Scandalous Weddings

Chapter One

The third disaster of the day occurred when Lady Helen Jeffries found herself stranded in an unseasonal blizzard.

Shivering outside the broken coach, she clutched the ermine-trimmed hood tighter around her blond hair. The wind plucked at her crimson cloak. Specks of ice peppered her cheeks. Heedless of her own discomfort, Helen waved a cheerful farewell to her footman as he rode off into the blinding snow.

For a moment she stood there, gripped by cold and fright. It was mid-afternoon already. Even if Cox reached the village before dark, would there be time for a rescue party to set out?

Possibly not. She and Miss Gilbert and the injured coachman might be forced to spend the night here with no fire to warm them. The spare horse, tethered in the shelter of the rocks, could not carry all of them to safety.

And this predicament was her fault.

Heartsick, she climbed into the coach, which lay tilted in the ditch. At least the plush blue interior felt marginally warmer than outside. M'lord yapped excitedly. Helen scooped up the little brown-and-white dog and took comfort from his warm body.

Miss Gilbert had tucked a spare blanket around the coachman's hurt leg. With her arms fluttering beneath her cape, she looked like a plump brown wren. "Oh, my lady," the old governess chirped, "whatever are we to do? Poor Cox will freeze to death. And so shall we!"

"It's not as bad as all that," Helen said reassuringly. "He'll ride to that hamlet we passed a mile back, and then we'll be rescued in a trice. Mr. Abbott, are you in pain?"

"I'm well enough," the coachman said, though his grizzled face showed tension around his mouth. " Tis sorry I am for running us off the road."

"It was an accident," Helen soothed. "Certainly we've survived worse. Remember that sandstorm in North Africa? And the earthquake in Turkey?"

"Lord Hathaway saved us from those catastrophes," Miss Gilbert said worriedly. "He led us to safety. How can we manage without him?"

Helen wondered, too.

Her father, the Marquess of Hathaway, often accompanied Helen on the journeys she had taken over the past five years. After the disastrous end to her betrothal, she had left England, restless to seek a new life. She had traveled the world, and as time passed, she had come to relish her freedom.

Lord Hathaway had intended to join her on this tour of the Highlands. But as they had been about to depart at dawn, a messenger had arrived from the docks. A fire had broken out on a ship belonging to his lordship, and he needed to assess the damages. Helen wanted to delay the trip, but her father insisted he could catch up to the party later.

That had been the first disaster of the day.

The second had occurred after luncheon, when a few pale flakes had drifted from the leaden sky. As it was too early in the season for a storm, Helen had insisted upon pressing onward. She was enthralled by the rugged scenery, so ancient and natural, the trees displaying their autumn brilliance. Except for the occasional croft with smoke drifting from a stone chimney, the Highlands were a rough masterpiece untouched by man. Great crags of rock towered over heather-carpeted moors. Once she glimpsed a herd of red deer grazing deep in the shadows of a pine forest. Another time, a waterfall shimmered against the mossy rock of a hill.

As the coach climbed higher into the mountains, the powdered-sugar dusting of snow had thickened into a dense white blanket. The wind whipped the flurries into a frenzied dance, but even then Helen had been enchanted by the savage splendor of it all…

"M'lady," said Abbott, hanging his head, "I humbly beg your pardon for leadin' you into such trouble. When his lordship hears what I done-"

"You shan't lose your post," Helen said, anxious that he would fear so. "It's my fault. We ought to have turned back when you first suggested it."

"Oh, we shall all perish." Miss Gilbert dabbed at her red nose with a handkerchief. "They will find our poor frozen forms with the spring thaw."

"Please," Helen said in exasperation, "there's no need to be theatrical."

"But listen to that wind. I do believe the storm has grown worse." Quivering, the governess peered out the window. "One might think an evil sorcerer has cast a spell over this uncivilized land."

A flurry of goose bumps crept across Helen's skin. "That is nonsense," she said crisply. "We are safe here with enough food in the hamper to tide us over. Now sit back and relax. I shall read to all of us."

The crazy angle of the coach made it impossible for more than one person to comfortably occupy each blue-cushioned seat. Cradling M'lord in her lap, Helen sat down on the floor, reached into her valise for Rob Roy by Sir Walter Scott, and read the book aloud. The well-worn pages provided a distraction from the howling of the blizzard. After a time, a light snoring emanated from Abbott, and his chin slumped onto his broad chest. Even Miss Gilbert huddled in the corner with her eyes closed.

The scant daylight had begun to wane. Soon it would grow dark. To allay her fears, Helen stroked the dog. Her fingers and toes felt numb from the cold. Had Cox reached the village yet?

She prayed so. The thought of spending many more frigid hours here daunted her. What if the snow continued throughout the night? What if rescue did indeed come too late?

Immediately she scolded herself. Who was she to complain when Abbott lay senseless with pain?

Helen leaned her head back and stared out the window, where snowflakes cavorted in a highland jig. The branches of a bush scraped somewhere outside. The wind lamented like a lost soul.

A sense of utter aloneness crept over her. She had the uncanny impression it had nothing to do with being stranded on this remote road, that the emptiness had been there for a long time, buried deep inside herself. She felt lacking somehow, unsatisfied with… what? The direction of her life?

Surely not. She liked being free to go her own way, to discover new places. And yet… she thought of her visit a few weeks ago to her half sister. Isabel and Justin lived on an estate in Derbyshire with their three young children. Their happiness had lingered like a rich essence in the air, and Helen recalled the time when she had come upon husband and wife kissing in the garden. The tender passion of their embrace made her heart ache.

How would it feel to be held by a man, to let him caress the secret places of her body, to join with him in the mysterious act of mating? She had traveled the world, seen more exotic sights in the past five years than other ladies did in a lifetime, but she did not know the touch of a man.

At one time she'd had that chance, but she hadn't been ready for it. Now she feared she might never again have the opportunity. She had no wish to marry a dull English lord, and her father would be terribly disappointed if she wed beneath her station. Besides, having a husband would put an end to her independence, and that thought was sufficient to douse any romantic yearnings. She wanted to live life to its fullest. Never again would she be the naive girl whose sole relief from boredom was to visit London for the Season.

Of course, there were drawbacks to adventure. Her quest for new experiences had left her stranded in a raging snowstorm.

The reminder of her predicament sobered Helen. Because of her selfish folly, she had endangered her loyal servants. Yet she felt almost fated to fall in love with the wild grandeur of the Highlands. If she still believed in fairy tales, she might have fancied these mountains enchanted…

M'lord lifted his silken head and growled at the door.

An instant later, a dark shape appeared outside the window. And Helen found herself staring at the hulking form of a monster.

Chapter Two

The door handle rattled.

A scream strangling her throat, Helen jolted upright. Her half-frozen fingers gripped the leather-bound book, and she wished it were a pistol. It was up to her to defend Gillie and Abbott.

In a blast of icy air, the door flew back. The dog barked. Miss Gilbert came awake and squealed in surprise. A loud snort emanated from Abbott.

The beast thrust its head and shoulders inside, blocking the meager daylight. His shaggy black hair was mantled by snow, and a length of plaid cloth draped his brawny chest. Dark eyes glowed in a face of uncompromising masculinity.

A man, Helen thought in relief. The beast was merely a Highlander.

"Hello," she said, extending her gloved hand to him. "I am Lady Helen Jeffries. And you are…?"

Muttering under his breath, he glowered as if she were his worst enemy.

The coachman rubbed his eyes. "Here now. What's this?"

"We've been found, thank heavens," Helen said briskly. She braced her hand on the velvet-covered wall and struggled to stand in the tilted vehicle, her half-numb legs tangling in her heavy skirts. "Have you come from the village, sir?"

The Highlander grunted what sounded like an assent. In one giant step, he entered the coach, and it rocked beneath his weight.

Helen's heart beat faster as she backed up to afford him space. He dwarfed the interior, and she was pressed against Miss Gilbert's plump form. "You must have seen Cox, my footman," Helen said. "Is he all right?" When the stranger didn't reply, she went on, speaking slowly for his benefit. "Surely he must have given you directions, told you where to find us."

Another grunt. Was the man a simpleton?

He turned his broad back to her and examined the coachman's leg. Abbott winced at his touch. Then the Highlander retreated outside and returned with a short, straight branch. Taking a long strip of cloth from the pouch hanging at his waist, he secured the branch to the coachman's lower leg.

" 'Tis broken, your ankle," he said, rolling the words in a gravelly Scottish burr. "You shouldna ha' been moved without a splint."

At least the man could speak. "Are you certain it isn't just a bad sprain?" Helen asked in concern.

The stranger cast an accusing glance at her, as if he knew the accident was her fault. "Aye. The temporary splint will protect the leg for now."

She stifled her guilt. "Thank you. We should be on our way if we want to reach the village before dark. I can't imagine we have more than an hour of daylight left. If you'll be so kind as to help Mr. Abbott climb out."

Sheltering M'lord within her cloak, she clambered past the Highlander to open the door of the coach. Snow needled her face and the wind snatched at her cloak, but she gritted her teeth and stepped outside. The gale blew worse than before, the snowflakes falling thick and icy.

Slipping and sliding, Helen hurried to the horse tethered in the lee of, the rock cliff. The gelding nuzzled her cloak, clearly looking for his dinner.

"Sorry, darling," she murmured. "You’ve a bit of a load to carry first." Even as her numb fingers fumbled. to untie the leather lead, she felt herself brushed aside. She looked up into the harsh face of the Highlander. His features were as rough as these wild hills, with a stark, compelling beauty.

"The injured man rides," he stated. "Not you." Before she could react, he led the mount away.

He thought she meant to claim the horse?

His rude assumption startled Helen, but she was too cold to stand there framing belated retorts. Returning to the coach, she helped Miss Gilbert disembark as the Highlander hoisted the burly coachman onto the horse. Then he poked around the luggage that was lashed to the back of the vehicle. Suspicious, Helen went to him. "May I help you find something?"

"Food. You canna be daft enough to set out with no provisions."

His criticism made her bristle. "There's a hamper inside the coach, secured beneath the seat. If you need anything else, you have only to ask-"

He didn't stay to listen. Striding to the door, he went inside and emerged a moment later with the large basket. He thrust the hamper at Helen. "Here, make yourself useful," he growled. "I'll lead the horse."

With a jerk of his head, the stranger motioned for the women to follow. Then he guided the horse and coachman toward a cleft in the rock.

Helen blinked the icy flakes from her eyelashes. Holding the dog in one arm and the basket in the other, she hastened to follow. "The village is back that way," she called, pointing down the road in case he was slow-witted.

"Too far," he snapped. " 'Tis almost dark."

He started to turn, but she caught his sleeve. His muscles felt hard beneath her fingertips. "Wait. What is your name?" _#

He muttered an answer, but she couldn't have heard him right. "The brute?" she repeated.

