Dougray’s head pounded as if a smithy was hammering a horseshoe in it. He had stayed up late with Angus and Thornton playing billiards and drinking copious amounts of Angus’s fine Scottish whisky long into the early morning hours. Lady Emma had been too tired to join them for dinner so it had been just the men reminiscing.

He’d been relieved. Emma’s presence unsettled him. He worried about why she had come and he worried at his reaction to seeing her again. He bloody well knew one thing though. She was the reason he’d drunk so much last night.

She stirred something in him that he did not want or need.

With such a thick head he’d even missed his morning ride, he’d forced himself out of bed around eleven and come to his study to try and get the important correspondence seen to before he had to spend time with his guests.

He was progressing well, and soon his large pile was down to ten missives and a set of accounts for the highland sheep farm, which was part of his estate. He was thinking he might have time after lunch to take a ride in the fresh air with Thornton, when someone started to play the piano in the ballroom next to his study. While the playing was competent, the sounds vibrated in his already thumping head, making it difficult to concentrate.

Then the singing started.

He sat at his desk with his head in his hands because the playing was now accompanied by what was the worst singing he’d ever heard. It sounded like a stable-yard cat was being strangled. As it was a woman’s voice the only person it could be was Lady Emma Duckworth. Did she not comprehend how awful her singing was?

Curiosity and self-preservation made him rise and follow the noise. He was about to tell her to cease the infernal racket, when at the doorway to the ballroom all he could do was stand and stare. Emma looked ethereal with the sunlight flittering over her as she sat lost in the music. Her head was thrown back as she sang with passion. She played a soulful melody and sung the words to the song with such sadness in every ill-hit note that he was not surprised to see tears streaming down her cheeks.

He listened to the words of the song:

’Tis the last rose of summer

Left blooming alone,

All her lovely companions

Are faded and gone!

No flower of her kindred,

No rosebud is nigh

To reflect back her blushes,

Or give sigh for sigh.

I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,

To pine on the stem; Since the lovely are sleeping,

Go, sleep thou with them:

Thus kindly I scatter

Thy leaves o’er the bed

Where thy mates of the garden

Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow,

When friendships decay,

And from love’s shining circle,

The gems drop away,

When true hearts lie wither’d,

And fond ones are flown,

Oh! who would inhabit

This bleak world alone.

As she sang the last line, This bleak world alone, a strong and unwanted longing filled him. He was sick to the stomach of being alone, but the idea of opening up his heart filled him with dread. Plus, how could he be true to Francesca if he let another woman into his life.

He would never put himself in that situation again. Nothing hurt worse than the total agony of being in love, and then having the love of your life die—in your arms, with you powerless to save her.

So caught up in his own sorrow, he almost missed the fact that she’d finished singing and that she was sitting quietly sniffling back her tears at the piano. He didn’t want to disturb her in her private sorrow. He wondered who had hurt her so. Perhaps he had met a kindred spirit, someone who understood the devastation of loss. As he made to turn away she looked up and saw him, quickly wiping the tears from her face.

“Thomas Moore always makes me cry. I hope my singing didn’t disturb you. I’m terrible at it,” she added with a self-depreciating laugh.

He returned her infectious smile. She did not seem to care how really awful she was, and he admired her for it. Francesca had never done anything unless she’d been perfect at it. “I did think a cat was being strangled, but you play very well.”

She stood up and approached him not offended at all by his observation. “Thank you. It’s a shame I can’t sing, as I rarely get to play now. Most ladies are expected to sing as well as they play. After my first performance my mother made sure I was never asked to play again.”

“You may play and sing here whenever you want. Perhaps just close the door,” he added with a laugh.

And soon they were both laughing, and in that moment his headache was forgotten. On the spur of the moment he asked, “I feel like some fresh crisp air. Would you care to accompany me on a ride?”

“I’d like that. Best we make the most of a fine day. You never know when the weather might turn.”

“True.” He gave her a mocking smile. “Besides, you seemed very keen to see Loch Linnhe. That is the reason for your visit is it not?”

She laughed again, a light tinkling sound that lifted his spirits further. Emma did not seem to mind being teased. Francesca had hated to be the brunt of any joke.

“Perhaps on our ride, if the sights you show me are impressive, I’ll share my reasons for invading your little hunting party,” she teased back.

As her smile faded he said, “I promise I will not pry.” She merely nodded and he added, “Shall we meet in an hour on the front steps? And in the meantime I’ll get the groom to find you a suitable mount. As I recall, you are a competent rider?”

She nodded. “Yes. I love to attend the foxhunts. When in Yorkshire I ride almost every day.”

“Then you must feel free to do so here as well. I shall put a horse and groom at your disposal. It’s not safe to ride alone in an area you do not know.”

“That is most kind. If you’ll excuse me I shall go and change.”

He stood watching as Emma made her way up the stairs. He could not remember the last time he’d wanted a woman’s company. It must be the song. As he made his way to the stables to organize a sturdy steed for Emma he realized he hadn’t looked forward to a ride in a long time.

