“Here’s your cuppa,” Barran said, placing the steaming mug on the table, and beckoned Emma over. He hadn’t spoken since he’d come in the cottage. The whole time that he’d rebuilt the fire and boiled the water, awkward silence had held. He hadn’t known what to say to her. Now, he stuck with practicalities. “I added a piece of sugar. It will help to warm you until the heat from the fire fills the cabin.

Emma moved from the cot to the table, looking a bit like a moth’s cocoon as she shuffled in the cloak, trying to hold it tight at both neck and throat. “Thank you.”

She took the tea and didn’t say anything else. Did she want to ignore what had happened? He watched as she tried to manage holding the cloak and drinking the tea.

“You know I’ve seen a woman’s body before. I can promise not to react badly if I see a few inches of skin.” He did not comment on how much of her skin he’d seen—and touched—so recently. And the truth was he was finding her as alluring wrapped tight in that cloak as he had when her breast had been bare before him. The heaving wrapping gave an air of mystery, made him think of a package waiting to be unwrapped—and it was the Christmas season.

Emma lifted the tea and took a small sip, her eyes narrowed.

Had she found something insulting in his words? You never could tell with women. “It’s started to snow again, quite heavily,” he said. “All we can do is hope that it is warm enough to begin melting on the morn.” Or that Robbie would send somebody to rescue them. Once the wedding was sanctified surely Robbie would relent.

“Perhaps my uncle will send somebody looking for me when the coach does not arrive? Surely people will notice that the coach is missing.”

“With the snow, they may or may not. It may be assumed that the driver decided to pause at one of the earlier inns and wait out the weather. At least we have provisions.”

Emma lifted her face away from the mug and stared at him, thoughts whirling behind her dark eyes. “I’ve been wondering about that. You mentioned that your friend had left things for us, but not why. Were you planning to head here? It seems strange to leave a cabin so well supplied. I could perhaps understand leaving a few basic supplies, but several bottles of whiskey? That seems a trifle odd.”

“You are in Scotland.”

A furrow appeared between her delicate brows. No other words came to her lips, but her eyes stayed on him, waiting for an answer. Even when she lifted the mug to her lush lips, her gaze did not flicker.

There was temptation to lie. It was not an easy thing to admit to having been such an easy target—and he wasn’t sure that he wished her to know that he was the root of their troubles, but he’d never been a liar and would not start now. “I believe my friend may be behind the sudden decision of the coachman to drive off with the team—and not the coach.”

Her eyes grew even wider. “Really? The note?”

“Yes.” He waited for her to say more.

Her lips remained closed and it was impossible to read the thoughts behind those piercing eyes.

“I was trying to stop my sister’s wedding.” He hadn’t meant to say that, but clearly he needed to say something, to find some way to make her understand.

“Explain.” There was no escaping the lady in that command.

He should have found it irritating, but in truth it made him want to lean forward and silence her with a kiss. “Would you like some whiskey in your tea?” He lifted one of the bottles. “To help warm you.”

“Why do I think that is not the reason behind your offer?”

He let out a long sigh and picked up the tin mug, pouring himself a good measure of drink. He did take the precaution of setting the bread and cheese on the table. Whiskey was not wise on an empty stomach and his had nothing more than a slosh of tea within it. “I admit I feel the need of a bit of warmth myself if I am to share this tale. I cannot decide if I be hero or villain, or simply the fool. I know my intentions were the best, but . . .”

Her brows drew even further together. At least she looked more confused than angered. Perhaps if he spoke quickly he could keep her that way.

He walked to the hearth and added a few more logs and then moved back to the table, sitting, his legs spread wide. He lifted the cup and swirled the whiskey about his mouth, enjoying the burn. He pulled his knife from his belt and set it on the table beside the bread and cheese. “Catriona, my sister, is only a few years younger than I—born just before my mother left, but I’ve always felt fiercely protective of her.”

“As her brother, you should.” Emma picked up the bottle and poured a small measure into her tea.

“I am glad that you feel that way. I’d run around wild with Robbie MacGregor for years. I don’t ever remember a time when he wasn’t in my life. Sometimes I felt that he was my twin. We knew each other’s thoughts and got into more trouble than a pack of puppies. When I was sent to school it was hard, but as soon as I returned, it was as if I had never left. And when I joined the army, he joined the day after. I am not sure that I would have survived the war in France if not for him. Even in the worst of battle, I knew I could depend on him.”