"MacBrut"-he cast her a brooding look-"without an e"

He could spell, too. She wanted to proclaim it the perfect name for an unfriendly lout. But whatever his faults, Mr. MacBrut had come to their rescue. "How did you find us?" she asked.

"Your footman."

Exasperated, she said, "Then why didn't you say so in the first place?"

"I dinna have time for chatter."

He directed the horse up a steep track into the hills. Miss Gilbert fell into step behind him. Lugging the heavy hamper in one hand and the dog in the other, Helen hastened to catch up to the small party, already barely visible through the falling snow. She slogged through drifts higher than her ankle boots and felt icy trickles down her silk stockings. Within a short time, her hem was sodden and the freezing dampness dragged at her skirts. Miss Gilbert was struggling to keep up, so Helen lent her aid, though it was awkward while holding the dog in the crook of her arm.

"Bless you, my lady," the governess panted. "And bless our rescuer. Aren't we lucky he happened along?"

"Lucky, indeed." Helen didn't want to alarm the older woman. But something about MacBrut made her uneasy. How did they know they could trust this stranger? He might be a bandit, leading them to his lair…

Quickly she banished the morbid thought. She was no longer a silly girl who spun fancies. Better she should praise him for being a good Samaritan.

MacBrut. That must be his clan. What was his first name?

She watched his wide back as he led them steadily higher into the mountains. A thick wool plaid wrapped his massive torso. Now and then, she caught a flash of strong, bare legs beneath his knee-length kilt. The sight caused a peculiar tension in the pit of her stomach. If he had any sense, he'd wear trews in such weather. Though perhaps the storm had caught him by surprise, too.

Where was he taking them?

She had her answer a few minutes later when she spied a castle through the snow. The dark monolith reared against the sheer rock face of a cliff. There was no drawbridge or moat, only an arched gate with a raised portcullis. Through the dimness of dusk, Helen glimpsed twin towers guarding either end of the walled yard.

Picking a path through the scattered rubble, MacBrut guided the horse toward a tall stone keep. Helen could barely feel her feet as she trudged across the bleak courtyard. The basket of food dragged on her arm, but she spared only a fleeting thought for her own discomfort. From the way Miss Gilbert clung, her round body quivering, Helen knew the cold upland trek had been hard on the aging woman.

The keep was chilly and dark inside, but at least the walls provided protection from the wind and snow. Helen gratefully set down the hamper and tilted her head back, turning around for a dizzying view of a cavernous room. The faintest light seeped through the high window slits.

She looked at MacBrut. "What is this place?"

"My castle."

"Your castle?"

"Aye."

"Do you live here alone?"

"Do you see anyone else?" he snarled back.

He probably couldn't get a dog to stay with him, Helen decided. He had brought the coachman in, horse and all, and now he lifted Abbott down, setting him on the stone floor so that he could sit propped against the wall.

Worried, Helen crouched beside him. "Poor Abbott. How do you fare?"

"Fine, m'lady," he said, though pain roughened his voice.

She looked up, seeking their host. "He needs warmth. Can we-"

Before she could suggest a fire, MacBrut strode into the murky shadows of the hall. His heavy footsteps echoed through the gloom. What a rude, exasperating man! Then came a rustling noise and the hollow thump of wood being, tossed onto a grate. Within moments a cheery blaze sent light and warmth radiating into the hall.

No, he was a wonderful man.

She helped Miss Gilbert to the massive stone hearth and seated her on a three-legged stool. Smiling, the governess stretched out her mittened hands to the fire. "Oh, this is lovely," she said, looking as pleased as a pudgy mole invited to the drawing room of a duke.

Helen set down M'lord, who scooted close to the fire. She turned her back to the blaze, soaking in the blessed heat, but only for a moment. Seeing MacBrut half carrying the coachman, she removed her fur-trimmed cloak and made a pallet close to the hearth. "Have you any blankets?" she asked him.

"The trunk upstairs. In the first chamber." With a tilt of his head, he indicated the darkness. Gruffly, he added, "Take a candle."

She found a stub of wax in a basket beside the hearth, and touched the wick to the fire. It was torture to leave the blazing warmth for the icy bowels of the keep. Shivering, she clenched her teeth to keep them from chatter-, hig.

The meager circle of illumination wavered over the stone floor, without penetrating the dense gloom elsewhere in the vast chamber. She could see only a short distance in front of her. The place smelled musty and ancient. She lifted the candle and searched for the stairs. Rusted armor hung on the walls alongside huge faded tapestries. A dull layer of grime coated the few chairs. If this was MacBrut's home, he sorely needed a housekeeper.

Better yet, a wife to sweeten his sour disposition. Unless he already had one-imprisoned in the dungeon.

Just as she started toward the arched opening of a stairwell, a peculiar sight distracted her. On a dais half-hidden in the shadows, a long trestle table was draped in yellowed linen and set for a dinner party. Dust shrouded the fine porcelain plates. Cobwebs stretched from the filthy crystal glassware to the tarnished silver candlesticks. Dark lumps sat upon serving dishes, and only when Helen walked closer did she realize it was petrified food.

She stood riveted, her skin prickling from more than the frigid air. The ghostly dinner waited as if the residents of the castle had been called away in mid-meal. What could have happened? A clan war perhaps? It must have been a tragedy if even the servants had not come back to clear the table.

'The stairs are that way."

The harsh echo of MacBrut's voice startled her. She spun around, the candle flame guttering. He stood pointing, a mythical beast outlined against the fire. His body cast a colossal shadow across the floor.

Still shaken by the strangeness of the abandoned meal, she mounted the winding stone staircase, half expecting to meet the specters of those long-forgotten diners. The upper corridor loomed dark and eerie, but she prodded «* herself along with the reminder of Abbott's injury.

Venturing through the first doorway, she found herself in a spacious bedchamber outfitted as finely as any London house with silk hangings and exquisite wood furniture, sadly begrimed now. At the foot of a massive four-poster bed stood a trunk of carved mahogany. She leaned down and blew a cloud of dust off the top. The leather hinges creaked when she opened the lid, and the musty odor of wool long shut away drifted to her, tinged by a certain subtle sweetness. Helen inhaled deeply, but couldn't quite identify the pleasant scent. Having no desire to linger in the lonely dark room, she grabbed an armload of blankets and hastened back downstairs.

Amazingly, the sound of laughter came from the group around the fire. A smile wreathed Abbott's broad face, and even MacBrut relaxed his unsociable scowl as he encouraged Miss Gilbert to accept a silver flask. She stared askance at the vessel before taking a dainty swallow. She coughed delicately, then drank again, more deeply.

Helen reached the welcome warmth of the fire and set down the blankets. "What is that you're drinking?"

Miss Gilbert dabbed her lips with a handkerchief. "A medicinal tonic. Mr. MacBrut recommended it to ward off a chill."

Helen sniffed the flask and almost reeled from the strong aroma. "Why, it's spirits."

"The finest Scots whisky," MacBrut said. "I'd offer you a nip, m'lady, but others need it more." He rudely plucked the flask from her and handed it to Abbott. "Drink this down, man. 'Twill dull the pain."

Like Miss Gilbert, the coachman obeyed MacBrut without question.

Of course, Helen reflected, perhaps they didn't catch the hostility burning in his eyes whenever he glanced at her. And they must not have noticed the hint of contempt in his voice. But she had noticed-especially the mocking way m'lady rolled off his tongue. He resented her presence in his ruined castle. Why?

The question piqued her curiosity. If they had intruded upon his solitude, she could understand his displeasure. But why single her out as the recipient of his ill humor?

Kneeling beside Abbott, the Highlander removed the makeshift splint. "I'll ha' to cut awa' your boot," he said, drawing a dirk from the sheath at his waist.

Abbott nodded, and took a long pull from the flask. "Do as you must."

MacBrut wielded the knife with an expert hand. Steel flashed as he sliced into the leather and neatly removed the boot. He sheathed the dirk, but not before Helen saw the gleam of a large cabochon sapphire decorating the scrolled hilt. Why would this rough Highlander have a weapon fit for a prince?

"It's a fine dirk," she said. "Where did you get it?"

His gaze met hers. In the light of the fire, his eyes were not black, but a deep midnight-blue that quite took her breath away. "I didna steal it."

"I never said you did." But she had felt a fleeting suspicion, and his frank scrutiny made her blush and turn away.

She busied herself folding one of the blankets into a compact square, then knelt down opposite MacBrut. "Here, we can prop his leg on this."

MacBrut frowned, but made no comment as he helped her position the support. Then he examined the coachman's ankle, probing so carefully that the coachman scarcely winced.

His deft movements fascinated Helen. She found herself studying his large hands, the long fingers and clean, trimmed nails, the broad, strong backs. They were not the soft hands of an aristocrat, but showed the talent and dexterity of a man accustomed to physical labor. She had the sudden, inexplicable image of him using those hands to pleasure a woman, his fingers dark against the fairness of her bosom, his touch tender and loving…

Loving? Surely not this curmudgeon.

"The cold has kept the swelling down, at least," MacBrut pronounced. " 'Tis something to be thankful for."

As he spoke, he took the stick and wrapped a piece of yellowed linen around it to make a padded splint, which he placed against the injured limb. Abbott sucked in a sharp breath, his weathered cheeks gray with pain.

"Oh, dear," Miss Gilbert said, averting her face and covering her eyes.

"Now, dinna trouble yourself, ma'am," MacBrut said with surprising kindness. "You might fetch the food from the basket. Once we're done here, Mr. Abbott will need some nourishment."

The older woman hopped off the stool. "I should be happy to do so." She trotted away.

MacBrut's gaze took on a distinct hostility as he looked at Helen. "Go on and help her," he said. "This is no place for an English lady."

Helen refused to let him scare her off when she might be a comfort to Abbott. "I'm staying here."

"Suit yourself. But if you swoon, I'll leave you lying where you fall."

"I never swoon."

Abbott attempted a jovial laugh. "Rest assured, sir, her ladyship is not one for hysterics. She never quailed the time we faced brigands in the Alps. She jabbed one in the belly with her umbrella, and the others ran away." The coachman fell silent, the corners of his mouth pinched with pain.

"Swallow that whisky," MacBrut said. "Every wee drop of it."

While the coachman was occupied with drinking, MacBrut turned his penetrating gaze on Helen. "Scared off the brigands, did you?" He looked her up and down, and lowered his voice to an undertone. "And here I thought Sassenach women had but one use."

His gaze ogled her bosom, leaving no doubt as to his meaning. Helen told herself to feel outraged, but a tingling warmth filled her instead. The sensation had little to do with thawing skin, and everything to do with a shocking awareness of him as a man. A big, bold rogue of a man.

MacBrut focused on the task of splinting the injured limb. " Tis a clean break, I trow. At least you willna be getting the fever."

