hold of her. “Modern Methods of Crop Rotation. I found it in the library.”

He looked at her. Curiously. Smilingly. Then, as if willing to follow her lead: “I got that a few months ago, and liked it. Have you gotten to the section about alternating oats with turnips or potatoes, then planting barley, hay, and pasture?”

She was on solid ground again. Thank goodness. “Yes, it was very interesting. I found the diagrams very helpful. Did you see the one about planting at a diagonal, allowing for better distribution of the manure?”

“I did. It seems a very good idea. What do you think about the suggestion to maintain pasture for three years? With one season of oats after that, and then back to pasture?”

“It might depend on how the winters have been, and the general condition of the sheep and cattle.”

“Aye. And I don’t like to depend too much on turnips and hay for their feed. I always like to have several clover fields in cultivation.”

“Although too much clover can weaken their digestion, don’t you find? I remember once when a flock of Father’s sheep got into a clover field, they got so bloated that we had to treat them with a sour milk and oatmeal mash for a week, which was a great deal of work for everybody.”

They continued in this vein, easily and enjoyably, until the tea-tray was brought in. Fiona realized that all her self-consciousness had dissipated, her confusion, her crazy desire to strip off all her clothing as well. She was back to being steady, practical Fiona.

Which was good.

Wasn’t it?

“Brandy!” said Duff, ambling over. “About time.”

“Tea,” said Fiona, nodding her thanks to the servant who had placed the tray on the low table between herself and Alasdair. “Sandwiches and biscuits and macaroons. No brandy.”

“A frivolous Sassenach custom,” growled Duff, sitting next to Alasdair and giving all the appearance of a long-suffering figure from Biblical times. So might hoary Moses have frowned, gesturing sternly to the stone tablet’s Eleventh Commandment: thou shalt not serve tea in the evenings.

Fiona only shrugged, and passed Alasdair a cup of tea, the way he liked it, with a little cream and no sugar. Isobel came then, and she gave her a cup also. Then, for herself, tea with cream and sugar. Ten minutes later, it was clear that the food was fast disappearing, and Duff said in an offhand manner:

“I’d take a cup of tea, lass, if there’s any left.”

It would have been churlish to grin in a triumphant fashion, and so Fiona only said, politely, “To be sure there is, Uncle. How do you like it?”

“However it is least objectionable.”

She laughed, and handed him a cup with plenty of cream and sugar. “May I give you a plate?”

“Aye,” he replied, and when he received from her a pretty china plate heaped high with delicacies, he added, gruffly, as if trying to remember a word in another language, “Thankee.”

“You’re welcome, Uncle.” Fiona leaned back against the sofa, feeling very mellow. There really was something unifying about good food. Thoughtfully she picked up a macaroon from her plate and bit into it. Sweet, soft, chewy: so delicious she had to keep herself from saying Mmmmmmm in a rather lascivious way. Was it sinful to relish a macaroon with such sensual pleasure? As if of their own volition her eyes strayed to Alasdair. Who sat perfectly at his ease, studying her. Smiling.

A memory flashed through Fiona, back again to their first conversation here. She had thought of a great cat, toying with a mouse. She of course had been the mouse, who had not wanted to be played with. Or eaten.

A shudder rippled along her spine. Not of fear exactly, but something else.

Maybe now she wanted to play.

Just maybe.

And so, when, a little while later, Alasdair stood and stretched and casually announced, “I’m for bed,” she hesitated, heart hammering within her. Then, with extreme care, she put her plate back onto the table, noticing that her hands were shaking again.

She stood up also.

“I’ll come with you,” she said, just as casually.

And together, they left the room.

Fiona was self-conscious again, afraid, more afraid than excited now. She sat before her satinwood dressing-table, eyeing her pale, slender face in the mirror. In a horribly cowardly way, she had changed into a plain white cambric nightgown, with (yes) a high ruffled neckline. Had taken down her hair and quickly braided it. Nervously she plucked at the fabric over her bosom. Why did she have so little substance there? She ran her palms over the flesh of her torso, and even through the nightgown the outline of her ribs was apparent, she was sure of it. There was no getting around it. She was scrawny. No wonder Alasdair could only bring himself to look at her legs.