“I thought you said you were trying to stop the wedding? He sounds perfect. Why would you be trying to prevent such a union?”

Barran took another swig, feeling the burn deep in his belly. He’d best get started on the bread soon. “I have seen him in situations that I would not wish to share with my sister. I think he is too much like me,” he mumbled into the mug.

That got her attention. “And you don’t think you would be a good husband?”

“Certainly not for my sister.”

“I think that goes without saying, but I sense that you are avoiding the point. Will you be a good husband?”

Shit. He should have realized where such a conversation would lead. And the truth was he no longer knew the answer to that question. A week ago, he would have said that he’d be a lousy husband, that he had no intention of settling down for longer than it took to produce a son. No, he’d never abuse a wife, but he’d never particularly considered being faithful either. Now—for no reason he could put words to—he was thinking differently, imaging himself with Emma, imagining that he had no wish to stray. “I will certainly do my best.”

Her gaze moved over him and he could feel her evaluating in which direction to take the conversation. “And do you think that this Robbie is different? That he will not try to do his best? Does he love your sister?”

And wasn’t that the crux of the matter. “I don’t know. She said he did. He said he did, but how do I know he is telling the truth? I know he’s always cared for her. He watched out for her more than I did when we were younger. And she always had a special glint in her eye when he was about, even when she was just a wee lass. Perhaps that is part of the problem. How do I know that it is not just a childish affection between them?”

She straightened in her chair. “But you say he said he loved her. Is a man who says such things without cause? I believe that you imply that you have seen him in intimate situations with other women. Forgive me if I am wrong. Has he told them he loves them? Is he a man to lie?”

God, he let his mind wander all the situations he’d been in with Robbie, all the women, all the whiskey, all the trouble. “No, I’ve never known him to lie except as a bit of fun.”

“Then perhaps he does love her?” She took another sip of the tea, wrinkling her nose at the whiskey.

He’d not actually considered that. Could Robbie love Catriona? “Still, she is my sister, how can I risk her happiness?” He took a large gulp.

“Can we ever be sure of another’s happiness? Hell, can we even be sure of our own?”

He started. Had she just used the word “hell?” How much whiskey had she poured in that tea?

A small smile quirked her lips. “Have you never heard a lady use a curse word? I am stranded in the middle of nowhere because you couldn’t keep your nose out of your sister’s affairs. A storm is raging outside. I have been forced out of the only home I have ever known. My father is dead. I doubt my uncle, Mounthaven, even remembers I am coming. The cousin who inherited from my father is clearly sending me into the wilds so that I will never marry and inherit my portion—only now I may have to marry you, a man I know nothing about beyond your name. And I am forced to sit about in my shift because my dress is in tatters.”

At least she hadn’t added in their brief but passionate moment. He looked down into his mug, thinking more deeply on her words, feeling her loss. Their situations were so different and yet he understood the pain in her voice—and in her eyes. He had a momentary desire to pull her into his arms, to comfort her distress, to assure her that all would be well, but there were still too many things to be decided between them. “Your dress is hardly in tatters. I am sure we can find something to lace it up again.”

“And a hook to help thread the eyelets?” She downed the rest of the liquid in her cup and then added another measure of whiskey.

“I am sure we will manage. And what do you mean you’re being sent into the wilds—although I perhaps object to the term when talking about my homelands—to prevent your getting married?”

Emma took a large swallow from her cup. “I don’t know if it’s true that he’s trying to keep me from marriage, but I am sure that dear Cousin Henry would very much like to hold on to my inheritance as long as possible, if not forever. Why else he would send me to Scotland within days of formally taking the title and estates? Given a little more time I could have found a husband in London. I was not without suitors.”

“I am sure you were not. Is your inheritance so great then that your cousin would act in such a manner?”

She took a great gulp of whiskey and poured more into her mug. “And wouldn’t you like to know.” She batted her lashes at him with great exaggeration.

