Chapter One

Cragian, Scotland. Winter 1813

Brynmore McCann entered the stables with her head down and her thoughts on the evening’s work. Nerves and dread took up too much room in her body. The biscuits she’d choked down for appearance’s sake at tea attempted to claw their way out. Chuffs and the restless shuffling of hooves registered too late. A viselike grip pinched her upper arm, and she was jerked inside a dim, hay-filled stall.

A big, warm body pressed her into the rough wooden planking of the stall. His smell registered. A strange combination of currants and horse, sweet and earthy. Not unpleasant, but lately, every time she was presented with currant bread or wine, her stomach refused what used to be treats.

“You’ve done your best to ignore me, but I’ve caught you now, haven’t I, you little hellion?” Dugan Armstrong’s husky whisper might have been alluring if it had come from someone else entirely.

“You haven’t caught me yet.” She twisted out of his grip. His fingers would leave their mark on her fair skin by morning. She hated the fear he created in her and tried to hold her ground, but she shuffled backward until the jamb of the stall door halted her escape.

Tall and broad, with blond hair and blue-gray eyes, Dugan was a handsome man with a ready, beguiling smile. The women in Cragian were agog if he treated them to any of his attention. He saved his cruelty for her.

“The papers have been signed. You’ll be mine in two days. I’ll be the first man to ride between those long, lovely legs of yours, and it’s going to hurt. I’ll make sure of it.” His eyes had no depth, no softness. They were like pieces of sharp shale from the riverbed.

He closed the distance between them and swooped in for a kiss. She turned her face away, and wood slivers bit into her cheek. His lips left a damp trail along her jaw. She should fight back. She wanted to fight back, but from experience, she knew her ire only prolonged the agony and gave him a perverse joy.

She ducked under his arm and stumbled out of the stall, wiping her face on her cloak as a shudder of disgust trembled through her. Retreating to the other side of the aisle, she sought comfort in a nuzzle from the nearest horse. She couldn’t marry Dugan. Living destitute would be better, wouldn’t it?

Spoken like someone who’s never been starving, her old friend Eden Drake would have said with an ironic laugh. If her foolhardy plan tonight wasn’t enough to stop the wedding, at the very least, Bryn would take away something Dugan craved above all else. He wanted to be her first lover? He wouldn’t be.

“Two more days, Brynmore.” He stalked out of the stables, slapping a whip against his boots. The noise portended something she couldn’t allow herself to contemplate. She stumbled farther into the stables, passed his horse, and had to look away, repulsed by the marks on his coat.

The very first day he’d trotted into their stable yard when she was only ten, she’d known. He had failed her basic tenet of moral fiber. Dugan Armstrong treated his horse poorly.

Old Cadell, the beloved stableman from her youth, judged a man’s character by the way he treated his stock, and Bryn had embraced the philosophy. The lashes on the flanks of Dugan’s bay gelding only reaffirmed her belief.

She slipped into her horse’s stall, huddled in the corner, and rested her chin on tucked knees. Her ancient piebald dropped its head to nudge her shoulder and chuff in her ear while she stripped hay into countless pieces. Would anyone notice if she burrowed into the hay and hid like a mouse?

Bryn was perfectly content to remain a spinster at four and twenty. How then had she ended up in this mess? Her half sister, Mary, along with her husband, Craddock, had devised the match and sprung it on her like a trap.

Wielding her tongue like a rapier, Mary had deftly parried Bryn’s arguments and entreaties to stay the marriage. Her sister had been born knowing when to inflict small, torturing cuts and when to eviscerate. Bryn didn’t have the skill or stomach to respond in kind. Experience urged her to hide, as she’d done all her life. Only this time her problems surrounded her like a brick wall with nowhere to hide, nowhere to retreat.

The crunch of stone penetrated her reverie. She popped up and laid her arms across the low stall door. Bryn’s maid kicked stones along the path. Wearing her best blue dress with a narrow tartan in soft gold and greens cinching a tiny waist, Sarah looked as grim and determined as Bryn felt.

Multiple braids of rich chestnut hair wound from her temples and intersected at her nape. Sarah’s hair was her crowning glory, making her plain, even features special. Bryn fingered the ends of the ghastly red mop hanging to her shoulders. No amount of pins could confine the mess.

“Lud, we aren’t paying a call to Lady MacShane.” Bryn tried to inject a teasing lilt to offset her jumping nerves.

Sarah fluttered hands around her hair, tucking and patting, ruddy color bursting on her cheeks. “I wasn’t sure what to wear. You’ll be attending to your… well, your business, and there are all sorts of extra lads in town for your nuptials.”

