Fiona could not have said how long it took for her to pick up everything from the carpet as well as from the polished wood floor beyond—how many minutes (hours?) it took to neatly separate the spools of thread. Her legs hurt from kneeling, and behind her eyes there developed a painful ache from the strain of peering so minutely in the flickering light of the candles. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she realized she didn’t have to restore the thread to its usual tidy state. So what if she missed a pin or two? She knew it wasn’t of any real consequence. But still she persisted, her fingers moving without conscious volition as the great violent storm of rage and frustration within her slowly receded, leaving her awash in a dreadful all-encompassing state of—

Fear.

A cold, nasty, desperate sort of fear.

What if Alasdair hated her now?

After their inauspicious beginning, things had been going so well between them. Better than well.

Yes, swimmingly, said a cruel little voice inside her brain, forcing her to think of the loch, a sinking boat, the loss of life and hope.

Her eyes caught a tiny glimmer underneath a large wing chair and grimly she inched toward it, still on her knees. Yes, another pin. God, God, had there been millions inside her work basket? She picked it up and knew a brief temptation to stab herself with it as she realized she had gradually crept all the way across the drawing-room to the green velvet curtains—curtains she now hated with a vehemence she knew wasn’t rational. But still. Was she really going to have them taken away tomorrow?

She had no answer.

The thought of tomorrow only made her feel anxious, weak, alone.

Quick, make a list, she told herself hastily. Order out of chaos. Her old standby. It had never failed her. Do this, then this, and after that, do this.

For years, making lists and keeping busy had allowed her to move on reasonably well from her . . . disappointment. It had saved her from falling into despair. Hers had not been a perfect life, of course, but it had been a useful one, a productive one. How many items had she crossed off her lists? Hundreds. Thousands. There was something to be said for that.

Making lists had proved to be an excellent coping method.

But it failed her tonight.

Like a magician whose tricks failed to materialize, her mind felt undone; she couldn’t think of a single comforting task that called out to her.

Tomorrow was only blank slate, frightening in its abject emptiness.

A creeping panic came upon Fiona now, and even though she wasn’t actually cold, she shuddered as if with a chill. Her chest felt tight, and it was hard to draw a complete breath. Quickly she stood, her eyes searching the room for—what?

For help.

For Alasdair.

She had enough presence of mind to drop the miscreant pin into her work basket, but that was all. Then she was hurrying to her bedchamber. Their bedchamber. She wanted to run, but it was only not running that kept her from giving way to true hysteria, especially since traversing the labyrinth of stairs and passageways in the dead of night was bad enough. She half-expected doors to fly open and monsters to leap out at her, or to feel an icy hand grabbing at her skirts from behind. Oh, the Sack Man, the Sack Man, her old nurse would say with gloomy relish, he’ll put you in his nasty sack and there’s nothing you can do to stop him. He’ll eat you alive, and laugh at your screams . . .

Fiona’s heart pounded hard, frantically, as if trying to escape the confines of her chest. There’s no such thing as a Sack Man, she told herself, I am safe, I am real, slow down, just put one foot in front of the other, BREATHE—

Nonetheless it still seemed like years, agonizing years, before she finally found herself in the long high corridor of the laird’s great suite. There was faithful Cuilean, who promptly rose to greet her, tail wagging, then subsided into a large furry ball at her soft command.

She put her hand on the doorknob, reassuring in its solidity. Turned the knob. Slipped into their bedchamber. Oh, God, what if he wasn’t even there?

He was, he was. The candles were extinguished—or had burned down—but the heavy draperies had been left open to admit wan, spectral moonlight, and she could make out his big long form in the bed.

Fiona waited for her heart to slow its rapid beat, but it seemed she might have to wait forever for it to do that: a frantic need had her in its grip and her heart, her body, knew it. She had to span the divide between them, she had to turn back the clock and restore what they’d had, only a day before. She took five, six paces into the room. And in a strange reversal, into the dimness she said:

“Are you awake?”

There was a pause.

“Aye,” he answered, without inflection. Even so, that one word was enough. In an instant she was at the bed—and ripping back the covers—and on the bed, on him. He was on his back and with unhesitating boldness she straddled him, groin to groin, her elegant, delicate gown of celestial blue crêpe puddling in disarray around her thighs.