Was she still thinking about another husband? If nothing else he thought they’d moved on from that. It was very close to the time when they must truly talk, decide—not that he thought there were really any decisions remaining. He leaned across the table and sliced off a great hunk of cheese and placed it on a bannock, holding it out to her.

“Do you think I am getting sloshed, sir? And must be fed? I did eat some while you were out.”

“Of course not. It is merely my duty as your host to provide you with a suitable repast.” He cut his own piece of cheese. “Although I do admit that we should settle things between us before we settle into our cups.” Although truth be told, he was enjoying the feisty personality that was emerging along with the whiskey.

“And if I’d rather settle them while in my cups? I’ve not had much luck sober recently—and I’ve never truly over-imbibed before.”

“Have you not?”

“Most certainly not, although I imagine you have.” She took a nibble of the cheese.

“I would not deny that. And I have learned that it is always better to resolve things before much drink is involved. A little can make things easier—too much and one’s choices become called into question.” He placed his hand over hers, warming her chilled fingers. She was such a confusing woman, almost as confusing as his own feelings. He’d suggested marriage because he felt there was no choice, but now it didn’t seem like such a bad idea at all. He could almost imagine spending many days sitting by the fire drinking whiskey and sharing past histories.

Emma pulled in a deep breath, drawing him from his thoughts, and her cloak slipped from one shoulder, revealing soft, pale flesh. “And what must we resolve?”

He took his own gulp of whiskey. It was time. “We have both mentioned marriage, acted as if we understood the necessity of it, but I think we are both afraid to admit that it is not a joke, not a jest we are laughing about.”

Her eyes dropped, but her hand did not pull from his. “I do not wish to think it is real. Can we not wait and see what the situation is when we are found? I spoke the truth when I said that my uncle is probably not missing me. Can you not just slip me onto another mail coach when we are rescued?”

He closed his eyes and tried to imagine that such a thing was truly possible. He was surprised that the thought brought him less joy than he had expected. “I don’t know and I am not sure it is a chance that we should take.” And more than that he wasn’t sure it was a chance he wanted to take. He’d never sought out a wife, but he was beginning to think that Lady Emma might just fit the role very well.

* * *

Barran looked so peaceful when he closed his eyes, despite the furrow of concern that still marked his brow. Emma took a tiny sip of the whiskey, still not ready to focus on Barran’s statement. It had taken her a few tastes of the whiskey to notice anything but the medicinal burn, but now she was becoming quite fond of the stuff. She nibbled at the cheese.

Opening his eyes then, Barran stared straight at her. “It must be your choice in the end. I can only offer my services to you. I will not make any attempt to force you. If what you wish is to tempt fate, then that we will do.”

She pushed back from the table and stood with only the slightest pain and wobble from her bad ankle as she walked to the door and opened it, staring out into the cold. The snow was coming down heavily and all about was a blanket of white. Simply seeing across the small clearing was difficult, walking out into the storm would be almost impossible.

And yet, it was magical. It made the real world seem far from this warm cabin.

And yet it was real—and so was the decision she must make.

A cold breeze swept by her, clearing her head and forcing her to turn away and shut the door before the cabin once again grew frigid. “It’s starting to look like Christmas.” At least the way Christmas is supposed to look. It wasn’t often that there was actually much snow on Christmas, and in London if there was it was most often black with dust before morning.

She turned back to Barran, forcing herself to confront the issue. “What would you tell your sister to do? You’ve indicated that you never would have chosen to let her marry a man like your Robbie—or like yourself. So what would you have her do in this situation, alone with a mysterious stranger?”

“Hardly mysterious,” he answered, leaning back and propping his boots on the chair on which she’d been sitting.

“I know nothing about you except that your name is Barran and that you own some land, including this cabin—but whether a small and boggy swamp or a castle I have no idea. I don’t even know for sure if Barran is your Christian name or your family name. I would guess family, but I truly know nothing of Scottish names beyond that many start with Mac. And you did mention the army and Waterloo. Is that where you injured your leg? You never did say. You have a sister and a mother who left you—although then she insisted you come with her. Is there anything else I know?” She knew she was rambling, but found it impossible to stop. The whiskey? “Oh, you must have a great fondness for whiskey that your friend left you so many bottles. Should I be concerned about that? I’ve never cared for men who were overly fond of drink. And why the one bottle of wine? Robbie didn’t know you’d have a woman with you—or was that part of the plan?” She paused, considered. “No, nobody could have figured on me—although it is rather presumptuous to have imagined there would be no other travelers in the coach. And why did you show interest when I mentioned my uncle? What has Mounthaven to do with you? And—”

He cut her off. “You are beginning to prattle endlessly. And there is a difference between not knowing something and its being mysterious. I am hardly mysterious.”