Although they were skinny too.

Well, there was nothing for it, Fiona thought gloomily, but to go lie down in the bed, and wait for him to ask her to lift up her nightgown. As usual.

She sniffed.

Stared at herself.

And then two large, fat tears rolled down her cheeks.

And then a sob escaped her.

And then there was a knock on her dressing-room door.

Fiona jumped, as might a prisoner summoned to the chopping block. “Yes?”

“You’ve been a long while. Is everything all right?”

No. She said, “Yes.”

There was a pause. “Are you sure?”

No. She said, “Yes.”

Another pause. “May I come in?”

No, she wanted to say. She wanted him to go back into his own dressing-room, so that she could flee unseen to the bed and crawl in. Hide. But she summoned a shred of courage, mixed together with a large dollop of misery, swiped at her face with her sleeve (oh, how prim were those ruffles around her wrists), and answered curtly:

“If you wish.”

The door swung open, and in came Alasdair. Fiona did not turn around, but caught bits and pieces of him in her small mirror. Evidently he had on a dark blue dressing-gown, belted around his waist. She supposed she should have been grateful that he hadn’t waltzed in stark naked, but it was a thought without emotion. She laced her fingers together in her lap and locked her eyes upon them. There were ten, there were ten; she tried to focus her mind by actually counting them—

Alasdair stopped behind her. “Have you been crying?”

“No.”

In his silence was a certain skepticism; just as in some mysterious way, the weight of his gaze was a physical sensation upon her, though she hardly knew if she liked it or not. When lightly he ran his hand along the length of her braid, the muscles in her shoulders tightened and she had to force herself to stay still. Stay quiet. Not break away in panic.

“May I?” he said, and in her blind confusion she gave a quick nod.

Then his fingers were gently pulling apart the thick bunches of hair that she’d woven together and hastily tied at the bottom with a ribbon. They moved through her hair without hurry, with a slow, caressing touch.

“Give me your brush,” he said.

“No,” she answered, in an ungracious, grumbling way.

“Please.”

“No.”

“Please, Fiona.”

“Oh, all right,” she snapped, and thrust her brush over her shoulder, still without turning around.

“Thank you.”

Slowly, gently, patiently, he brushed her hair, from the crown of her head down to her waist, with long, easy, rhythmic strokes, as if he had all the time in the world, as if there was nothing better he had to do. As if he would never stop. As if there was no future, no past—only this moment, this very private, quiet moment between the two of them.

Gradually, very gradually, Fiona relaxed. Her shoulders lost their tense hunch. She gave herself up to the steady rhythmic movement of the brush. She breathed in. Breathed out. Easily. Her eyes drifted shut. She wasn’t sleepy, but had somehow slipped into a realm of pure and mindless sensation.

“Beautiful.”

Alasdair’s voice, softly, from behind her.

“Your hair is like silk, lass.”

“My only beauty, so it’s been said,” she murmured.

“That’s nonsense.”

He leaned past her to place the brush back onto her dressing-table, and Fiona’s eyes flew open. Alert again, she watched, repressed a little gasp, as with effortless strength he turned her pretty chair—with her in it—so that she was sitting perpendicular to her dressing-table.

“What are you doing?” she asked nervously.

“This.” He bent down, and lightly touched his lips to hers.

Shocked, dazed, even frightened by this unexpectedly intimate contact between them, Fiona didn’t respond. Her mind was skittering wildly, even as her heart thumped hard within her. Which Fiona was she right now? Oh God, which one?

He pulled away a little, and gravely said:

“Do you not want me to?”

She shrugged, hanging onto her composure for dear life. “You can,” she said, a little raggedly. “If you want to.”

“I do,” he answered with that same gravity. He kissed her again, gently, just to the side of her mouth, and then at the tender pulse-point underneath her chin, and then her cambric-covered shoulder.

Fiona did not resist, but remained very still.