Was it genuine desire that was driving her? Or something else (pure desperation, for example) that made her behave like an animal leaping upon its prey? Not for the world would Fiona pause to try and figure it out. It was time for action, not words, or so she told herself, and so she grabbed Alasdair’s wrists, shoved them up and back on either side of his head as if restraining unwilling arms; leaned down and pressed her breasts onto his bare hard chest, and urgently found his mouth with her own. She kissed him roughly, wildly, all moistness and heat and sinuous urgency.

For a few moments—possibly the longest, most terrible interlude in her whole entire life—his only response was absolute stillness. Cold, cold despair threatened to rise up within her and defiantly Fiona tightened her fingers around Alasdair’s wrists and ground her hips against his.

Then:

His tongue met her own, demandingly; his shaft, now rapidly hardening beneath her. From Fiona’s throat rose a guttural noise of satisfaction and with a provocative twist of her head she withdrew from their kiss, only to slide her tongue, wet, knowing, along the underside of his jaw, to the hard column of his throat to where the skin was tender. And without warning, but with provocative deliberation, she bit him—just hard enough to leave her mark upon him.

Alasdair jerked, and softly she laughed. Laughed when with ridiculous ease he broke her hold upon his wrists, brought his hands to her shoulders, pushed her upright and slid his hands down to play upon her breasts, still hidden within the soft silken bodice of her gown.

But her laughter was silenced as Alasdair’s clever fingers, his strong body beneath hers, evoked unspoken answer from her own body, and Fiona heard herself begin to pant, felt a molten energy begin to ignite within her. Lust. Glorious all-consuming lust. She lifted her hands to cover his, pressed fiercely upon them as if to urge him on. He laughed then, pulled down upon the fabric of her bodice, and when it resisted, with a casual purposefulness he simply tore it apart, baring her breasts to him.

Fiona registered first the sound of the crêpe ripping and gasped, a giddy half-shocked excitement rippling through her; next she felt the sudden sensation of cool air upon her exposed chest, and then Alasdair was sitting up, arms wrapped around her, his mouth suckling at her so insistently, so hungrily and hotly, that she began pulling at her skirts, wrenching them up and out of the way, until she found his hardness, until she was upon him, until she joined them together, and they were one, together, moving in the most primal dance of all, and all at once she knew.

He was the center of everything.

He was home to her, everything that was familiar and real and solid.

And wonderful.

And true.

The past had been swept away; she had opened up her heart again, she had changed. And change had made her free.

The words tumbled out of her in a breathless rush.

“Oh, Alasdair, oh, Alasdair, I’m so sorry for what I said, please forgive me,” and then the naked vulnerable truth, “I love you, I love you so much, I—”

He didn’t stop, but kissed her, his mouth slanted hard on hers as they moved together, and she thought she might go mad with pleasure, but even as she kissed him back she felt the cool machinery of her mind stir to life. She tried to push aside the unwelcome intrusion, to drift away on the powerful tide of passion, but her brain wouldn’t be denied. It pointed out, in a horrible, dry, rational way:

You told him you loved him. Then what happened?

Be quiet, you. Go away. This feels too good. We’re back where we were last night, everything is all right again. Oh God, this feels so good.

The inexorable rejoinder came back. You told him you loved him. And what did he say?

It’s stupid to say such a thing and expect to hear it repeated back to you.

Is it? coolly observed her brain. My, how easily you’re satisfied.

Shut up, shut up! Fiona hoped she didn’t blurt those words out loud, but by then it was too late. It was as if a beautiful symphony had been waylaid by another song being played at the same time, jangly and discordant and distracting.

“Stop,” she said to Alasdair.

He did stop, almost as if he too was aware of the discordance. Fiona made herself pull away from him, and sat, as stiff and straight as a poker, among the rumpled bedclothes. She was just as rumpled, she knew, with her ripped gown and tumbled skirts, and no doubt her hair was a ghastly mess, but to this she was indifferent. Her only remedial act was to pull together the two pieces of her bodice, creating a mockery of modesty. She watched as Alasdair leaned his back against the intricately carved headboard, carelessly pulled up a blanket to his waist. His broad chest was damp with sweat and he smelled so good—

Fiona set aside this tempting fact. Instead she folded her hands in her lap, just as if they were sitting fully clothed in a warm well-lit drawing-room. And she said, in a level tone:

“You don’t love me, do you?”