She would keep her own counsel on that. If he wasn’t mysterious, why did she still tingle every time he drew near? Hell, every time she thought of him.

Before she could say anything in response, he continued. “And my name is James. Mr. James Barran.”

James. That was a good name. She had to curl her fingers into a fist to keep from reaching out to stroke the dark hairs on his wrist. And she couldn’t even blame it on the whiskey; she’d felt that way before the first sip.

Barran, clearly not noticing her focus on his arm, swung his legs down from the chair and went to add a few more logs to the fire. Then he turned and gestured for her to sit again. “Come, if you want answers to your questions I will do my best to give them to you.”

She would be a fool to refuse that. Taking her chair, she took another sip of whiskey and a bite of bread and cheese. “Begin.”

“You do know how to command like a lady.”

His words brought a stab of pain, but only a small one. She would always be a lady, nothing could take that from her, but it was time she learned to do more as well. “Would you please continue—and begin with my most basic question. Would you have wished your sister to marry Robbie under these circumstances?”

He sat back down heavily, the chair scraping on the floor. “I was hoping to avoid that one.”

Another sip. “I know.” The cold air might have cleared her head, but each mouthful of whiskey made it easier to ask questions.

He took his own gulp. “I am not sure. I would have done all I could to prevent such a situation from arising.”

Did he not wish to marry her? Is that what he was saying? She hoped not, but found herself afraid to ask. “But if you could not—as I could not.”

He bowed his head and stared into the tin mug, swirling it slightly. “I would have told her to marry him. I would have wished for better but would have told her to take what fate demanded—as I do now, in accepting that they will be wed and there is nothing I can do. Although I will make it very clear to Robbie that he will be a good and faithful husband or I will fry him his ballocks for breakfast.”

He made no apology for the last statement and Emma wondered if the whiskey was warming his innards as well. “And what of me? Do you think I should wed?”

“I would have hoped for better for you as well.” He said the words flatly, still staring into his mug.

“And is there anyone to feed you your ballocks should you fail me?”

That did make him look up, a crooked grin marking his mouth. “I’ll feed them to me myself.”

Something deep within her warmed—and the whiskey had nothing to do with it—and she found herself smiling back at him. “Why?”

“Why?”

“Why should you care? You don’t know me—or at least, hardly more than I know you. Why should you care? Why should you not feel trapped?” Please, please don’t let him say that he did feel trapped.

He blinked, and then blinked again, his grin fading. “Why should I feel trapped? I was the one who said we must marry. It was my friend who . . .”

Part of her wished to be quiet, to pretend that of course he wanted to marry her, why would he not, but still she persisted. She had to know. No matter what, she could not marry him if he was truly opposed. “Yes, but it surely is not a circumstance that you would choose. Were you even thinking of marriage before this happened?”

He looked back at his mug, took a large swallow. “I have thought about marriage.”

“That is not an answer.” Why could he not just say that he wished to marry her? That would make this all so much easier.

He looked up and met her eyes, held them, his clear blue eyes shining with honesty. “No, I did not ever envision an instance in which I would, as an honorable man, be forced to marry, but I find that I do not mind as I should. I have always been a man who accepts what is. I was willing to fight Catriona’s marriage while it could still be stopped. Now that it is simply a fact, I will do everything I can to make sure it is a good one, but I will not waste time complaining of it or trying to make it worse. I made my decision about you when I did not leave you alone in the carriage to wait for rescue. If I had wanted to avoid marriage that would have been the moment. I made my choice, and I chose to stay with you and accept what happened afterward.”

“But you knew nothing about me.” Her mouth grew dry. And she certainly had not shown him the most positive aspects of herself. She’d almost set the cabin on fire.

“And yet I sometimes think I knew everything about you before I even met you—and nothing I have learned since then has surprised me.”