* * *

Emma’s hands shook as her lady’s maid helped her don her riding habit. What on earth had possessed her to say she’d confide in him the reason why she was here?

But here is your chance.

Was she brave enough to ask him for what she wanted most?

The fact he’d asked her to join him on a ride so soon after arriving had to be an indication that he was not averse to female company—her company. She tried not to get her hopes up, but she’d never spent any time alone with Dougray, or in fact any man who was not her brother, and her nerves jingled with anticipation. At home in England she’d never have been allowed to ride with Dougray without a chaperone.

She would behave herself and hoped she did not do anything stupid like ask about Francesca. She wanted to know about her. She knew she should not compare herself to his dead wife, but Francesca was so different in looks and temperament and that could mean he would never consider her attractive.

She desperately needed him to find her attractive.

Only one way to find out, she told herself as she made her way down the stairs exactly an hour later. Her pulse was hammering as she saw him waiting for her on the front steps where two horses stood saddled in the driveway. He looked so handsome her head spun.

She barely noted the fact the sky was filling with clouds as he smiled and helped her mount.

Even through layers of cloth, Emma’s body tingled where he’d touched her. Her breathing grew rapid imagining his touch on her bare skin.

They trotted down the long tree-lined drive and then turned right across open fields.

“Zeus here wants to stretch his legs; care for a gallop?”

“Absolutely,” she answered excitedly.

“Try to keep up,” and then his large black steed was off and she had to work hard to keep him in her sights. Her gelding, called Curlin, valiantly gave his all but she had to wait for Dougray to stop before she caught up.

They slowed the horses to a walk to cool them down and soon Emma could smell the sea. Loch Linnhe was a sea loch with other freshwater lochs feeding into it, not far from Dougray’s hunting lodge. As they came out of a small copse of trees, there was the grandeur of Loch Linnhe, the water glittering in the midday sun.

“Oh goodness, it does take your breath away.”

“Aye. I’ve been coming here since I could barely walk and it still stirs my soul.”

There was sadness in his tone and she could see he was lost in memories. She raised a hand to shield her eyes and looked southwards to where the waters of the loch met the sea. She pointed. “Is that the island with the monastery on it?” When he nodded she asked, “How far is it to ride? Can we see it?”

“No.”

His tone was hard and certain. She waited for an explanation but he said no more. Dougray was still staring south and seemed lost in memories—was he thinking of his wife? She didn’t know what she’d said but obviously she’d upset him somehow. The silence lengthened and Curlin started stamping his feet and throwing his head.

Suddenly on a loud sigh Dougray swung down and pulled a length of tartan cloth from behind his saddle. “Shall we sit and have a wee talk. I’d love to hear why you thought it was appropriate to accompany your brother to my gathering.”

With that he reached up to help her off Curlin and she looked deep into his eyes and something primal passed between them. She instinctively knew this man held so much honor in every bone of his body that he’d never hurt her.

She trusted him with her secret and she would trust him with her reputation.

While he tethered the horses she laid the plaid on the ground under a tree where the ground was dry, and sat to gather her courage. He sat next to her and handed her a silver flask he’d pulled out from a pocket in his jacket. “A bit of whisky to keep the chill away. I’m hoping we get home before it rains.”

She looked up and noticed the clouds beginning to gather, and then reached for the flask hoping the liquid fired her courage.

“Now why don’t you tell me what has you running all the way to Scotland? I assume it’s something your brother cannot help you with.”

She choked on the whisky.

No. She definitely could not go to her brother with this.

“Leave some whisky for me,” Dougray laughed. “It has a habit of creeping up on you if you drink it too quickly.”

She handed the flask back reluctantly, knowing she had to ask him. But where to begin? How to broach such a delicate subject?

“Come now, you can’t be in that much trouble. You know I shall help you as much as I can—but if I feel it necessary I will have to inform your brother.”

Emma couldn’t help but laugh. Once she explained, she doubted Thornton would be told anything.

“I’m sorry, my lord, but Thornton is the last person I’d want to know about my situation.”

“Has some man dishonored you?” he asked with thunder in his voice.

“Not yet,” she answered glibly and then cursed herself under her breath. This is not how she imagined this conversation to go.

He stared at her as if she’d gone mad, then he softly asked, “What is it, Emma?”

She remembered him asking her that question on his return from Europe with Francesca as his wife. She’d behaved like a petulant child and one night she’d purposely spoiled a game of chess he was playing with Thornton. He’d asked her what was wrong that night too. He’d noticed her terrible behavior.

She couldn’t answer truthfully back then because what was wrong was that he had smashed her childish and foolish dreams. She’d wanted to be his bride, to own his heart as he owned hers, but a beautiful young Italian wife destroyed all hope of that happening. She’d been filled with a jealous rage that at eighteen she hadn’t known how to conceal.

She pushed aside her hurt and said, “I have come to ask for a favor.”