And then—

He sank to his knees before her, and although she was glad to observe that the dark blue sash of his dressing-gown remained firmly belted, the lapels did gap open and she could see quite a bit of his chest, its hard planes, the springy dark hair, so very, very masculine. With my body I thee worship. One of their vows. It was allowed to touch that tempting hardness, but fear held her back. Fear paralyzed her. And then Alasdair reached for her interlaced fingers, took them in his big, warm hands, and turned her palms upward. Although her salve had helped, her wrists were still red, chafed, from the rope that yesterday had bound them.

Alasdair touched his lips to each wrist in turn, gently and deliberately, and Fiona jerked as if an electric current ran through her. His lips were soft and firm all at once, and such was the tenderness of his gesture that she almost felt as if he kissed her body, her self, her soul, entirely and in a way that sparked within her a wild, all-consuming hunger.

“You are courageous, Fiona,” he said, looking into her eyes which she knew were wide, wide open.

“No,” she whispered. “I’m afraid.”

“Right now?”

“Yes.”

“I won’t harm you.”

“I know you won’t. But I’m still afraid.”

“Why?”

“This is—different—from before.”

“Aye. Different.”

“Why?”

“Our nights together,” he said, “you didn’t enjoy them, did you?”

She hesitated. Then decided, now, to tell the truth. “No.”

“Of course you didn’t. I was not as I should have been. Would you like to try again?”

“Can we?”

“If you wish it, Fiona. The choice is yours.”

“I—I think I do.” Her mind seemed to drift and glide, like a bird dipping over the water, and then something shifted inside her and she said, “I would like to try. Yes.”

“I’d like that also.” He smiled a little. “I’d like to think the marital duty can be more than what we’ve known so far.”

“When you call it ‘the marital duty,’ it’s hard to believe.”

“Point taken. What shall I call it then?”

“Call it what it is.”

“I think sex can be more than what you and I have known so far.”

“That’s better.”

“Good. Are you still afraid, lass?”

“A little. Yes. Or a lot. I’m not sure.”

“You need not fear. All will be well.” He kissed each palm, first one, then the other, his gaze steadily meeting hers, and then there was a sort of pause, almost, she thought dreamily, like that odd shivery stillness before lightning strikes. She waited for him to bring her roughly against him, to press his lips hard on hers, perhaps, to blatantly push his tongue full and heavy into her mouth, to take one of her hands and press it against his shaft.

Just as Logan had.

But Alasdair did nothing of the sort.

Instead he leaned back a little. He curled his hands around her bare ankles, slid them in a caressing stroke—back and forth, back and forth—across the sensitive tops of her feet; slowly, oh so slowly, underneath her nightgown, his hands slid up her calves, to the back of her knees where the skin was yet more sensitive, where his fingers lightly, confidently lingered, as if relishing the feel of her. How warm it made her feel, how languorous and excited all at once, but when, she wondered, would this slow delicious interlude end and his own needs take over? Instead, he only said:

“Do you like this?”

She thought about it. “Yes,” she answered cautiously. But had to add, “Do you?”

“Very much. Why wouldn’t I?”

There were so many reasons, but she picked the most obvious one and blurted it out. “Well, for one, my legs are like sticks.”

“No. They’re soft and strong. Powerful. Beautiful.” He slid his hands higher, around her thighs, and in the very core of her Fiona felt a giddy flutter of pleasure. Oh, it felt good. He felt good.

He said, “Any other concerns?”

“Yes.” She was a little breathless now. “Isn’t this boring for you?”

He laughed. Not mockingly, but softly, kindly. “No.” Then he grasped her hips with that same gentle, deliberate touch, and tugged her forward on her seat, slowly pushing up her voluminous nightgown as if he was unwrapping the nicest, most wonderful gift in the world, exposing all the length of her legs, bunching the fabric up around her waist—but not as before, there was nothing brisk or businesslike about Alasdair now. He drew his fingers up along the soft inside of her thighs and Fiona quivered.

He had used the word beautiful twice. And about her. And he seemed sincere. She wanted to believe that he found her beautiful, wanted to trust his words and the messages conveyed by his caresses.

But trust did not come easily for her. Life—and by this she meant Logan Munro, of course—had taught her that a man could say something, but then do something which contradicted his soft, beguiling words.