She saw that tempting chest rise and fall as he took a deep breath. “Fiona,” he said, “lass, let’s not do this.”

“There, I suppose, is your answer.”

He reached out to cover her hands with his own big warm one. “I like you,” he said, with unmistakable sincerity. “I like you, lass. And I admire you, I respect you. It’s more than a lot of married people can claim to share.”

“True.”

“Isn’t that enough for you?”

“No.”

“You mean that?”

“Yes.”

“Well,” he said, “that’s a problem, for it’s all I have to give to you.”

Fiona pushed his hand away. “It’s not enough.”

“You knew this was to be a marriage not of our choosing.” His voice was a little cooler, a little harder. “Your expectations —they ask too much of me. You’ve no right to be changing the terms as we go along.”

Here again the words tumbled out of her. “Life is about change, don’t you see that? It’s because of you, you wonderful maddening man, that I’ve finally learned it! You taught me how to love, truly love, and I don’t want to give that up!”

He stared at her. And finally he replied: “Can’t we agree to meet in the middle? Each bringing to the table what we have?”

“Oh, Alasdair, don’t you understand?” It was a plea, raw and vulnerable. “It’s not enough for me—not enough after all these years! I’m afraid I’ll dwindle away, until my existence is nothing more than—than a pathetic half-life. I’ll be a machine that gets things done—that’s all. I’ll be a ghost.” Two great fat tears spilled from her eyes and angrily she swiped them away. “I won’t live that way anymore! I want a real, full life! Can’t you understand? Don’t you want that?”

“I have a real life that I enjoy,” he answered, coldly now. “And here’s what I think, for what it’s worth. I think you’re being greedy.”

Greedy.

The word sounded so harsh. Like a reproach, a slap in the face. A confirmation, once again, that she simply wasn’t good enough. Would never be good enough. In that instant Fiona wanted to crumple. Wanted to bury herself under the covers, hide her head as well. But then her pride reasserted itself. She lifted her chin:

“You are, of course, entitled to your opinion.”

“I thank you,” Alasdair said, in his tone a certain irony, and he saw Fiona sit up even straighter, if that were possible. Coldness, irony, detachment—all excellent defenses for a man who felt he’d been sent reeling with his back against a wall. Christ in His heaven, he thought with more than a prickle of resentment, but he hadn’t wanted to have this conversation at all. What was the point of all this yapping? What could possibly be gained from it?

Why, he asked himself, couldn’t she simply leave well enough alone?

There she was, some three feet away from him, her silvery-blonde hair shimmering in the pale faint glow of the moonlight, her eyes huge and blazing in her slender face, her body lithe and taut, to it clinging a subtle intoxicating scent of wild roses. She was tousled, disheveled, magnificent. Even now, with hostility practically crackling out loud between them, he wanted her.

But when she spoke again, there was nothing in her manner which suggested that any sort of rapprochement was possible. She was as dry and analytical as a lawyer. “You say you have only liking to give me? But not love?”

“That is so.”

“It’s a lie. It’s not that you can’t love me. It’s that you won’t. There’s a world of difference, Alasdair.”

She knew. She knew. Her words were like a brilliantly aimed sucker punch to his solar plexus, hard and painful, but he willed himself not to show it. “You think yourself very shrewd.”

“But I’m right, aren’t I?”

No matter what he said next, he was doomed. If he told the truth, that she was right. If he denied it—he would be lying. He was many things, but not a liar. Which meant he had nowhere to turn, nowhere to run. Savagely he ran a hand through his hair. And to think that lately he’d felt so confident, so buttressed by his certainty it was all going to be easy. It was all going to be fine. Smooth sailing. He’d laugh at himself if it wasn’t so bitter a humor that now took hold of him. Oh yes, very smooth sailing. His wife was staring at him as if she’d like nothing better than to throttle him. Or worse.

“Answer me,” she hissed.