A horrid stew bubbled in Bryn’s stomach. “Don’t remind me. The charming groom-to-be just accosted me.”

“What did he say? Did he hurt you?” Sarah propped her hands on her hips, looking ready to do battle. The man had almost everyone fooled. But not Sarah.

“The usual threats. My wedding night would be a painful experience with any man, but Dugan wants to make it extra-special.”

Sarah covered Bryn’s hands over the edge of the stall door and squeezed. “Tonight you’ll thwart him.”

“He’ll hate me even more for it, and my sister’s not likely to be understanding about the situation either. I worry it won’t be enough.”

“Not enough?” Sarah asked in a tart voice. “What else can you sacrifice? Lady Mary—forgive me for saying this about your blood kin—but she only sees what will make her richer and raise her standing in society. As Ma would say, she’s a grubber. If she were any sort of sister, she would abide by your wishes.”

Bryn didn’t argue the point, as she happened to agree wholeheartedly. Instead, she went to work saddling the old piebald. Sarah scooted into the stall to help. She was more a sister to Bryn than Mary would ever be.

After Bryn’s mother died birthing a stillborn son, Bryn and Sarah had roamed the hills together and spent hours trailing Sarah’s mother, the housekeeper, or idling in the stables with Cadell. Too soon, however, their carefree youths had ended.

Sarah had begun her training for housework, and Mary declared Bryn had turned into too much of a heathen for polite society. Fruitless hours were spent drilling Bryn about silverware, the courses of a formal dinner, the intricacies of embroidery, the pianoforte, and watercolors—the typical education of a young lady of a certain means.

Bryn and Sarah shared her piebald mount, pressed close for warmth. Bryn nudged the horse out of the stables and into the January cold. The ground was frozen but clear. It wouldn’t be for long. Clouds gathered far in the west, dark and ominous in the dimming rays of light. Snow was nigh.

“You could have worn something a bit more enticing.” Sarah locked her hands tightly around Bryn’s waist.

Bryn peeled her cloak open, but the wind barely penetrated the brown, worsted fabric of her dress. Buttoned to the neck, loose around her bosom—like most of her garments—and with long sleeves, the dress was practical, not fashionable. But the woodsy color tempered the red streaks in her hair and matched her eyes.

“It’s not like I had much choice. Every dress I own is either brown or gray. Unless you think I should have worn my breeches?” Bryn asked with a small huffing laugh.

“Perhaps you should have. You’d likely get all sorts of ungentlemanly attention in those. That’s your aim, isn’t it?” Sarah’s soft voice in her ear sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with the cold.

“I suppose so.” Heat rushed to her face. “I’m nervous. I’ve never flirted or played coy with a man.”

“You’re not trying to get one of the lads to court you, for goodness’ sake.” Sarah paused, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “I managed to ask Agnes a few questions after the nooning meal.”

Bryn twisted on the saddle, her heart stuttering into a faster rhythm at the sight of Sarah’s grimace. “What did she say?”

“She said men couldn’t care less who they lay with. It’s an itch they need to scratch. Sometimes they don’t even bother with a bed. They lift her skirts, do their business, and leave without so much as a kiss or a thank-you.” Sarah tried to mask her shock and distress, but the squeak in her voice betrayed her.

With a shaking hand, Bryn tucked her hair behind her ears, but the wind negated her efforts. “That’s good news, isn’t it? It could be finished in a matter of moments. Did she say anything about pain?” She gnawed at the inside of her mouth until the tang of blood hit her tongue.

“She said the first time might hurt a little, but no more than a little prick. Then the half-wit nearly fell over laughing, and that’s all I could get out of her.”

“Am I doing the right thing?” Bryn’s voice quavered. Her hands stiffened, drawing the horse to a halt.

“If you do nothing, Dugan and Mary get everything they want. If you go through with your plan, the marriage can’t proceed.”

Bryn wasn’t as confident of the outcome. Sarah hadn’t seen the determination on Mary’s face and in her voice. A niggling sense of foreboding fluttered in Bryn’s chest. She’d interrupted enough whispered conversations to know some piece of vital information was being withheld.

The entire endeavor was Bryn’s idea, and she would need to bear the possible consequences. “I’ll be ruined. If Mary throws me out—”

“You have friends hereabouts and in Edinburgh, don’t forget. Worry about that only if it comes to pass.” Sarah gave her a reassuring squeeze. Bryn nudged them onward, her hands trembling and her shoulders tense, but a steely resolve fortified her bones.