Helen felt as if she were the one with the fever. The firelight caressed his clean-shaven cheeks and strong jaw. Melted snow glittered on the night-black hair that brushed his shoulders. For so large a man, he had a remarkably gentle touch. What a curious mix of barbarian and healer he was.

"Where did you learn to set a broken bone?" she asked.

"Here and there." His blue stare bored into her. "So far from the city, we canna send down the street for a doctor."

"I don't suppose you can." And that made him all the more fascinating. He had skills unknown to the civilized gentlemen of London. His rough-edged manner only made her wonder what other unique abilities he possessed. An insistent curiosity settled low in her belly. In truth, he was unlike any other man she had met in her travels.

She helped to lift Abbott's leg so that MacBrut could pass the strip of linen bandage around the splinted ankle. As they worked together, she grew more intensely aware of him. Aware of the quirk of his hard mouth. Aware of the lock of black hair that had tumbled onto his brow. Aware of the clever movements of his hands, and how perfectly her breasts would fit his palms-

"That's quite enough," MacBrut said.

Flustered, Helen moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. "I beg your pardon?"

His gaze narrowed on her mouth, and his scowl deepened. "I'm finished. You can lower his leg, careful now."

"Oh." Helen saw that the bandage had been tied neatly. She eased Abbott's leg back onto the blanket. "How are you doing?"

The coachman sighed as if glad the ordeal was over. "Ready for that bite to eat, m'lady."

With the timing of a stage actress, Miss Gilbert trotted back with the provisions, and Helen helped her set up a picnic by the fire. She found herself seated beside MacBrut. A strange aching tension distracted her from any interest in food. While everyone dined on cold ham, bread, and cheese, she merely nibbled at her meal, feeding small bites to M'lord. She stole sideways glances at MacBrut, at the muscled bare legs beneath the kilt and the way his rough linen shirt and black and red plaid clung to his chest. He was so different from the elegant noblemen that Papa too often steered into her path. Was MacBrut thinking of her, too?

No. He had made it clear he despised her.

When she reached for the wine flask, their hands bumped and the contact prickled up her arm and into her bosom. His gaze jerked to hers, and for an unguarded moment she glimpsed a burning intensity in him, something vastly different from hatred, something deep and rich and mysterious. Elation swept like wildfire through Helen. She'd been around enough men to recognize the truth.

MacBrut desired her.

Though he turned abruptly away, she reveled in the feminine thrill of conquest. MacBrut wanted her. He wanted to take her to his bed. He wanted to do wicked things with her.

Things she wanted desperately to experience.

The heat within her flared into a pulsebeat. She had the spark of an idea so outrageous she doused it at once.

But the thought took hold like tinder, burning brighter until she could deny it no longer.

MacBrut was the perfect man to show her the secrets of physical love.

Chapter Three

The deep hush of night shrouded the castle.

As Helen slipped out of bed in the small upstairs chamber, she could hear only the whine of the wind down the chimney and the soft snoring of Miss Gilbert, who lay burrowed beneath the pile of blankets. Nestled at the foot, M'lord lifted his head and wagged his tail, but Helen whispered, "Stay," and he obeyed, his liquid brown eyes watching as she crept toward the door.

The fire had burned down to smoldering embers during the hour she had waited to make certain her companion was soundly slumbering. Helen had spent the time in dreamy romantic fantasy until her every nerve hummed and she could bear the suspense no longer.

It was now. Or never.

The icy floor caused her toes to curl inside her thin silk stockings. She'd left off her shoes, which were still damp from the snow. Luckily, she had retrieved her cloak when Abbott had been moved to a bedchamber, for the air held a frosty nip that penetrated her thin shift and petticoats.

When Gillie had innocently suggested she remove her gown and corset before retiring, Helen had complied. She had also unbound her hair and let it tumble to her waist. Now she felt deliciously daring as she opened the door and stole out into the gloomy corridor.

Where did the master of the castle sleep?

MacBrut would have chosen the best room for his own-the laird's chamber. This was his castle, after all. Questions clamored in her. Where were his servants? Did he have another home elsewhere? Who was he, really? Helen sensed there was more to him than he let the world see. Much more.

With one hand on the cold stone wall, she slowly felt her way through the darkness. A frisson of excitement scurried over her skin. She could scarcely believe she was on her way to meet a man in his bedchamber. Such scandalous behavior could ruin an unmarried lady.

And if all went as planned, who would ever find out? Certainly no one from her social circle. This was her one night of adventure, her one chance to learn the truth behind the mystery of the sexes.

After tomorrow, she would never see. MacBrut again.

She stumbled into a chair, and the legs scraped the floor with a loud screech. Helen froze, her heartbeat surging. The passage was pitch-black; belatedly she realized she should have brought a candle. She had the eerie sense of being watched by a ghostly presence, and the image of that dusty abandoned table in the great hall flitted to her. But she deliberately put it out of her mind. She would let no morbid thoughts intrude upon her quest.

Carefully she moved on until she reached the bedchamber. The door stood halfway open. Feeling giddy, she tiptoed closer. From within came the glow of a fire and the faint crackling of logs. Helen pictured MacBrut lying sprawled in the four-poster bed: His eyes would widen with surprised appreciation when she walked into his room. He would be stunned by her offer; then he would sweep her into his arms and kiss her and do the wicked deed and at last she would know…

It would be as simple as that. Or would it?

She paused, her palm frozen against the studded oak door. All she had to do was to push it open and walk inside. But her hand disobeyed the edict of her brain. Her legs had all the strength of frostbitten flower stalks. What if MacBrut scorned her overture? What if he gave her that stony look of his? What would she say to persuade him?

Hello, I wondered if you would mind taking my virginity. Too blatant.

Ithought you might be feeling as lonely as I am. Too dreary.

It's frightfully cold. May I join you in bed? Too childish.

A draft of chilly air eddied down the corridor and slapped her cheeks. Helen shivered, hugging the ermine-trimmed cloak in an effort to contain the heat of her fantasies. Now that the moment was nigh, however, cold common sense asserted itself. What madness had brought her here?

She was no seductress. She couldn't offer herself to a stranger. Especially not a Highlander who hated her. What if MacBrut treated her ill?

Perhaps she had only deluded herself into believing he had a kind nature beneath his gruff exterior. Caring for an injured servant didn't necessarily make MacBrut a hero.

Perhaps she should find another man to be her teacher. A civilized gentleman whom she could trust.

She turned to go. And ran smack into the solid bulwark of a man. «

He crowded her against the wall, and her mind registered danger in the fingers gripping her upper arms. In the musk of his male scent. In the massiveness of his muscled chest pressing into her soft bosom.

Tilting her head back, she could discern only his large black outline against the gloom. But she didn't need to see his face to identify him.

MacBrut.

A secret thrill pulsed deep in her belly. It was part fright and part fascination. Like a wolf, he'd crept up and caught her. "What are you doing out here?" she asked in a breathy voice.

"Better I should ask that of you."

His deep, rolling brogue stirred her senses. The heat of his large body sparked a blaze of carnal curiosity, the feeling so powerful she forgot her change of heart. In a rush she blurted out, "I came to see you. To be with you."

Would he understand her meaning? Would he accept her bold offer? She waited in agonizing hope.

Silence throbbed around them. The tensing of his fingers betrayed a response in him, though whether it was disgust or desire, she could not tell. In contrast to the furnacelike warmth of him, the frigid stone wall pressed into her spine. From a distance came the scolding of the wind like the voice of her conscience. Turn back, make an excuse, flee while there's still time…

He parted her cloak and cupped her breasts. A shocking fervor melted the remnants of her resistance. His touch felt so right, so perfect, and she leaned into him, wanting more.

Abruptly he ground his hips against hers. "Out whoring, m'lady? I shouldna be surprised."

"Don't speak to me like that." She drew an indignant breath at his crude remark. "I'm not what you think."

" 'Tis pretty words you ladies want. And fancy trappings for your lust. But underneath you're all the same."

His hands descended, following the curve of waist and hips, moving downward over the layers of petticoats until he captured the prize between her legs. Gasping, she instinctively clamped her thighs together, but succeeded only in trapping his hand in place.

She shoved at his arm, a futile effort against iron muscles. "Don't."

"Don't? You came here wanting this." He rubbed slowly, provocatively. "But perhaps my manner is no' so genteel as your other lovers'."

This was how a man touched a woman? With harsh insistence? And to her utter shame, why did she like it? "I have no lovers. And I won't tolerate you acting like a brute." She gave him another, harder push. "That's brute with an e."

He jumped back half a step, removing his hand but remaining so close she could feel his body heat. His grimace flashed through the darkness. "You've a husband, then, I trow. Well, it doesna matter to me how many men you've had in the past."

"I have no husband, either," she retorted. "I've never done this before."

"You've never sought out a man in his chamber?" He fingered a silky strand of her hair. "No doubt the rutting curs grovel at your doorstep."

"Blast you." Helen slapped at his hand. "The truth is, I was curious. I'm twenty-four years old, and I've never been with a man. Not ever"

He stood unmoving. "You. A virgin."

She hated the skepticism that roughened his voice. She hated him for ruining her golden dream of discovery. "Step aside. I was mad to come here. If you must know, I was returning to my room when you appeared and started pawing me."

He didn't budge. Rather, he placed his hands on the stone wall to form a prison around her. "Were you now?"

"Yes, this was all a mistake. A momentary loss of reason." She ducked under his arm, but he moved with the swiftness of a predator, catching her against his hard form, his grip deceptively loose.

"Coward," he said softly.

Was he laughing at her? Certainly not MacBrut; he didn't possess a smidgen of humor in his muscle-bound body. She tugged at his arm to no avail. "Let me go."

"Not so quickly, lass. 'Twould seem I must voice an apology."

"So say it and be done."

"I shouldna ha' spoken so ill to you just now. If you are truly untouched-"

"There's no if about it."

"Then you canna be used to a man's ways. I shouldna ha' fondled you so." He was fondling her now, his fingers sliding beneath her cloak to trace her waist and spine with masterful delicacy. In contrast to his earlier scorn, his voice was pure honey, sweet and thick and addictive. "But you canna blame a man for going a bit daft over you. You're soft and curvy and warm the way a woman should be."

Her legs felt weak again, but she clung to her displeasure. "Release me. I wish to return to my room."

"First, here's something to take back to your lonely bed."

His dark head swooped down and the heated pressure of his mouth met hers, his tongue nudging apart her lips. The surprise of it held her motionless; her mind resisted his appeal. But her body thought otherwise. Her arms slipped around his neck and she gave herself up into the deep pleasure of his kiss. He tasted of the wine they'd drunk at dinner, and she could feel herself growing warm and giddy. All the while he caressed her in loving strokes that caused her skin to tingle and her blood to surge. She touched him tentatively at first, then with bolder forays over his chest and shoulders. His strength awed her, the muscle and sinew beneath the roughness of male skin. She loved the differences between them, the way they complemented each other, man and woman. This was what she had dreamed of, being kissed with passion and tenderness, held as if he could not bear to let her go.