All at once Alasdair wished there was a cattle meet somewhere he could sneak off to in the middle of the night. But weariness swept over him then, weighty and hard, implacable, as if pinioning him to the bed. This, he thought, is what Sisyphus felt like, after being made to push a boulder up a steep hill all day long. It almost seemed like a boulder was on top of him. Would this excruciating, pointless exchange never end? “Oh, for God’s sake, Fiona, have done,” he said heavily. “I’ve had enough.”

He heard her sharply indrawn breath. Then she said, “I’ve had enough also.”

“Good. Let’s go to sleep. And if you like—” He exerted himself; he wanted to be generous. He wanted to at least offer her something; said, “If you like, we can talk more tomorrow.”

“No. No more talking. Enough.”

“It’s up to you.”

“Is it? How nice.”

Alasdair didn’t know what to say to that, so he only replied, “Good night then.” He slid back down, feeling with intense relief the pleasant sensation of his head resting against his pillows. But he realized she hadn’t moved. “Lie down, Fiona, under the blankets. You must be cold.”

She was still staring at him. “Yes. I am cold.”

“Come under the bedcovers, then.”

“It’s apparently escaped your notice that I’m still wearing my evening-gown.”

“Does it matter?” He could hear how he was almost slurring his words with drowsy fatigue. His eyelids were impossibly heavy. Sleep, like an irresistible sorceress, beckoned.

Did it matter? For the life of her, Fiona didn’t know how to answer him. Why not crawl underneath the warm bedclothes, still in her gown and jewelry and blue silk slippers? What possible difference would it make?

She thought about it.

Somehow—it came to her in slow realization—somehow it would seem like giving in.

Involuntarily she shuddered. She really was cold. Her fingers were starting to feel numb. Alasdair, she saw, was already deeply asleep; his set, shuttered expression had given way to an unguarded relaxation.

Well, there’s added insult to injury, Fiona told herself with a kind of wry desolation. He had slammed a door in her face and then promptly fell asleep, while she sat ramrod-straight, exhausted yet wide awake, feeling utterly alone.

Blearily, hopelessly, she got off the bed and eased from it one of the heavy blankets, then took one of her pillows and went quietly into the dark, high-ceilinged passageway off the bedchamber. She meant to go into her dressing-room, but somehow her steps led her to that mysterious locked door and she found herself standing in front of it with her hand on a doorknob that turned but did not yield.

An actual closed door, and not simply a metaphor for her life, Fiona thought with that same bleak amusement. She gave the doorknob a last futile twist and made her way into her dressing-room where she lit a single candle.

Without haste she folded the blanket into a makeshift bed, changed into her heaviest nightgown, took off her jewelry, brushed and braided her hair, cleaned her teeth. She did all this methodically, like an automaton. And finally she blew out the candle, lay down, and snugged the blanket around her.

Ha, I’ve made my bed and now I must lie in it, she thought, staring into the obliterating darkness. She couldn’t even make out the shapes of the armoires, the dressing-table, anything. She did catch a whiff of the rose perfume she had, earlier in the evening, dabbed with joyful anticipation behind her ears. That seemed a lifetime ago. She had been reasonably happy then.

And now?

Now she was—nothing. Empty. With nothing to say, nothing to talk about.

The long minutes ticked past, one after the other, just as slowly as they had in the Great Drawing-room.

Eventually, she supposed, they would all add up into an hour. And then another hour. Morning would, whenever it was ready, come.

A deep sigh escaped her.

She turned onto her side.

She wished that rose scent would go away.

Oh, she was weary, so weary. But not the least bit sleepy. Her mind churned uselessly, on and on. Was she right? Was she wrong? Was she greedy and demanding? Was she foolish to have allowed herself to fall in love with Alasdair Penhallow? And could these things even be controlled? Her love for Alasdair was like—oh, God, it was like a wild riot in her heart. Unstoppable, as exuberant as wildflowers in the spring. Nothing you could do would ever keep them from blooming in dazzling profusion, as far as the eye could see.

Suddenly her brain served up a new idea: I could try to make him love me.

And just as quickly it was rejected. What, manipulate Alasdair, lie to him, be someone she wasn’t? And what sort of sorry love would that be?

No, he had made it clear what his limits were. And you couldn’t lose what you never had.

People were—what they were. She couldn’t help but feel more than a little foolish for issuing her passionate speech to him about change.