Yet . . .

Here before her, on his knees, as a man might genuflect before some higher being, was Alasdair, his hands, like a sorcerer’s, conjuring from out of her cool composure a carnal fire that made the saliva pool in her mouth and her breath come heavily between parted lips.

“Open for me,” he said quietly.

“What—what are you going to do?”

“I’ll show you. If you don’t like it, I’ll stop.”

“Do you promise?”

“Yes.”

Fear warred with curiosity.

After several moments ticked by, each and every one an eternity, curiosity won.

Or maybe she was more courageous than she knew.

Carefully, Fiona brought her legs apart. She had only a few moments in which to feel dreadfully vulnerable, exposed, nervous, before Alasdair slid his hands around her hips, brought his mouth to the white, soft skin of her thigh, and—

He licked it, in a long, warm, wet stroke of his tongue.

Did it in a way that seemed to her he liked it.

Fiona made a choked sound deep in her throat. Reached down and gripped his forearms, hard.

“Should I stop?” he asked. His face was calm, serene, but there was a kind of eager intentness in his expression also, as if she had interrupted him from doing something he very much wanted to do.

“N-no.”

“All right.”

Starting from the inside of her knee, all the way to the juncture where her leg ended and the soft intricate folds of tender flesh began, his warm tongue traced a path, slowly, lazily, without any hurry at all, then went—there. Oh my God, Fiona thought, oh my God, as he licked at her very center, found concealed like a sweet pearl amidst the soft skin, soft hair, an exquisitely sensitive nubbin of flesh, and with an appetite, an assurance, that she thought might stop her hard-beating heart, with wet, sure strokes of his tongue he made pleasure begin, and build, and heighten, like a grace note that went on and on, as an angel might sing, once and forever.

She hadn’t known.

Hadn’t known her body, her spirit, was capable of this.

This joy made incarnate, flowing from the sweet primal core of her, out and down her legs, up through her torso, blazing along her arms, her neck, and for all she knew creating an ecstatic halo around her head. Joy and bliss and pure sensation.

Vaguely Fiona realized that from her throat issued soft noises, somewhere between a hum and a gasp. They were moans, really, but quiet ones, because she had to hold back a little, had to hang onto her restraint, her dignity.

Didn’t she?

Did self-control have a place in all this, when she now was having a hard time figuring out where she ended, and where Alasdair began? When he knelt before her, was without haste worshipping her with his clever, kind, knowing tongue, his hands still holding her as if he would never let her go?

Her eyes closed, her head tipped back, and it seemed to Fiona that she was in danger—danger of the best and wildest kind —of flying off a high cliff, soaring without shackles into the ether.

She didn’t know why she stopped him.

All at once she wanted, needed, with a curious ferocity, to be yet closer to him, face to face. So—panting, sweating—she pulled away, sat up a little straighter, sharply aware that much of her was draped, imprisoned, in her prim white nightgown even as the rest of her body was free.

Deliciously free.

Alasdair sat back on his heels. Studied her face. Lifted his dark brows. “Everything all right?”

“Yes.”

“Did you like that?”

“Yes.”

“Would you like me to keep doing it?”

“No.”

“All right.” He said this with easy casualness. He didn’t get up, or yawn, or frown, or look impatient, or grab at her hand to make it do something for him. No, he sat on the soft, dove-gray carpet of her dressing-room like someone who had all the time in the world. For her.

Fiona wanted to laugh out loud, to clap her hands with glee. But that would have been childish. She didn’t feel like a child right now. She felt quite adult. More to the point, she felt very, very womanly. And, she realized, she felt—

Beautiful.

Strong.

Powerful.

Much like, she imagined, a butterfly, transformed, emerging from its cocoon.

So when Alasdair said, casually, “What would you like to do now?” she answered:

“I’ll show you.”

And rapidly she undid the long row of little white buttons at the neck of her nightgown, which she then ripped up and over her head, tossing it aside without a second glance. And she slid off her dainty velvet chair onto his lap, grabbed his face between her two hands, and said, “Kiss me again.”