The edge of Cragian materialized through the winter dusk. Bryn guided them to the inn’s stables. “If I’m occupied, you’re to ride the horse home. I don’t want questions raised until morning.”

Bryn ignored Sarah’s cutting, worry-filled glance. Leading the way into Cragian’s only inn, Bryn forced her hands to her sides in a show of calm. Inside, she seethed with anxiety, fear of the unknown, and even a dash of justified vengeance.

A handful of local lads called out greetings, but most of the men packed into the common room were strangers. Strangers were good. Their masters and mistresses were at the house, enjoying Mary and Craddock’s hospitality for the evening.

Although the dinner was ostensibly to celebrate her union with Dugan, in truth, Mary and Craddock played political chess. Forming alliances, gaining pawns, plotting coups. When Bryn had pleaded nerves—not a lie—Mary had waved her away, unbothered the bride-to-be would be absent.

Young Gavin, the butcher’s handsome son, entertained at a corner table. A prospect? Bryn took a small table by the door, constant drafts swirling under her skirts. A smoky haze gave the entire scene a misty, nightmarish quality.

Sarah pushed through the throng around the bar to order them ales. Perhaps the alcohol would impart courage. False or not, it would be welcome. Bryn ran a finger over the rough planks of the oak table, aware of every indentation and scar.

Male voices buzzed around her, but she gave no heed to the bawdy comments and occasional shouts of laughter. She examined each candidate, assessing and then discarding them before moving on to the next.

Sarah set two tankards on the table and slid into the chair beside Bryn, their knees bumping. “Have you settled on anyone yet?”

Bryn shushed her, but no one seemed to be paying them particular interest. “Is this really the best that Cragian has to offer?”

Sarah looked around the room. “This is better than the usual fare, to be honest. Why do you think I’ve never succumbed to the fine institution of matrimony? Most of the good ones—bad ones too—have up and gone to Edinburgh.”

“Colin Conrad is still about.”

“Colin Conrad is not a man to be tupping a woman willy-nilly. Are you mad?” Sarah asked with starch.

Bryn smothered a small smile and waggled her eyebrows. “I meant he’s a fine man who hasn’t up and left for the city.”

“Are you seriously playing matchmaker for me at a time like this?” Sarah shook her head and gave Bryn her full consideration. “For tonight, think of yourself. Please. Find a man with kind eyes and bed him.”

Kind eyes? Would she even recognize such? Cadell had been the only man who cared a whit about her. Once the midwife had ascertained Bryn wasn’t a longed-for male heir, her father, Baron McCann, had walked away, not sparing her another thought up to his untimely death almost a decade earlier.

Tonight might change the course of her life. The man she chose might only be scratching an itch, but the damage to her body and reputation would be irreparable. The collar of her dress drew tight, constricting her breath, and in spite of the chilly drafts, an unbearable heat beaded sweat on her forehead. The uncontrollable panic had pressed and constricted her body like a vise more often since the announcement of her betrothal to Dugan. She pushed back from the table and dove for the door. For freedom.

The night braced her upright and held her against the rough planking of the inn in a cold, comforting grip. Her lungs exchanged smoke with crisp, winter air. It felt like a betrayal when her body reacted this way, and she fought hard to regain control. With every breath, the oppressive panic dissipated but left her shaky.

Bryn did what she always did when troubled. She retreated to the stable. Rich, loamy air surrounded her like a warm plaid. The mixture of horse, manure, hay, and leather was so inherently comforting her anxiety lowered in pitch and intensity.

A man’s murmur rose through the occasional nicker and whinny. For a long moment she stood still, letting the cadence soothe her like a wild pony. The deep, rich voice mesmerized her, and she found herself under its spell, moving inexorably closer to the open stall. She peered around the door to see a man rubbing down his horse with sweeping, graceful strokes of a blanket.

He exchanged blanket with brush and methodically groomed the horse’s flanks, all the while talking nonsense to his besotted mount. The low timbre of his voice lilted with a Scot’s brogue. The horse nuzzled the man during his ministrations. A greatcoat and brimmed hat kept his identity a secret.

The edge of his coat and boots were muddy and road worn but of excellent quality. How had such a fine gentleman ended up in such an out-of-the-way village as Cragian? For her wedding? Why then wasn’t he at the house with all the other kowtowers?

He circled to the horse’s opposite flank, and she caught sight of the lower half of his face. Weakness crawled into her knees, and her stomach took a fearless leap. She knew him.

Dark stubble covered a strong, square jaw. In juxtaposition, his mouth was sensuous, the bottom lip full and curled up in a smile as if caring for his horse was a pleasure and not a chore. Something deep inside of her, something she hadn’t even known was lying dormant, stirred to life after almost ten years.