Take her, for example.

She thought back to the second night of her marriage, when Alasdair had come strolling toward the bed, naked, jolting her into awareness of his intense and alluring masculinity. Had your fill? he had said in his deep and equally alluring voice, mocking her, unsettling her. At that moment she had somehow splintered into different Fionas: the cool, efficient, everyday Fiona; a cracklingly angry Fiona; and, surprising her, a Fiona so alive with desire she practically caught on fire with it.

Here in the silence of her dark, dark dressing-room she could almost feel herself reverting to that first, fundamental, reliable Fiona. It was like putting on an old pelisse that you’d had for years. It wasn’t in the best condition, perhaps, and was tight-fitting in certain areas (because you’d outgrown it?). But it was familiar. And with familiarity came a certain comfort. A certain sense of safety, cocooned in which she could acknowledge that a great love was, clearly, to be denied to her. Well, that was life, wasn’t it? And after all, she had a lot to be thankful for.

As if by magic, a sheet of paper presented itself to her mind’s eye.

• Good health
• Meaningful work
• A beautiful house to live in
• A library filled with books
• Delicious meals
• Wonderful rides with Gealag
• A husband who doesn’t berate or beat me

This imaginary sheet of paper, only partially filled with her neat, efficient writing, seemed so vivid that Fiona felt she could almost reach out in the darkness to touch it.

And there, you see? she told herself. You’re back to making lists again. How splendid. Congratulations.

If there was a rather sardonic quality to this little interior commentary, well, she could live with that.

And immediately, with a sort of horrible fluency, she turned her mind to the tasks that awaited her tomorrow—no, today, actually, given how late in the night it was. Hand over those old bills to Alasdair (there was no point in hanging on to those, that was plain). Talk to Cook about the dinner party. Visit the heavily pregnant farmer’s wife. Take the lovely, elegant, damaged, celestial-blue evening-gown, cut it into small pieces, and stow them away in her scrap-bag. Oh, and it was brewing day; she must see how the fermentation was coming along. Write letters to her sisters, and to Mother—

Suddenly Fiona knew a sharp, painful stab of homesickness. For soft, sweet Mother. For her old bedchamber, in the high turret room with a view that seemed to go on forever. For Wick Bay. For Mother’s cheerfully messy solarium, the horribly draughty drawing-room, even the interminable parade of mutton dishes. Even—yes—even for Father.

She’d be there right now, if . . .

If Alasdair had married one of the other women.

Bold, vivacious Janet Reid. She would have been a spirited mate for Alasdair. Perhaps, in time, she’d have matured. Mellowed. Possibly she would have been kinder to the servants.

And the dainty, ethereal Mairi MacIntyre? Not a terribly useful sort of girl, but oh so lovely to look at. Some men liked a wife high on a pedestal, as an ornament to admire from afar.

As for the bovine Wynda Ramsay and her obsession with the English ton and her execrable French—well, at least she had a tremendous bosom, which is more than she could say about herself.

Oh, that wretched clan decree! If not for that, she’d never have met Alasdair. Married him. Would never have fallen in love with him. She’d still be home in Wick Bay, no doubt, and wouldn’t that have been better?

Fiona wrestled herself onto her other side, bunching the blanket firmly around her. She tried to tell herself it was true.

When Alasdair entered the breakfast-room that morning, he did so a little warily, not knowing quite what to expect. How would it be between himself and Fiona? Hostile, difficult, peppered with barbed comments, thinly veiled insults? Would there be a loaded question, perhaps, about how well he had slept?

There she was in her place at the foot of the table, wearing a charming long-sleeved day-dress of softest periwinkle, her hair smoothly coiled into a low knot at the nape of her neck. She was her usual elegant self, slim, upright, neat as a pin and pretty as a picture.

She looked up from her teacup as he entered. Pleasantly she said, “Good morning, laird,” and Alasdair was aware of a rush of relief.

“Good morning,” he answered, and nodded at Duff and Isobel, who were, he noticed, eyeing him with trepidation before glancing with the same nervousness at Fiona. Yes, there had been quite a scene last night in the drawing-room, and no doubt they were expecting something of a similar nature.