He slid his mouth to her ear. His hand kneaded her breast and stroked the aching tip. "Tell me to stop, lass, fell me lest I do more."

A small shuddering sigh eased from Helen. She arched up on tiptoe and nuzzled his throat. "Do more, please. Do whatever you like."

His breath hissed out through his teeth. His arm tightened in a fierce grip. For a moment he didn't speak; then he muttered, "As m'lady wishes."

Taking her by the waist, he drew her into his chamber and kicked the door shut. A fire burned low on the stone hearth, casting a glow over the stately four-poster with us tall canopy and tattered silk hangings. Rather than lead her to-the bed, he brought her to a pallet of blankets he'd laid out before the fire. He released her, went to the woodpile, and tossed several logs onto the hearth. The flames leapt, biting and hissing in a shower of sparks.

Despite the radiant heat and her enveloping cloak, Helen trembled. She felt awkward and uncertain without the reassurance of his arms. It was not that she regretted her decision. It was that she did not know what to do. Should she undress? Should she lie down?

MacBrut unwound his plaid and cast it onto the blankets. His coarse linen shirt outlined the solidity of his shoulders and chest. As he kicked off his boots, her gaze was riveted to the long, bare legs leading up to his kilt and she wondered what-if anything-he wore beneath. "Having second thoughts, m'lady?"

That mocking note was back in his voice. She lifted her chin and decided to be honest. "No. I… just don't know how to seduce a man."

His lips quirked to the verge of a smile-but not quite. Yet it was enough to soften the fierce angles of his face. "Aye, lass, that you do."

Striding to her, he undid the fastening of her cloak and let the garment fall to the floor. His hand lingered a moment on the curve of her neck, beneath the curtain of her hair. Then his moody blue gaze moved lower, and she felt the brush of his fingertips as he let down the sleeves of her shift. The loose fabric clung protectively until he peeled it to her waist and bared her breasts.

Flushed with embarrassment and desire, she lifted her hand to her bosom,, but he caught her arm before she could cover herself. His thumb caressed the tender inner skin of her wrist while he gazed at her. How strange to let a man look at her so. It made her feel wicked and wonderful. The frank admiration on his face was gratifying, especially when he slid an arm around her waist and pulled her close against him, using his other hand to stroke her.

Sighing, she leaned her head onto his wide shoulder and closed her eyes. Her self-consciousness faded as she focused on the tactile sensations aroused by his callused fingertips. Then something wet and warm closed over her nipple. His mouth.

"Oh … I never dreamed…"

" 'Tis no dream. Remember that." And he blew on her dampened flesh.

While she whimpered from the rush of delight, he untied the tapes of her petticoats, pushed his hands inside, and found the curve of her bottom. He squeezed gently, setting off a reactionary tightening deep within her, and he caught her up in another long, openmouthed kiss.

Sweet heaven, she had been right. So right about him. Despite all his gruffness, MacBrut could be tender and loving and oh so exciting.

Somehow her undergarments fell away and she stood naked and unashamed in his arms. The world tilted as he pressed her down onto the pallet, and she felt the softness of his plaid beneath and the roughness of his clothes against her front. His kilt had ridden up, and a rodlike shape pressed into her thigh. Helen felt breathless and wanton just thinking about it, wondering why she ached to touch it, wondering what exactly he would do next. Then she could think no more when he brought his hand to her leg, smoothing up and up until his palm rested lightly at the top of her thighs, where he had handled her so crudely out in the corridor.

She stiffened, but he showed no anger now, only finesse. The tip of one finger moved… and touched a place so private and sensitive that she cried out, clutching at his arm.

"Sshh, lass. Let me stroke you. Let me prepare you."

"Prepare me?" she asked, mystified.

"Aye… I'll show you now."

He caressed her again, and the tension inside her dissolved, generating a moist heat coaxed forth by his skilled hand. She meant to lie quietly on the blankets, but her hips moved in rhythm to the rising beat of pleasure, and MacBrut crooned encouragement, his breath hot against her ear. Never had she imagined allowing a man such intimacy… or enjoying it so greatly. She shuddered with pleasure when he settled himself between her legs, his body comfortably heavy. Something hot and hard probed her tenderness, and before she could wonder at his intention, he entered her.

It hurt. Especially when he plunged deeper, driving himself to the hilt. He lay still then, his arms braced on either side of her. His chest heaved, the muscles in his neck straining as if he fought for control. In the firelight, strands of black hair gleamed around the harsh beauty of his face and the midnight eyes that gazed intently at her. Helen only realized she was biting down on her lip when he leaned down and brushed his mouth over hers in a soothing gesture.

"Steady, lass. Give yourself a moment, and you'll like it more."

She did already. His size stretched her to a pleasant fullness, and a sense of awe enveloped her. So this was how it was done, this mysterious act of mating. Never had she dreamed of such an intimate joining, or the warm, insistent yearning that made her reach out and draw him down onto her.

"I do like it," she whispered. "Very much."

He nestled his face in her hair, his voice husky in her ear. "And now I'll make you love it."

He moved slowly. In and out, commencing a rhythm that called to a primal craving buried within her. She lifted her hips to take him in deeper, but it wasn't enough. She wanted… something more. Something beyond her reach… something that wrested small moans of frustration from her as she surged with him, clinging to his shoulders, feeling the urgency build and build in her. She closed her eyes, focusing on the place where they were linked, the place that clenched to a tightness beyond belief.

"Let go," he said, panting. "Fall into it, lass."

"Into… what?"

Even as she asked, she knew. Rapture flooded her body, and she cried out with the swift plunge into paradise. She lost herself in the pulsations of pure white light, barely conscious of his final drive, his savage shout. ₉

Limp and replete, she drifted by degrees back to herself. The fire crackled into the silence, enhancing the sense of cozy well-being. She knew a contentment deeper and richer than anything she had experienced in her life. And it was all due to the massive man who lay sprawled atop her, his body still joined to hers in that wondrous way.

MacBrut. Who would have thought she could find such incredible joy with a man she'd met only hours earlier? A man who hid his true sensitivity behind the bristly skin of a beast.

A great tenderness washed through her, a feeling of closeness to this man who had initiated her into the secret society of womanhood. Snuggling against him, she breathed in his scent along with that ineffable sweetness…

"Roses," she murmured in surprise. "These blankets smell of roses."

He said nothing, his face turned from her, his cheek resting on her hair.

Helen glanced past him, at the chamber with its fine mahogany furniture in contrast to the rough stone walls. "These blankets must have belonged to the lady of the castle. What happened to her?"

The muscles of his back tensed beneath her hand. Still, he did not raise his head, though he grunted his displeasure.

His refusal to speak only endeared him to her. He was a pussycat beneath that lion's growl. Then a horrid thought struck her: what if this room had once belonged to his wife? What if he had suffered the terrible loss of her?

Sympathy brought tears to Helen's eyes. If he didn't wish to be questioned on the matter, then she owed him the courtesy of turning her curiosity elsewhere. And she did have so many questions. She ached to learn everything about him.

She stroked the rough silk of his hair. Softly, she said, "I don't even know your first name."

He mumbled something indistinct.

"I beg your pardon?"

He lifted his head slightly and shot her a wary glance. "Alexander."

"Alexander." She smiled, studying his fierce features and deciding the name fit, for it reflected the blend of civilized man and wild beast. "Alexander MacBrut."

"Nay. Alexander, the MacBrut. 'Tis the way the laird of the clan is known."

Startled, she blinked. Of course. He was no ordinary Highlander.

And that explained why he lived in this castle. Why he carried himself with an aura of command. "If you're the laird, then where are your people?" "They live in the village."

"But they must have lived here once. That pitiful dining table-"

"Enough of your bletherin'." His expression hardening, he levered himself to his feet. "Women like to natter on about matters that dinna concern them. 'Twould seem you're the worst of the lot."

In half-naked magnificence he towered over her, and Helen could scarcely think. "I merely wondered-"

"Then take your wondering back to your own bed." He snatched up her shift and tossed it at her. "Now."

As she sat up, the chill of the air seeped into her, chasing away the warmth and lassitude of their lovemaking. "How can you speak so harshly after what we just shared?"

"I had my pleasure, and you had yours. But 'tis over, and I've no stomach for useless chatter." Pivoting away, he turned his attention to adjusting the folds of his kilt.

Despite her determination to see the good in him, his rejection hurt. How could she explain her longing for romance, for soft words and parting kisses? She hadn't anticipated this brutal ending to her night of discovery. It left her feeling vaguely used and unclean.

With trembling fingers she donned her clothing, covering herself with the cloak. She paused a moment, looking at Alexander the MacBrut, who had shown her such ecstasy.

He stood gazing into the fire, one of his hands braced on the stone chimneypiece. She had a hundred questions she'd like to ask him, to enable her to understand him better. But he acted as if he'd already forgotten her presence and the deeply personal experience that had seared her soul.

After tomorrow, she would never see him again. The knot in her throat prevented her from saying good-bye. She left quietly, slipping out into the cold, dark corridor and feeling her way back to her bed, where Miss Gilbert still snored in blessed oblivion. M'lord awakened and wagged his tail, and Helen hugged him briefly before crawling beneath the covers. She closed her eyes, remembering the joy and beauty the MacBrut had shown her. No, not the MacBrut. Alexander.

Alexander had made love to her. With his tender touch, he had transported her to paradise. Belatedly she realized the folly of believing she would be content after learning the mystery of it. Once was not enough. Already she missed the warmth of his arms and the excitement of his kisses. Already the place between her legs ached to be filled by him. Only him.

Alexander.

She turned restlessly, hugging her pillow. It was foolish to desire the unattainable. She would leave here on the morrow and never return. She'd had her adventure and now it was over.

Yet as she fell asleep, Helen wished with all her heart for the chance to charm him into doing it again.

Chapter Four

He wanted to do it again.

That was Alex's first thought the next morning on seeing her emerge from the stone keep, the little spotted lapdog trotting at her side. Alex was returning from the stables where he'd tended to the horse, using physical activity to block out all memory of his mistake the previous night. Now that mistake was walking straight toward him.

Lady Helen Jeffries.

He stopped dead in the middle of the snowy courtyard. Half of him wanted to turn and run, but not his lower half. The sight of her transfixed him: the sunshine gilding her fine blond hair, the jaunty spring to her steps, the crimson cloak skimming a figure that had haunted his dreams.

He should never have touched her. He should have listened to logic instead of thinking with his cock. The last complication he needed in his life was a freshly deflowered female-especially when she was a fashionable English lady.

He should stride away in the opposite direction. Better he should follow her lapdog that bounded away to examine the perimeter of the yard. But Lady Helen waved a gloved hand at Alex, and the smile brightening her face caught him with the force of a steel trap.