It would be this man or no one. The man who’d once loved her sister. The man she’d loved from afar for too many years. Maxwell Drake. The Fates had made her decision.

Perhaps it was instinct, perhaps it was her sigh, perhaps the streak of lightning awakening her memories crackled the air. Whatever the reason, he swiveled his head faster than a wolf sensing prey, his gaze snaring her.

Shielded by his hat, she couldn’t tell whether his eyes were kind, but his smile had vanished, and he looked… unapproachable, unyielding, untouchable.

She shuffled backward, breaking the unseen taut bindings, and ran. With her hood pulled low, she banged back into the common room, drawing nearby stares. She grabbed Sarah’s arm and pulled her friend into the narrow servant’s hallway.

“What’s the matter?” Sarah asked with wide eyes, standing on tiptoe to see over Bryn’s shoulder toward the door.

“There was a man in the stable.”

“Who?”

Bryn bit her lip. Sarah knew all her secrets. As if the walls leaned in to eavesdrop, she whispered, “Maxwell Drake.”

Although her eyes flared even wider, Sarah only pressed her lips together and nodded. “I’ll discover which room Jock gives him.”

Bryn stayed hidden under her cloak and in the dim hallway, waiting for the door to open and reveal him. When it did, she sagged against the jointed planks of the wall, her relief profound. She hadn’t imagined him. He whipped his hat off to duck under the low beam, ran a gloved hand through his thick, dark hair, and rubbed his nape.

Peeling her gaze off him, she examined the crowd of men, but no one showed signs of recognition. An irregular gait carried him to the innkeeper’s desk. A limp. A recent injury or an old one? After a short discussion with Jock, he settled at the short bar with his traveling bag at his feet, pulled off his gloves, and signaled for a drink.

A small glass. Not ale then, liquor. He drank it in one go and clapped the glass on the bar top. A barmaid refilled it.

Her color high, Sarah weaved through the crowd to Bryn’s hiding spot. “He’s got the chamber at the top of the steps. The most expensive one. He ordered a hot bath, but Jock told him it would be at least an hour with the crowd. Told him they were here for a wedding, but he didn’t look interested or ask questions.”

“I’ll wait in his room,” Bryn said with sudden decisiveness.

“What if he turns you away? What then?”

Her gaze landed on Maxwell’s broad back and bent head. “Then it’s over. I marry Dugan, and everyone gets what they want—except for me.”

“You’re sure?” Sarah sounded anything but.

“I’m sure.”

* * * * *

Maxwell Drake kept his face averted, only glancing around the crowded common room once. He didn’t look long enough to recognize anyone, and no one recognized him. Even Jock, the old innkeeper, hadn’t batted an eye when he’d signed the register as Capt. Drake. His mother had been in the ground six years, but even when she was alive, most of the villagers had acted as if she were invisible or beneath their notice—a whore.

After a fourth glass of substandard Scots whisky, Maxwell let his gaze wander from the scarred wood to the crowd once more. This time he sought a pair of impossibly wide brown eyes set in an elfish face. No luck.

A lass had watched him tend his horse. Her knowing smile had frozen him as if she could see straight into his heart and beyond. The sprite had disappeared before his stiff, sore leg could carry him to the stall door.

No matter. He didn’t need a complication. Even so, he scanned the room once again. He turned back and tapped his glass on the bar, ready for another. Coming home had damaged his armor, leaving gaping holes, vulnerable for attack. It was a damned uncomfortable feeling.

He’d spent nearly a decade trying to shake off the dirty village and the starving, grief-stricken boy he’d been. The memories he had quashed after he left Cragian at twenty bubbled up like molten lava burning him with their intensity. The potency should have been diluted by his years serving on the Continent and working in London.

It wasn’t. Tomorrow he would find his mother’s grave and pay his respects. He would settle his debts so he could move on with a clear conscience and never look back. A hollow, aching pit grew by the minute, and he rubbed a hand over his chest. He supposed it might be his heart—or what was left of it.

His glass was empty again. How many did that make? He normally didn’t overindulge. Men fell into enough foolishness without the added encouragement, and truth be told, he didn’t hold his liquor well.

He stumbled twice up the stairs, laughing softly. A bath and then bed. The morning would bring with it a hellish headache, but the temporary blunting of his raw emotions in the present was well worth it. He threw the door open with a flourish and crashed into the doorframe.