He frowned and took another swig of whisky. “I’d be honored to help if I can.”

“You have not heard what the favor is.” She could feel her face heat and it wasn’t because of the whisky. She hurried on. “Did you know I will be six and twenty in January?”

He laughed. “I thought I’d known you for a long time. Ten years.”

His smile faded so she said, “Lots has happened in that ten years.”

He merely swallowed and nodded.

“Anyway, on my birthday, I’m moving from Yorkshire to build my own life. I’m going to Cornwall to live in my grandmother’s cottage. She left it to me last year. I love it there. It’s near St. Ives and sits up on the hill overlooking the sea. It’s quite beautiful. She has a field of wild flowers surrounding the house.”

He sat looking at her as if she were speaking a foreign language.

“I would have thought your father and brother would have found you a husband by now.”

She gave a small smile. “Would you let your father find you a wife?” She saw him blanch. How odd. His father had not been party to his wedding to Francesca. She forcefully said, “If I were to marry, I would pick my husband.”

“If? Surely you want to marry.”

She did. She wanted children. “I might wish to marry but it would appear I am not—that is—I have not met the right man.” Or any man who wanted her enough to marry her, large dowry and all. What was she thinking? Why would Dougray find her desirable when no other man had? Giraffeworth—the name said it all. Tall and clumsy. She towered over most men and they disliked her for it. She couldn’t help how tall she was. She swallowed back her fears that Dougray would laugh at her notion. She had come this far . . .

“I made a decision that if I turned six and twenty still unwed I would embrace my spinsterhood. I’d gain my independence by moving to my own cottage.”

He reached out and tucked a stray curl behind her ear. “I think Englishmen must be mad or you’re very fussy. And I realize none of them are good enough for you. You are a beautiful woman, intelligent too. I’m not surprised you are being choosey but there will be someone out there for you.”

There was. He was sitting beside her, but Dougray loved a ghost.

He smiled and joked, “So, you want me to find you a strapping highlander? I suspect if I let it be known you were looking for a husband I would have a queue at my door for a bonnie lass such as you.”

Emma loved it when his polish slipped and he spoke in his native brogue. She could imagine him a Scottish warrior of old.

“No.” She took a deep breath and quietly said, “I want you to be my lover. During my stay I would like you to teach me about passion before I settle into spinsterhood.”

The whisky flask slipped from his fingers to the ground and he cursed. Then cursed again at his curse, before grabbing the flask and drinking deeply.

Only the sound of the birds and the gentle wash of the waves on the shore of the loch could be heard as he sat stunned, looking at her.

He shook his head. “I think I must have misheard.”

“Please don’t make me say it again.”

He jumped to his feet and began to pace. “You can’t mean to do this. You’ll be ruined. You’re asking me to ruin you. No. I can’t. What if you decide to marry? What if I got you with child—”

“Do you know what polite English society call me? Giraffeworth. No man wants his wife to tower over him. Believe me, I am unlikely ever to wed.” At his look of disbelief she added, “Not many men are as tall as you and Thornton.”

“A child, Emma, would be born a bastard.”

“I’ve heard there are ways to ensure that does not happen.”

“No wonder you don’t want Thornton to know why you are here. He’d cut off my ba—that is, I mean, why me?”

“Because I trust you.” And love you but she’d never tell him that. She was pretty sure he would send her home immediately if she told him her true feelings.

He began to pace again. “No. Absolutely not. I cannot believe you’d ask this of me. On my honor—”

Now she stood, her anger and disappointment mixing to give her courage. “Honor? What of compassion? Can you imagine what it is like to have never known the intimate touch of another? I haven’t even been kissed properly. I’ve never even seen a naked man. I won’t spend my life wondering. I want to experience passion with a man I trust. Besides, if no men find me desirable now, I’m unlikely to get more desirable as I age.” She finished on a sob, mortified that she’d had to almost beg, and admit that she was not desirable to any man.

He stopped pacing and walked toward her. He reached out and pulled her into an embrace. “Is this what this is about? You think no man will find you desirable?” He hugged her tightly and she breathed in his scent. He smelled of the outdoors, sea spray, forest, and whisky. “You are a beautiful woman. Any man would be lucky to teach you about passion. But your first time should be with a man who loves you, who wants to spend his life with you. That is true passion.”

She felt her tears building. “I doubt you or Thornton waited to find a woman you’d spend the rest of your life with. I understand passion and desire often have nothing to do with love.” She spoke to his muscled chest while listening to his heart beneath her ear. “I’ve already waited many, many years. I’m not waiting for a miracle, because we all know miracles only ever happen in stories.”

They stood there, Dougray holding her in his arms, her listening to the steady beating of his heart.

“I’m not sure I can do what you ask. What about Thornton? Your brother is my best friend.”

“Thornton need not know. I came to you because I trust your discretion. I also trust you to show me how magical passion can be. I hoped you were my friend, too, and that you’d help me. Is that too much to ask?”