"Good morning," she called gaily as she picked a path through the drifts. Her boots crunched on the snow, and a band of white bordered the hem of her cloak. Without warning, she skidded on an icy patch.

Alex sprang to save her from a nasty tumble. His arms shot around her, and he found himself holding her close to his swiftly beating heart. Despite his resolve, he was seduced instantly by her slim, curvy form and womanly scent, her rosy face and dancing eyes.

"Goodness," she said, laughing. "I didn't know the ground was so slippery."

He grunted, hoping she would take the hint that he didn't want her company. But even as he stepped back, she chattered on.

"What a fine day it is." Opening her arms wide and tilting her head back, she turned to survey the blue sky. "There isn't a cloud to be seen, and the wind has died down. Have you checked the road yet?"

He gave a curt nod.

"And? Is it covered in snow?"

"Aye," he admitted grudgingly.

"Oh, do let's have a look."

She took hold of his elbow, and he had no choice but to walk her to the arched gate. He felt the softness of her breasts as she leaned into him for support. He glanced at her suspiciously, wondering if she were play-mi; the seductress again. But she was gazing ahead, mak-iii!', sprightly comments on the weather and the scenery.

He had ruined her. With no more than a twinge of ‹ on science, he had plucked England 's fairest flower. Lust and a twisted need for revenge had overridden his scruples, and he had seized the chance to claim a prize from the country that had stolen so much from him. If anyone in London society were to find out, she would be shunned, ostracized.

Never would he forget his shock on finding her standing outside his bedchamber. Or his swift, searing response to hearing her hesitant explanation: I came to see you. To be with you.

There was no need to feel at fault. She had, after all, sought him out.

Yet guilt sank its teeth into him. She didn't deserve to be punished. She'd had nothing to do with the pain in his past.

"Oh, dear," she said. "You're right."

Alex blinked, realizing they stood at the verge of the steep, downward slope. Snow sparkled on the forested mountains as far as the eye could see. "Right?" he said cautiously.

"The road looks quite impassible. We are snowed in." She sounded cheerful, like a child freed from performing her daily chores. "We daren't transport Mr. Abbott down this slippery hill. That means we shall have to remain here for at least another day. Don't you agree?"

Being stranded here in the company of Lady Helen Jeffries only made Alex more testy. Rather than admit she'd surmised correctly, he said, "The snow willna last. 'Tis beginning to melt already."

He could hear the drip-drip of icicles from the castle walls and the surrounding trees. Gold and red leaves peeked from beneath the blanket of white. It was far too early in the season for the freezing temperatures to continue. By tomorrow, the road would be clear.

In the meanwhile, he had no intention of enduring the company of an Englishwoman. Especially not one who posed a damnable temptation to him. He had been too long without a woman, that was all.

"I've work to do," he muttered, and stalked away.

"Wait," she called from behind. "Don't go yet. I wanted to tell you something. It's about last evening."

He froze. "There's naught to tell."

"Please, Alexander. This is important."

The husky way she said his name made him turn uneasily to see her standing in the opening of the gate. The high stone arch and iron portcullis made her appear more dainty than ever.

She clasped her gloved hands in front of her. The chilly breeze tugged at the tendrils of her hair. A rosy hue tinted her cheeks, and she shyly dipped her chin. "I wanted to explain why I came to you last night."

Hell. What was it about women that made them want to analyze an act as natural as breathing or eating? "You were curious," he said bluntly. " 'Tis best forgotten."

Helen nodded. "I was curious. I wanted to know what went on between a man and a woman. Because, you see, I shall never marry."

She paused, gazing at him so earnestly he felt the tightening of interest in his chest. But he said nothing. If he didn't encourage her, maybe she would spare him her unwanted confidences.

"Five years ago," she went on, "I was betrothed to the heir to a. dukedom. We'd grown up together, and Justin was like a brother to me." She lowered her gaze to her clasped hands. "But only weeks before our wedding, I found out he'd… seduced another woman. My half sister."

"The devil!" In spite of his resolve to remain indifferent, Alex had to clench his teeth to keep from denouncing the aristocracy.

"It's for the best, though it took time for me to realize that. Now Isabel and I are the best of friends. She belongs with Justin, not me. I was only in love with the idea of being a bride-with planning a big wedding and buying a trousseau." Helen ruefully shook her head. "How silly I was. Now, I like my freedom. Instead of being saddled with a husband and a family, I've traveled all over Europe and Africa and Asia. I'm only telling you this because…"

She remained silent so long he prompted, "Because."

"Because I wanted you to know how grateful I am to you for making love to me."

He felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. "Grateful?"

"Why, yes." Her voice lowered to a throaty murmur. "You made my first experience so very beautiful. And I wanted to thank you for that."

He had the violent urge to push her up against the wall and show her another beautiful experience, to hell with the cold and the wrongness of it and whoever might be watching. She stood looking at him, admiration and longing in her clear blue eyes. He could feel himself sweating despite the cold. He did not want her to gaze at him like that, as if he were some sort of hero. Didn't she know a heartless rogue when she saw one?

He deserved to be kicked in the balls, not thanked.

"Fine," he muttered. "Now stay away from me."

Pivoting on his heel, he stalked off and left her standing in the gateway. He had no time to coddle ladies who romanticized the act of copulation. Especially not an English lady who was accustomed to being pampered. The sooner she realized sex was not all sweetness and roses, the sooner she would flee back to England and he'd be rid of her-

Something cold and wet slammed into his head. He clapped his hand to the back of his hair and found melting, icy particles that dripped down inside his collar.

The chit had hurled a snowball at him.

He wheeled around. Another cold missile smacked him in the face. He blinked, shaking his head. Sputtering, he wiped the snow from his eyelashes and saw her hastening toward him.

"Pm so sorry," she said, spoiling the apology with a giggle. "I really don't know what came over me… Alex, are you hurt?"

A mad impulse made him fake a groan and keep his hands over his eyes as if he were in pain. He waited until she ventured within arm's reach. And then he lunged.

Uttering a cry, she danced backward to elude him, then spun around and ran. She was surprisingly quick on her feet. He didn't stop to wonder what foolishness came over him. He gave chase through the courtyard, pausing only to scoop up a handful of snow which he lobbed at her.

She squealed when the snow rained over her neck and shoulders. The direct hit slowed her as she swiped at the worst of it. She bent down to snatch up more ammunition, but he caught her before she could throw it, tumbling her down into a snowdrift.

She squirmed and. fought for freedom, laughing all the while. And to his astonishment, he chuckled along with her. They rolled in the snow like children until he caught her flailing arms and their mock battle altered to carnal awareness.

He looked at her.

She looked at him.

Her bosom heaved from the exertion of their play. Their breaths mingled like fog in the frosty air. Her cloak was twisted around them, lashing him to the softness of legs and hips and breasts. He lay nestled in the cradle of her thighs.

She had ceased laughing. A womanly warmth curved her lips, and her gaze dipped to his mouth. She desired him, he knew it with fierce exultation. A small adjustment of their clothing and he could be inside her…

He could let himself be ensorcelled by an Englishwoman.

The thought chilled his hot blood, and he threw him-self off her. He abhorred her brand of femininity. It was an invitation to trouble.

She sat up, too, brushing the snow from her cloak. “Alexander?" she said hesitantly. "Why do you dislike me so?"

"I dinna dislike you." His answer came swiftly, automatically.

"You do. You're kind to Gillie and Abbott, but you would as soon have left me stranded in the coach. Whenever I come near you, you draw away."

"We fornicated last night. I dinna recall drawing away."

She flinched at his crudeness, but kept Her eyes on him. "I'm not speaking of physical closeness* but the closeness of friends. I wondered… do you fear being hurt again?"

Her words riveted him. "Again?"

"Your bedchamber with all the pretty furnishings… and then that abandoned dining table"-she bit her lip- "well, if you lost your wife, it's understandable that you'd feel reluctant to be close to another woman."

Her wrongful assumption hit him like a blow. He shot to his feet. "I've never been wed. So you can keep your foolish sympathy."

He marched away, but her footsteps pattered behind him. "Was it a clan war, then?" she asked. "If your people were called to battle in the midst of a meal-"

"There was no war," he snapped over his shoulder.

"Then what?" she persisted. "Please, I don't mean to pry-"

"Then dinna ask prying questions."

"But we have only this one day together. I want to know how to reach you. I want to understand why you despise me."

In the shadow of the tower, Alex wheeled around to face her. Lady Helen stopped, too, still in the sunshine, snow clinging to her crimson cloak from their mock tussle and bits of ice sparkling in her sunlit hair. Even now, he felt a dangerous softening inside him. Damn her, he-had to make her see. He had to show her once and for. all that he had no use for a female of her ilk.

"I despise you because you're an Englishwoman. Because this is all a game to ladies like you. You want to play with your Scotsman before you go running back to the comforts of the city, just as my mother did."

"Your mother was English?"

"Aye." The admission tasted sour in his mouth. He did not wish to probe the chilling emptiness in his chest. But this pesky female provoked him beyond endurance. "She came here, all agog at the romantic notion of marrying the laird of the MacBruts. But one hard winter in the Highlands was enough for her. On the evening of their first wedding anniversary, my father planned a big celebration here at the castle. When he went to fetch her for the party, he found the note saying she'd gone, that she couldna bear the hardships any longer. So she'd fled like a coward back to London."

Lady Helen pressed a gloved hand to her cheek. "You must have been just a baby."

"A bairn only a few months old."

"Did she never come back to see you?" A hurting, black well opened in him. "Aye, once when I was a lad of eight. She brought me presents, trying to buy my affections, then left again after a week, never to return." Despising the old ache of pain, he slammed a lid over the memory. " 'Tis a blessing the bitch died a few years later, though my father never stopped bemoaning her loss. 'Twas he who ordered the castle left forever as it was when she lived here."

"Did she never write to you?"

"Nary a once. And my poor besotted father kept hoping nil the day he died. He couldna believe his pretty wife liked the frivolous amusements of the city better than her own husband and son."

"I'm so sorry," Helen said, her gaze steady on him. But you're wrong to assume that all Englishwomen are like your mother."

He scorned the false compassion softening her face. Shi did not understand. She was blind to her own shortcomings, starry-eyed and wrapped in fantasy. "The Enlish try to steal all things Scottish. You wear our plaids and visit our mountains and pretend they're yours. You play here a while, then you scuttle on back to your own civilized world."

Helen shook her head. "I'm not averse to hardship. In my travels, I've encountered far more inhospitable circumstances than a broken coach and a ruined castle." She looked him up and down. "Not to mention a Scotsman with a beastly disposition."

Her flippant rationalizations incensed Alex. He didn't care if she was weak or strong, cowardly or brave. He only wanted her out of his life.

But that might already be impossible.