But Fiona had obviously set the tone, and Alasdair gratefully took his own seat at the head of the table. Today was, after all, a new day. Perhaps they could talk things through. He saw that next to his plate and silverware was a dark red brocaded document folder.

He looked at Fiona.

“The old invoices,” she said calmly, “for your review.” And that was that. A servant offered her more tea, and with that same pleasant manner she accepted.

“Thank you,” Alasdair answered, pushing aside the brocade folder with a sharp repugnance he didn’t, at the moment, care to analyze.

“You’re welcome.”

Silence then filled the breakfast-room, which was illuminated by a particularly beautiful and piercing September sunlight, warm and golden. It wasn’t until halfway through the meal that Alasdair became aware of that silence. Usually Isobel would be chattering about this or that. Duff might be mentioning his plans for the day, and urging Alasdair to join him. Fiona would at least be saying something.

It was then he realized that Duff and Isobel kept glancing between him and Fiona. And that Fiona, usually so hearty in her appetite, had barely touched her food. That underneath her eyes were the heavy dark circles of one who had not slept much the night before, if at all. But to this she had not referred, and had only sipped calmly at her tea.

“Madam,” said Alasdair, “is your breakfast not to your liking?”

She turned her eyes—cool gray today—to him. “I find I’m not very hungry this morning, laird.”

“Ah.” He paused. “Are you unwell?”

“By no means.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Thank you for inquiring.”

“Of course.”

It was all very civil. Her tone was still pleasant. So what exactly was bothering him? It was like having a pebble in your shoe. Such a small thing, yet impossible to ignore. Doggedly he continued:

“My bailiff Shaw says that the bull sent by the Colling brothers has arrived. I know we talked about riding out together to see it. Would you like to do that?”

“How kind of you to ask. But I’m afraid I’ve so many things to do today. Perhaps another time.” Fiona rose to her feet, smoothed out her gown. “In fact, I really ought to get started. If you’ll excuse me?”

Briskly she left the breakfast-room. Baffled, struggling within himself, Alasdair stood and caught up with her in the long high-ceilinged passageway. Servants bustled to and fro, but he had to speak.

“Madam,” he said, “Fiona—”

She turned, her eyebrows lifted inquiringly.

He came close to her, and saw with a certain gladness that she didn’t step away. In a low voice he said, “Would you like to talk?”

And lightly she answered, “About what, laird?”

“About last night.”

“No.”

“No?”

“You were honest with me,” she said, lightly, pleasantly. “I appreciate that. We understand each other now. And when I agreed with you about no more talking, I meant it.”

“Yes,” he said, “but . . .”

She waited. His eyes searched her face. His brain searched for words. Abruptly there flashed into his memory an experience from long ago, when at a dare from Hewie—both of them reckless fifteen-year-olds—he had agreed to climb a sheer rockface on Ben Macdui. Initially he’d done well, and had easily ascended to a point some fifty feet above the ground. And then his fingers could no longer find purchase above him. It had been a sickening sensation. He could go no further.

That’s what it felt like right now.

Fiona wasn’t cold, wasn’t furious. Those luminous eyes weren’t blazing with passionate emotion. Yet it was as if he could gain no purchase on her; she was in some fundamental way inaccessible.

“Well,” she said at last, “if that’s all, laird?”

“Yes—no.” He groped for her hand, held it gently. She did not resist, but there was about her the slightly distracted air of a busy person who was mentally already somewhere else.

“How sweet,” Fiona said, and with equal gentleness withdrew her hand. “I do hope you have a nice day.”

And she turned and walked away from him.

Although he had long finished his breakfast, Duff lingered at the table while Isobel poked at a strawberry tart, picking away at the buttery crust until a pile of golden crumbs had accumulated on her plate and the sweet red interior lay exposed but uneaten. Her white brow was wrinkled and her lips pursed distractedly, her eyes downcast. She wore this morning a high-necked gown of soft violet, trimmed at the neckline and sleeves with a modest fall of white ruffled lace, and it came to Duff, as he observed her, that she rather resembled a pansy.

He liked pansies.

One of his favorite flowers, now he came to think on it.

He said, unconsciously echoing Alasdair, “Is your tart not to your liking, madam?”

She started. “Oh! Only look what I’ve done. How wasteful of me! I’m sure it’s delicious, sir, but—”

“Call me Duff, won’t you?”