Steam rose from the tub, and a cheery fire burned in the grate. The warmest welcome he’d receive in Cragian, no doubt. He kicked the door closed with his heel, dropped his bag, and peeled off his jacket, waistcoat, and shirt. Folding them carefully, he stacked them on the narrow dresser. Old army habits were hard to break.

He grasped a low rafter and stretched his aching muscles, taking weight off his bad leg. A gasp from the bed jerked him around. He blinked. Had the local whisky been tainted? The vision gracing the middle of his bed was surely a mirage.

A woman with remarkable red-gold hair loose around her shoulders sat in the shadows of the bed hangings. Her demure, long-sleeve chemise glowed white. Her luminous eyes gave her away—the fairy from the stable.

“Lass, I fear there’s been a mistake. Did you wander into the wrong room?”

“No. No mistake, sir.” Her voice was husky, and her gaze wandered up and down his chest. Her lips were curled into a bemused smile that sent warmth skittering into his extremities. Arousal followed on its heels.

“You’re in my bed a-purpose? To what end?” His brain moved at a crawl, the cogs blunted by alcohol.

“I hope my purpose is obvious. I wish you to bed me. Have your way with me. Debauch me. Tup me. Whatever it is a gentleman calls it,” she said with a fair amount of sass.

“A gentleman wouldn’t call it anything. Much less consider it with an innocent.”

“I’m hardly innocent, sir. I’ve done it hundreds of times.” She brushed the fiery curtain of hair behind an ear. Did it feel as silky as it looked?

“Hundreds?” The corners of his mouth quirked into an unexpected smile, considering the circumstances.

“Certainly. Only a woman of experience would wait for a man in his bed.”

Maxwell looked her over again. Although the virginal, practical underclothes were strangely alluring, they didn’t match her declaration of experience. Most likely, she had bedded a handful of local lads and was out to make some coin. Perhaps a tumble was exactly what he needed to help him forget what awaited him in the morning.

“How much then?” he asked.

“How much for what?” Confusion reflected in her voice.

“Your services for the night.”

After an unintelligible chuff, she said, “I wouldn’t charge you, sir. The first bedding is on the house.” The woman’s shoulders rolled in protectively, filling Maxwell with questions he didn’t want answered. Tonight he could only handle simple. Simple, uncomplicated pleasure.

“I’ll be gone to Edinburgh on the morrow, never to return. There won’t be a second tumble with me.”

Serenity wiped imagined troubles off her face. “Tonight will cost you nothing.”

“That doesn’t seem quite fair.” He pulled out a handful of coins and slapped them on the table by the bed. “Take this when we’re done.”

The woman’s gaze held on the money. “You’ll bed me then?”

Concealed to the waist by covers, everything but her face and primly folded hands covered by white fabric, she was the antithesis of a seductress. She spoke in a crisp, light brogue and appeared clean. Warning bells pealed somewhere in the back of his drink-addled mind. But decisions were being made by something lower, situated between his legs, and with an infinitely smaller brain.

It had been longer than he wanted to admit since he’d lain with a woman. He didn’t relish the emotional entanglements from keeping a mistress. Neither did he normally use whores. The unfair balance of power left him feeling cold, but tonight marked a change in his tightly disciplined habits.

There was no question he was drawn to her. She’d been haunting him since he’d caught sight of her in the stable, and having her carnally available had made him go hard as a stone. Why not indulge himself—just this once?

Without answering, he sat to pull off his boots and thick woolen stockings. Regaining his feet, he released the buttons of his fall, his gaze never leaving the woman on the bed. She clutched the sheet to her chest. Her tense body spoke of fear, but her eyes told a different tale. Her hungry gaze flicked over his body, and her little tongue darted to wet her lips. He pushed his breeches and smallclothes to the floor and stepped out of them, completely nude.

“Oh sweet Jesus,” she whispered. Her attention seemed riveted between his legs, her eyes as big as saucers. A woman bedded hundreds of times had surely seen plenty of cocks. Again, warning bells rang dimly though the fog of lust and alcohol but were ignored as easily as a buzzing gnat.

She held motionless as if she were prey and he a predator ready to attack. Actually, the image wasn’t far off the mark. Part of him wanted to fall on top of her like a beast. Instead, he bypassed the bed altogether, weaved his way to the tub, and lowered himself into the water with a hiss of satisfaction. His legs dangled over either side of the short tub.

Nothing except the woman’s head had moved. Her eyes, beautiful and inquisitive, belied the tension freezing her body. Indeed, the heat of her regard singed. Her words and actions, body and eyes were a contradiction. And much to his dismay, he craved her touch more than he cared about the secrets that lurked.