Taking a step toward her, he voiced his darkest fear. "There's one thing you didna consider when you came to me last night. I could have planted a bairn in you."

For a moment, the only sound was the drip-drip of melting snow. Then she inhaled softly. "A baby? I didn't think…"

He couldn't tell by her breathy tone if she feared the notion. But he feared it. He stepped forward and impatiently gripped her arms. "When did you last bleed?"

She ducked her head and spoke to his chest. "I hardly think that concerns you-"

"Dinna play the blushing maiden. A woman is fertile midway between her bleeding times." He didn't tell her how he knew that. The less she learned about him, the better.

"My… time ended three days ago."

Relief poured through him. He let go of her and stepped back. "Praise God for that."

She stood with her arms crossed over her middle in an oddly protective gesture. "I feel foolish for not considering the possibility."

"Then dinna make the same mistake when next you seek out a lover."

Before Helen could speak, he strode away, a tall angry man who despised her. Without a backward glance, he disappeared inside the gray stone tower.

He did not want her sympathy; he'd made that abundantly clear. Yet her heart ached for the lonely, hurt boy hidden inside the scornful man. How she yearned to take him into her arms and comfort him, to show him that not all women were so callous as to abandon their husbands and children.

M'lord danced in front of her. She picked him up, brushing off his snow-covered paws and hugging him, her cheek to his velvety ears. The possibility of being pregnant, however remote, frightened and amazed her all at once. She imagined cuddling a baby, feeding him at her breast, and a strange softness came over her, an emotion she denied. Certainly she did not wish to bear a bastard. She would never want to see her son or daughter suffer the censure of society. How lucky that the timing was wrong.

How very, very lucky.

Lost in thought, Helen walked slowly back to the keep. There was a sense of freedom in knowing their lovemaking would not bear fruit. She would stay out of Alex's path for the remainder of the day. She would give him time to get over his anger. And tonight?

A shiver of longing rippled through her. What would happen tonight?

Chapter Five

With a sense of relief, Alex shut the door to the bedchamber. He had passed the day in a frenzy of chores around the castle, carting piles of rubbish from the towers and sorting through the rusted weaponry in the armory. He had avoided the keep, preferring the frigid outbuildings to facing Helen.

Lady Helen, he contemptuously thought. A pampered aristocrat accustomed to being waited on hand and foot. He would not act like her adoring lapdog.

By evening, however, hunger proved a stronger foe than one small female. He stalked into the great hall, led by an enticing aroma. In an iron pot bubbled an appetizing stew made with the last of the ham, and though Helen took credit for it, he doubted her ability to cook. Dinner must have been Miss Gilbert's doing.

Helen appeared to have cheerfully accepted the end to their relationship. She did not flirt with him, though every now and then he intercepted a thoughtful glance from her. To his chagrin, even her coolness aroused him. It made her intriguing, untouchable, mysterious.

During dinner, she had shown far more regard for Abbott and Miss Gilbert, drawing out stories, from their childhoods, listening as if they were treasured companions rather than hired help. Only once did she address Alex, turning her big blue eyes on him. "Will the roads be clear by tomorrow?" "Aye," he'd replied gruffly. "We'll depart come morning.

For several heartbeats, her gaze had held his, and he'd felt the wild urge to seize her in his arms and carry her upstairs, to push up her skirts and find heaven again. Then Abbott had engaged him in a discussion of the vagaries of Scottish weather, and the moment of madness passed.

Now, alone in the bedchamber, he paced the stone floor. With a cold eye, he studied the room that had belonged to his mother. The tarnished silver brushes on the dressing table. The age-spotted mirror where no doubt she had spent hours admiring her beauty. The window seat where he'd once found his father weeping, a strong man brought to ruin by a woman. An Englishwoman.

How daft to worship a lady's pale breasts and come-hither smiles. He himself had always practiced more control-until last night.

Alex stopped by the crumpled pallet. In the center, a rusty spot darkened the lighter brown wool. Virgin's blood.

He could have impregnated Helen. The risk of it horrified him. He of all men should know better than to doom a child to be raised without a mother. He should not have given in to his lust. He should not imagine Helen undressing in a chamber close to this one. He should not fancy her coming here again, offering herself to him one last time

Hell. He kicked the blankets, hiding the evidence of his blunder. His mind rebelled at the notion of spending another night on the pallet where he had succumbed to i he wiles of a Sassenach lady.

Striding to the big bed, Alex stripped off the dusty counterpane and the yellowed linen sheets that smelled faintly of roses. He snatched up a pile of spare blankets, yanked off his clothing, and flung himself onto the icy bed. The feather ticking sank beneath his weight. The bare mattress had the neutral, vaguely pleasant scent of age.

He sprawled on his back and closed his eyes. With stern willpower, he kept his thoughts clean. He would not dwell upon the illusory paradise he had found with Helen. Rather, he would focus his mind on acquiring a proper Scots wife.

Aye, last night had proven it was long past time for him to wed. He needed the pleasure of a woman more often. There were several suitable prospects in the area, worthy Highland women who had made their interest in him known, and he considered them, one by one…

After a time, he must have dozed, for he dreamed of soft arms embracing him, feminine hands roving his chest and waist and legs. His wife. She teased him with coy strokes, skirting but never touching the place where he burned. And he could not seem to grasp her wrist and guide her fingers as he wished. He was at her mercy, frustrated beyond belief…

With great effort, he swam to the surface of awareness. Groggy, he opened his eyes to the shadowy room. She lay draped over his side, and this time, he could touch her. He groped for her dainty hand and brought it downward, wrapping her fingers around him. The pleasure of it seared him.

Her soft breathy gasp brushed his ear. Not his wife. She was an erotic dream come true. "Helen," he muttered.

"Mmmm." She slid against him, her lips nuzzling his throat, her fingers exploring him. She was naked. So was he.

His loins ached to the verge of pain. His sleep-drugged brain struggled to function, to fight the onslaught of sensual stimulation. Lust won the battle, and he lowered his head to her satiny breasts. "You shouldna be here," he said roughly into the fragrant valley.

"I know," she whispered. "But I couldn't stay away."

The wistfulness in her voice burrowed to a place deep inside him. She was his. His for the taking. He smoothed his hands down her womanly shape, finding lush hills and hidden vales. He could no longer remember all the reasons she was wrong for him. He could think only that he wanted her with a fierceness that defied understanding. "Bide with me then, lass."

"Yes," she said on a sigh.

Their mouths met in silken darkness. He pressed her against the feather mattress for a deep, drowning kiss. Her hand continued to stroke him, driving him mad. Ah, heaven. He was surely dreaming now, for nothing had ever felt so good. She made light forays up and down, circling the sensitive tip, teasing him to the verge of climax. He meant to curl her fingers around him, to show her how hard he liked it, but a primal urge beat inside him, and without further play he positioned himself between her opened legs.

Hot. She was hot and tight and wet. A perfect fit. So perfect that when he moved even slightly, he nearly went over the edge. He gritted his teeth and strained for control, reaching between them to caress her, taking fierce satisfaction from her unbridled enjoyment, her unladylike cries of passion. At last she arched against him, shuddering, sobbing out his name in the throes of release. Only then did he give himself into her power and allow the long, long fall into ecstasy.

Night enveloped them. Her soft body cradled him. Against his shoulder, she sighed in sleepy contentment. His insides clenched with something queerly akin to tenderness.

Helen. He had made love to Lady Helen again. He reached for resentment, but like a stone it skipped away and sank into the endless sea of darkness. Waves of weariness lapped at him, pulling him deeper and deeper until he knew no more.

A loud crash awakened Helen.

She blinked into the brightness of daylight, and for a moment could not place where she was, which foreign country, what rural inn. Her senses absorbed her surroundings. Tattered rose-pink bedhangings. A bare mattress. A chill against her back, while the front of her was toasty warm, snuggled to a hard male body, a soft woolen blanket covering the two of them.

Alex.

Memory returned in a fervid rush. Before she could assimilate the cozy pleasure of waking up in his arms, his grip tightened on her. She glanced up at his face, and his unshaven cheeks gave him a disreputable and dangerous aspect. But he was not looking at her; he stared across the room.

"What the devil?" he growled. "Get out."

Pushing up on one elbow, she followed his gaze. And gasped at the man standing in the doorway. This was a nightmare. She would awaken in a moment…Her lips moved, but no sound issued forth.

Papa.

Though small in stature, the Marquess of Hathaway commanded attention like a king. He stood staring at them, his face pale and grim. Dear God. He must have left Edinburgh and followed her. Cox would have told him about the accident, that she'd been stranded here…

She saw the moment when his shock turned to rage. His bushy white eyebrows clashed in a thunderous scowl. Redness spread over his grizzled cheeks. From his wind-rumpled graying hair to his snow-caked boots, he radiated an explosive fury.

Alex sat up, naked to the waist, the blanket falling to his hips. He half shielded her with his big body. "I said, get out."

Lord Hathaway stormed to the side of the bed. His stark gaze flicked beyond Alex to Helen, and she drew the blanket to her chin to hide her nudity. Chills convulsed her body. She wanted to cry out that it wasn't what he thought… but it was. She had given herself to a man who was not her husband. A man she barely knew.

Lord Hathaway's expression turned murderous as he focused on Alex. Through gritted teeth, he said, "What have you done to her?"

* "I dinna know who the devil you are, but you canna barge in here-"

"You've seduced her. You bloody lecher!"

In a blur of black cape, Lord Hathaway sprang across the bed. His fist connected with Alex's jaw, and Alex went reeling back against the headboard. The bed shook, a fine dust filtering down from the ancient canopy. Alex clapped his hand to his face. For an instant he sat stunned. Then a savage light entered his eyes, and Helen knew she had to act fast.

She launched herself between the two angry men. "Stop!" she cried. "That's enough."

Alex tried to thrust her aside. "I willna have a woman fighting my battles."

She pushed him back. "And I won't have you striking my father."

"Your father?" Alex jerked his head toward the visitor…

Lord Hathaway stood by the bed, breathing hard, his fists clenched. "I should kill you. Forcing my daughter into your bed-"

"He didn't force me," Helen blurted out. Regretting the need to cause him pain, she kept the blanket clasped to her taut throat. "I-I'm sorry, Papa. But you mustn't blame Alex. It was I who sought him out."

Hathaway's face went rigid. "I don't believe you."

She couldn't meet his eyes. "It started out as curiosity. I-I wanted to know what love was like-"

"It doesna matter what she did," Alex broke in. "Naught would have happened had I no' permitted it."

"You're damned right about that," Lord Hathaway snapped. "By God, you'll pay the price for ruining my daughter."

Alex said nothing. The two men shared a hard, angry, assessing look.

Confused, Helen glanced from one to the other. "But it's my fault," she insisted. "Papa, I won't have you blaming Alex. He didn't compromise me-he had my consent."