“Oh! Ought I? I should hate to appear forward.”

He observed with pleasure the pretty blush on her plump cheeks. “Not a bit of it,” he declared. “And might I have the privilege of calling you by your Christian name? I’ve always thought ‘Isobel’ to be a lovely name. That’s what I called a terrier bitch I had when I was just a lad. What a hunter! She must’ve killed a hundred badgers if she killed a one.” Nostalgically Duff added, “Had bright eyes like little shiny buttons, just like yours.”

“How sweet of you . . . Duff,” answered Isobel, fluttering a little at the compliment, and he felt in the region between his stomach and his shoulders an unfamiliar, but agreeable sensation. In his lungs? What else was in there? Kidneys, liver? Yes, and also one’s heart. He smiled and said:

“Now then! What’s had you so preoccupied that you’ve torn that pastry to bits?”

At once Isobel looked worried again. “I was just thinking about what happened last night in the Great Drawing-room. Such a fierce quarrel! And it was so tense just now between dear Fiona and the laird. Underneath, if you know what I mean? It’s dreadful! I can’t help but be upset.”

“Yes, well . . . But . . . Oughtn’t to dwell on . . . I mean—” Fumblingly Duff struggled to think of something consoling to say. It didn’t come easy; he hadn’t been in the habit of paying much attention to the feelings of others. But there was something about Isobel that made him want to try. And then, in a stunning bolt of inspiration, it came to him. “Did you notice how—well—snappish Fiona was last night? They say that in a certain—ah—delicate state, ladies can be peevish—and consider how she didn’t eat her breakfast this morning. Maybe she’s . . . you know . . .”

Isobel’s eyes were round. “Goodness! Why, yes! Of course, it would be early days yet, but still . . . It certainly would explain . . . How terribly clever of you to think of it!”

“It’s nothing, really,” he said modestly. God’s eyeteeth, but it was nice to bask in some womanly admiration, and from a lady, too, none of your silly little tavern wenches either. To be sure, Isobel’s face did have some lines upon it, but so did his, truth be told, and conferred upon them both, he thought, a fine sort of shared dignity. He was especially glad, now, that he’d lopped off that unruly beard of his, and that today he’d put on one of his better shirts.

Which reminded him. He called to one of the servants: “There’s a basket of mine out in the hall—bring it in.”

When the servant returned bearing the basket, he said, “Place it by Dame Isobel.” And added, as if the words came to him a little rustily, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sir,” said the servant, and Duff realized that it didn’t feel so bad to acknowledge when people did you a service, either.

Isobel was staring in bewilderment at the brilliantly colored heap of garments before her. Bright yellow. Loud green. Vibrant chartreuse. Blazing red. “Your—your waistcoats, Duff? Shall I mend them for you, as I did your shirt?”

“No—no, you misunderstand me,” he answered quickly. “I’m discarding them. They are, perhaps, a trifle too—er—vivid for one of my age. What may have suited me most excellently in the past might not be quite so—ah—comme il faut. I thought—well, I thought they might find new life as wee dresses for the dolls you make.”

“Oh, Duff, how very kind of you!” exclaimed Isobel, touched. “And the fabric will make the most delightful little gowns. Thank you so much!” She smiled at him, eyes shining with gratitude.

Duff opened his mouth to reply, but found himself at a loss for words. It had been a long time since a lady had looked at him in that way. Maybe never.

A servant broke the spell, by offering to take away his empty plate. “Oh—um—yes. I thank you,” said Duff, and was filled with a surprising regret when Isobel rose to her feet, saying:

“Oh dear! We’re keeping the servants from their work, I’m afraid.” She ran a caressing hand over the smooth, bright material of a gaudy yellow waistcoat. “How lovely. Well! Thank you again! So considerate of you! Good day to you, Duff.”

“And to you, Isobel. I trust I’ll see you at nuncheon?”

“Yes,” she said, a little breathlessly, her face pink, and thus they went their separate ways, Isobel with her basket to the Little Drawing-room, Duff to the library where he intended to pore over the latest racing journal but instead stood at the window, thoughtfully puffing on his pipe in a state of pleasant—very pleasant—abstraction.