Now that hurt. He did think she was a foolish ninny. “You mean like the fact that I cannot step down from a coach without twisting my ankle or that I can’t get out of my own dress or light a fire?”

“I admit that the dress surprised me a bit, and I am also guessing you’ve never had to dress your own hair.”

Trying to fight back tears, she lifted a palm, patting at the curls that were escaping from the few remaining pins and braids. She’d been afraid it looked like a hawk’s nest.

Barran froze, his gaze focused on her watering eyes. Realizing that his words might have hurt her, he leaned forward and placed his hand over hers. “I could give it a try with my comb if you like. I used to brush my sister’s sometimes and I do know how to braid a mane or a tail.”

She sniffed. “Now you are comparing me to your horse?”

“Sometimes a man just can’t get it right—or so I’ve heard my sister complain on many occasions. And your hair is very pretty in a brownish way.”

A brownish way? A low laugh left her throat. “I think you had best stop trying before I begin to cry.”

“The rest of you is very pretty, too.” His eyes dropped to where a bit of cleavage peeked out from the blanket.

“I will say thank you, as a proper lady should, and then I will inquire again about why you would wish to marry me. It sounds like you think I am a complete fool and I am sure that there are other pretty girls you could ask to wed you.”

“Well, I do find you prettier than most—and that didn’t come out the way I meant it—but we do not have much choice. And I don’t mean that in a complaining way. It is just a fact and I find I do not mind.” His eyes stayed locked on that hint of breast.

She was tempted to move, to let the cloak fall back. Perhaps with a little encouragement he could be persuaded that he actually wanted to be married. “You sound a little surprised.”

“I admit that I am, but that is not a bad thing.” His eyes remained focused on her breast. “Should not a man be surprised by his feelings when he meets the woman who will be his wife?” His gaze finally moved back to her face. Their eyes caught and held.

Her face flushed, heat rising in her cheeks. That was certainly not mere liking she saw in his eyes and it did much to soothe her wounded feelings. “I hardly think that we fall into any normal rules.”

“I don’t know. I’ve known many marriages that started out a trifle odd and are now happier than most.” He leaned forward and she could smell the warmth of the whiskey upon his breath. It was a surprisingly pleasant odor. “So will you marry me?” His gaze moved to her lips and settled there.

Suddenly it was hard to breathe. Her mind swirled with his question, with the whiskey, with the feelings that were slowly building deep in her belly and her breast. Despite the still-chilly air, she felt the sudden shine of perspiration.

She swallowed.

And then again.

She reached for her cup, but it was empty.

Still watching her face, Barran reached for the bottle and poured another inch into her glass.

“You’ll need to answer me before you drink that, lass. I’ve no desire to wonder if you meant it on the morrow.”

She closed her eyes, tried to find focus. She knew what life was likely to offer if she said no. And if she said yes? That was so much more unpredictable. And did he actually wish to wed her? He did seem sincere in all he said, but how could she know? Even if he wanted to be a good husband, would he be?

She wanted to take a great swallow of the whiskey and then another and another, wanted to make this choice without taking responsibility for it.

And yet, what had life taught her but that nothing was predictable? Was it not better to take a chance, to give herself the prospect of a brighter outlook? Everything Barran had done so far pointed to a caring man. He might not be perfect, but he did seem to want to be.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I will agree to be your wife.” And then she took an absolute gulp of the whiskey.

She sputtered a moment and then looked up to find him still staring at her, a wide smile spread across his face.

His eyes focused on her lips again. He moved closer.

She held her breath. She knew what was coming and in that moment she could not have wanted anything more.

His lips touched hers, firm and dry and strong. Could lips be strong? And soft, how could something be so firm and so soft in the same moment?

He pressed tighter, moving slightly. This kiss was more than the other had been and yet there was still so much more that she wanted. She remembered that brief touch of his lips upon her breast.

Her own lips parted.

He ran his tongue along the seam. Her lips parted more. God, that felt good.

She leaned toward him, pressed tighter, opened her mouth more and felt his tongue slip in.

Her own tongue met his, pressed against it. He tasted of whiskey, as did she, but there was something more, something she could never have described—something that made her want and want and want.

Pulling back slightly, she stared up at him.