"I don't care if he had the blessing of King George the Fourth."

Her father stomped around to her side of the bed, and for one horrible moment she feared he would strike her. He had never ill-treated her in all her life, yet never before had she infuriated him so mightily. She would not flinch. Though trembling within, she kept her gaze steady on him, bracing herself for another outburst of wrath.

But he merely tugged the blanket more securely around her, then snatched up the pile of her clothing from a nearby chair. Taking her by the arm, he pulled her from the bed, leaving Alex without covering. "We shall settle this matter immediately," Hathaway told him.

Alex nodded coolly. Helen permitted herself only a furtive glance at him. He looked magnificent in his nakedness, as dignified as any man can be when caught in the act by an irate father.

Heaven help them. If only she had returned to her bed last night…

Outside in the passageway, the marquess handed Helen her garments. His skin appeared gray in the dim light. "Dress yourself," he said in a heavy voice. "Then return here in half an hour." He pivoted from her and in ted back into the bedroom.

Stung by fear, she cried out, "Papa! Promise me you'll not duel with Alex."

Hathaway grimaced. "Murdering the lecher might prove satisfying. But it would never bring back what you've lost."

"You don't understand. If you'll let me explain-"

"No." Cutting her off with a slash of his hand, he gave her a look of contempt and disappointment. "I traveled half the night to reach here, to assure myself of your safety. Instead I find that you have tricked Miss Gilbert. You have ignored your moral upbringing. And you have betrayed my trust. Do not insult me now by making excuses for your misdeed." His boot heels ringing, he stalked into the bedroom and shut the door.

His harsh words hung like a miasma in the chilly air. Helen wanted to run after him, to beg forgiveness for causing him pain, but she knew he would scorn her apologies. Tears blurred her vision. Since her mother's death when Helen was just a girl, she and her father had had only each other to rely upon. Now she had hurt the one man who mattered to her.

She felt mortified and shaken, though oddly unrepentant. The secret truth was, she did not regret making love with Alex. Both times, it had been a beautiful experience, a celebration of human closeness.

But in the doing, she had destroyed her father's faith in her. Somehow she had to show him that she was still his loving daughter. She breathed that fervent vow as she hastened down the corridor to dress.

Whatever punishment he intended to administer, even if he forbade her to travel anymore, she swore she would accept it.

"You and the MacBrut shall marry."

Her father's edict echoed in the laird's bedroom some thirty minutes later. Dumbfounded, Helen glanced at Alex, who stood fully dressed in kilt and plaid and boots, his hands clasped behind his back and his features stony. Forgetting her vow, she sputtered, "That's impossible."

"When we reach the village," Lord Hathaway said, "you and he will be wed. There is no posting of banns here in Scotland, and no cause to delay."

"But… I'm not marrying him." Horror rising in her throat, she spun toward Alex. Her fingers clenched the silk of her skirt. "Surely you cannot have agreed to this."

"I proposed a handfast." He grimaced, his blue eyes dark with loathing. "But his lordship insists on settling matters the English way."

"Handfast is a barbaric custom," her father said with a derisive snort. "Joined for a year and a day without benefit of clergy. And if there is no child, then you go your separate ways-with the woman's reputation in ruins." He shook his head sternly. "No. You took my daughter's virtue. Now you will do right by her."

To Helen's dismay, Alex didn't argue. But she did.

She ran to her father and grasped his hands. He still wore his greatcoat and gloves since it was icy cold in the room. "Papa, you're acting rashly. We can cover this up. No one need ever find out. Miss Gilbert and Abbott are loyal to me. And the village men who guided you here are hardly likely to inform London society."

Her father's face looked haggard. "Helen, I spent most of my adult life hiding a secret and dreading discovery. Five years ago, I swore I would never, ever do so again. It is better face up to the consequences of one's actions than to practice deceit."

Her heart lurched. He referred to the time when the truth had come out about his bastard daughter by a courtesan. It had been both shocking and thrilling for Helen to discover that she had a half sister, Isabel. Helen knew her father regretted keeping the secret for so long. But she had not realized how deeply it had compromised his sense of honor.

"Besides," he added gravely, "you may be with child."

"No! I can't be. Alex said so."

"I said 'tis no' likely" Alex corrected. He stepped away from the hearth, where he'd been contemplating the cold ashes in the grate. "But the risk is there, and I knew it when I bedded you."

She felt crowded into a corner, without ally or weapon. Her father wished her to wed a man who despised her. To live in this drafty castle. To sacrifice her independence. Panic clutched at her throat. Was this, then, the price of winning back his love?

"Papa, I beg you, please think about this for a few more days-"

"Waiting will not change matters." His hands clasped behind his back, Hathaway regarded her with a level, disappointed stare that brought tears to her eyes. "I remember what it was like to be young, hot-blooded. But I also know there are consequences to be faced. And face them you shall."

Alex stood with his bride in the tiny kirk.

It was the same ancient house of worship where he had been baptized, the same stone altar where his parents had been wed, the same place where his father had been buried with the rest of the MacBruts. Alex seldom attended services anymore. As a boy he had lost faith when it had become too painful to watch his father praying, always praying for his wife's return.

Now Alex was taking an English wife.

Despite the chill in the air, his back prickled with sweat. He wanted to turn and run. To flee before the chains of matrimony bound him to a woman he loathed.

Helen wanted this marriage no more than he did. He would be doing them both a favor.

It is better face up to the consequences of one's actions than to practice deceit.

In his wildest imaginings, he'd never thought to find himself agreeing with an English nobleman. Yet Hathaway had challenged his honor. Now, his throat dry, Alex heard himself parroting his vows. And then Helen speaking hers in a subdued voice.

The deed was done.

She turned to him, her face uptilted for his kiss. Wariness clouded her blue eyes, and her fine pale features wore no smile. His wife. Lady Helen Jeffries was his wife now. She looked coldly beautiful with her blond hair swept up and secured with an ivory comb, her curves hidden by an ice-blue gown with a high neckline. But he knew every inch of her shapely body.

Even here, in the sanctuary of the kirk, he felt a dark, damning lust.

Deliberately he did not kiss her. He merely offered his arm as they walked back down the narrow aisle, past Helen's grim-faced father and a weeping Miss Gilbert, and the hastily assembled congregation of his people. They were avidly curious, he knew. Never in his twenty-eight years had he shown any inclination toward marriage.

The bell in the tower pealed joyously. In the chilly sunshine of the kirk yard, Alex had a moment alone with his bride before the guests trooped out. He bent close to her ear, and she smelled faintly of roses. "My people expect a wee celebration. You will behave as if you are enjoying yourself."

She lifted her chin. "And you will do the same."

Her challenge rankled him. Then it was too late for further remonstrations as the congregation filed out the doorway. Lord Hathaway kissed Helen's cheek and shook Alex's hand. "Treat her well," he said gruffly.

Alex comprehended the warning. He couldn't fault the marquess for wanting to protect his daughter. He would do the same for his own child.

If there was a child. Pray God there was not.

The villagers thronged around Helen. At first they were cautious in their greetings, but they warmed up as Helen played the gracious lady, smiling and accepting the good wishes of everyone, from auld Tarn the cobbler who pecked her cheek to wee Jessie, thumb in mouth as she stared up in awe at the bride.

Alex and Helen led the winding procession through the village, past the smithy and the bakeshop and the scattering of homes. The setting sun cast a golden light over the verdant valley with mountains rising all around and cattle grazing near a loch that glistened a deep blue in the distance. Melting snow had muddied the path, and he waited for Helen to complain. But she lifted her hem above the muck and showed a bright-eyed interest in the whitewashed stone crofts with smoke drifting lazily from chimneys. The scent of smoldering peat perfumed the brisk air.

"Are we all going back up to the castle?" she asked.

"Nay." He relished her puzzlement and wished he could prolong it. She surely must be wondering which of these humble dwellings could hold so many wedding guests. He wanted to punish her by letting her think the worst-yet he had a perverse need to prove his worth to her as well.

At the other end of the village, they rounded a bend in the path and came upon a stone fence surrounding a rambling estate. Oaks in autumn glory shaded the overgrown garden. Shooing her through the opened gate, Alex watched in cynical expectation as she spied the grand stone mansion that perched atop a low hill. It might have been an English country house, complete with mullioned windows across the front and a score of chimneys rising from the slate roof.

She looked at him quizzically as he escorted her up the wide front steps. He fought the maddening urge to haul her inside to a private corner and consummate their ill-favored union. "Come awa' in," he said. "You'll want to assess the silver and see if 'tis fancy enough to suit you."

"To suit me?"

"Aye." He pulled open the heavy oak door. "Make yourself to home."

Her steps faltered on the threshold. Her chin shot up and she regarded him in accusing surprise. "You live here. Not in that tumbledown castle."

"My father built this pile to please my lady mother. But she couldna even wait for it to be finished." Conscious of the parade coming up the walk, Alex spoke for her ears alone. "How long will you last, I wonder?"

Chapter Six

Helen resolved to have a good time at her wedding celebration, if for no other reason than because Alex expected her to be miserable.

The villagers had done a fine job on short notice. In the dining parlor, the women laid out baked goods and meat dishes diverted from their own supper tables. In the drawing room, the men moved back the few pieces of furniture to make room for dancing. A trio of musicians played tunes in a curiously pleasing blend of flute, fiddle, and bagpipe.

She recognized only a few of the guests. Abbott sat comfortably on a chaise, his injured ankle propped on a pillow. Cox chatted with a blushing lass. Miss Gilbert poured punch for the throng of merrymakers, while Lord Hathaway engaged several of the men in a discussion of local commerce.

Helen wandered from group to group, determined to remember names and faces. These were her people now, too. She felt awash in a sense of unreality, a strange though not unpleasant feeling of homecoming.

She smiled and chatted, all the while keenly aware of Alex at the far end of the room, filling a glass of whisky, then sitting beside a pretty, black-haired woman who bent her head close to him, engaging his full attention.

A disagreeable jolt struck Helen. Beyond their two nights together, she knew little about his romantic life. Yet certainly he'd had practice in the art of lovemaking. And the pair of them appeared suspiciously cozy.

"Och, dinna look so fierce," said a tall, gaunt woman who introduced herself as Flora, his housekeeper. "Meg is complainin', and the laird is polite enough to listen. But he willna take up wi' the likes o' her now that he has a bonny bride. That auld nag has sent two husbands to the grave already."

Helen could not be so certain of his loyalty. The auld nag was flaunting her lush bosom in his face. Gritting her teeth, Helen deliberately turned her back. "How long have you worked here, Flora?"

"Long enough to have changed the laird's nappies when he was a puir, motherless bairn."

Helen's attention perked. "Did you know Alex's mother, then?"

"Aye, she was a frail lady, looked as if a gust o' wind would blow her awa'. And too proud for her own good." The housekeeper stuck her nose in the air and sniffed. "Truth be told, I wasna sorry to see her go."

"I'm English," Helen said. "Wouldn't you want me to leave, too?"

Smiling, Flora wagged a gnarled finger. "I can take a person's measure well enough. Ye're strong like the laird. An' 'tis pleased I am to see him wed at last. He needs a family to brighten up this lonesome place,"

"He needs the braw task o' gettin' himself some bairns," said the little man who joined them, his brown eyes twinkling beneath a cap of tight red curls. "Though 'twould seem the MacBrut wasted no time wi' the bed-din'."

Helen blushed. Everyone knew she and Alex had met only two days ago. They surely guessed what had happened during that unseasonal blizzard.

Flora chided, "Go awa' wi' ye, Jamie. The lady's too fine for yer stableyard jests."

"An' here I polished up me best manners." Jamie cocked a kilted leg and bowed. "Might I have the pleasure of this dance, m'lady?"

Helen smiled as she dipped into a curtsy. "Why, certainly, sir."

She accepted his arm and went out into the thick of the dancers. It was a lively jig, which Jamie performed with enthusiasm, his bandy legs a blur of motion. Catching a glimpse of Alex still engaged in conversation with the widow Meg, Helen concentrated on the dance steps, moving cautiously at first, then with growing confidence. When Jamie whirled her around, she found herself laughing from the dizzy sensation.

"Ye're a bonny dancer," he said at the end of the set. "Just what the laird needs, I trow."

"He needs a dancer?" she asked in mock innocence.

Jamie flashed his teeth in a grin. "Someone to gi' him a merry chase, that's what. Crivvens! No man ought to glower so on his weddin' day."

She glanced across the long room at Alex. When their gazes met, he scowled. With a pang, she recalled that moment in church when she'd lifted her face for his kiss and he had turned from her. No doubt his male pride was stung by the forced nuptials. Well, she too had never intended to wed, yet she saw no reason to sulk. Her life had changed more drastically than his, with her traveling ended for good. But she would make the best of their marriage.

Despite her indignation, Helen felt a flare of possessiveness. He was her husband now. Only she had the right to claim his attention, to go with him upstairs. A delicious shiver warmed her inner depths. Tonight they would make love as man and wife…

Another man claimed her for a dance, and she tucked away her private fantasies. The party was hardly the lavish festivity she had once envisioned as a starry-eyed girl of eighteen, in love with the pageantry of being a bride. Nor was it an elegant affair attended by the cream of the ton. Yet as the clansmen came one by one to partner her, she was touched by their efforts to welcome the laird's lady. Their kindness helped to ease the abrupt change from independent woman to unwanted wife.

An hour later, as she danced a reel with a gangly farmer, she noticed that Alex had vanished. So had the dark-haired Meg.

Suspicion pricked Helen. How long had they been gone?

At the end of the dance, she murmured her excuses, then searched the downstairs rooms, peeking into a quiet library, an empty morning room, a vacant butler's pantry. Alex's house-her house-was sparsely furnished. Many of the rooms lacked wallpaper and draperies, yet she could see possibilities in the airy ceilings, the tall windows, the finely detailed woodwork. Drat Alex for letting her believe he lived in that old, drafty castle with its eerie, cobwebbed table. And now the rascal had gone off with another woman on his wedding day.

It was time he showed his wife respect.

Her displeasure multiplied when she couldn't find the missing couple. Nearing the end of the gloomy passage, she spied one last door at the back of the house. She was marching toward it when the white-painted panel swung open, and her husband stepped out, a candlestick in his hand.

Behind him sauntered Meg. She was looking down while adjusting her dark green bodice.

A chill crawled over Helen, followed by a flash of rage. It was one thing to suspect them of a liaison; quite another to catch them after the act.

Alex halted, the candle flame casting shadows over his craggy features. He shut the door behind them. His dark eyebrows were lowered, giving him the aspect of a wary wolf. "What are you doing awa' from the dancing?"

"I should ask you that question." She glanced pointedly at Meg, who wore a cat-in-the-cream smile. She either used carmine to darken those ruby lips. Or she had just been soundly kissed.

"It isna your place to question me," Alex said ominously.

"Oh? Then I'll issue a few orders instead. Starting with your partner." Helen swung to the widow. "Bother my husband again, and I'll unman him. Now leave this house before I turn my wrath on you, as well."

The smirk vanished. Her brown eyes rounded, Meg scuttled past Helen and vanished down the corridor.

A fierce satisfaction gripped Helen. Before she could revel in her victory, Alex spoke in a low, melodious brogue.

"Unman me, will you?" One eyebrow cocked, he lounged with his shoulder propped against the wall as he looked her up and down. "And just how would a wee lass like you propose to do that?"

His lazy perusal sparked a heat in her that had nothing to do with anger or triumph. He stood so tall and muscled in his linen shirt and fine kilt. How well she remembered the hardness of that masculine body. The memory made her feel weak inside, yearning for his big hands to touch her.

Hands that had just been caressing someone else.

Helen clenched her silk skirt. "Test me and find out," she said with icy bravado. "I will not abide my husband bedding another woman."

He snorted. "I didna bed Meg."

"Then what were you doing with her in there?"

The glower returned, making his cheekbones stark and his expression grim in the meager candlelight. " 'Tis a private matter."

"Obviously. Or you wouldn't have needed to sneak away." She marched past him. "Perhaps I’ll have a look for myself."

He slapped his palm against the door. "Dinna go in there."

"Why not? Have you something to hide? A rumpled bed, perhaps?"

"That room is forbidden to you." "This is my house now, too. I've a right to go wherever I please."

"The house is mine" he corrected. "And you'll keep out where you are no' invited. It shouldna matter when you'll be gone from here soon enough."

"I've no intention of leaving."

"Then think again," he said bluntly. "There's no point to us living together. Tomorrow, you'll go awa' back to London with your father."

Shock reverberated through Helen. She clasped her hands tightly to steady herself. "You can't toss me out. I won't go."

"Suit yourself, then. But you'd best get out before winter makes the roads too treacherous for travel." In the candleglow, his dark blue eyes showed no regret, only an embittered dislike.

Of course. He feared she would behave the same as his mother. The realization eased the sting of his rejection, and without thinking, she reached up and caressed his jaw, sliding her hand to his temple. His skin was taut to her fingertips, his hair like rough silk. Looking up into his stern features, she imagined the lonely little boy he had once been. And it reminded her of why, in the end, she had spoken her vows to him. Because she ached to reach the fiercely guarded softness she had glimpsed inside the virile man.

Her husband.

She pressed herself closer to him, flushed with the desire to bring light and affection into his bleak life. "I don't mind the winter, Alex," she said in a sultry tone.

"I'm sure we can find ways to keep each other warm."

His nostrils flared. His chest expanded against her breasts. His moody eyes glittered down at her, and she knew with reckless delight that he still wanted her. He too wanted to make the best of this marriage

Suddenly he thrust her away. "Nay. I willna risk having a child by you, Lady Helen. So heed me well. I will never, ever touch you again."

Chapter Seven

"Everything will be fine, Papa."

Helen stood with her father on the front porch the next morning. His black traveling coach waited on the drive, beneath the autumn splendor of a huge oak tree. Except for the mountaintops, the snow had melted and the roads were clear. He was taking Abbott back to England so the coachman could recuperate there. Cox and Miss Gilbert would stay on with Helen.

Lord Hathaway gripped her hands. "I mislike leaving you here," he said for the tenth time. "Perhaps I acted too hastily in forcing this marriage."

I will never, ever touch you again.

"Of course you didn't," she said, giving her father a sunny, reassuring smile. "You wanted to protect my honor. And I love you for that."

Worry deepened the lines on his dignified features. "I know the MacBrut can provide for you," Hathaway said, as if trying to convince himself. "I'd stayed the night at this house before setting out for his castle. His people led me to believe he is a fine, worthy man."

He searched her face, and Helen maintained her determined smile. The woeful state of this marriage was her problem, not his. "Yes, Papa, you've told me. And I know Alex is well regarded in the village."

He's also affluent from lucrative shipping investments. And you'll have income of your own. The MacBrut insisted the marriage settlement remain in your name. That proves he's a generous man."

It proved he wanted nothing to do with English money. "Then I shan't want for anything." She swallowed hard. "Although I shall miss you, Papa."

"And I, you."

He pulled her into a tight hug that Helen wished would last forever. For as long as she could remember, Papa had always been there for her. He had been her companion on journeys to far-flung places. Now she would be lucky to see him once a year. The magnitude of that realization threatened to shatter her, but she held herself together for his sake. He mustn't guess that she had spent her wedding night alone, that she had lain awake for hours in the four-poster bed, listening to the creakings of the strange house and wishing for the warm comfort of her husband.

When her father drew away, his eyes glistened with moisture. She fought back her own tears as he gave her one last gruff kiss. Then he strode down the steps and entered the coach.

Helen stood waving, smiling bravely as the vehicle started off into the majestic hills. Only when the coach vanished around a bend in the road did she let the tears fall. Warm, wet drops rolled down her cold cheeks. As if sensing her unhappiness, M'lord bounded up the steps and whined. She picked up the dog, hugging his small form as he nudged her with his cold nose.

Leaning against the stone pillar, she blotted her face with the corner of her apricot cashmere shawl. It was senseless to weep over matters of her own making. Better she should carve a place for herself here in Scotland. Of all the lands she'd visited, she loved these wild, windswept mountains the best.

The door opened behind her. She stiffened, bracing herself for Alex's ridicule. She hadn't seen him since the previous night when he had issued his ugly ultimatum.

I will never, ever touch you again.

A hand gently patted her back. But it was only Miss Gilbert, her plump face soft with concern. "You mustn't be distraught. His lordship will be back to visit. And surely you and the laird will go to England sometime."

Alex would sooner journey to the fiery pits of Hades.

And Helen refused to leave the Highlands without him. To do so would only prove his cynical prediction. Instead, she would wear him down with her persistence. Time would show him that she intended to stay.

Holding her beloved dog, Helen took a deep breath of crisp autumn air. Yes. Time alone might unlock the bars around her husband's heart.

Helen spent the rest of the day in brisk activity. Guided by Flora, she toured the house, room by room, assessing the antique linens in the cabinets and making lists of items to be purchased in Edinburgh. She would need drapery patterns and paint samples, furniture catalogs and upholstery swatches. It wasn't until mid-afternoon, when the housekeeper went to the kitchen to prepare dinner, that Helen came upon the closed door.

The one room Alex had forbidden her to enter.

She meant to walk away, to allow him his juvenile secrets, at least for the moment. But a muffled, whining voice issued from inside the chamber.

Frowning, she pressed her ear to the door, but could not make out the words beyond that the speaker was a man. Every now and then, she heard her husband's deep voice in reply. His tone had a patient, gentle quality, almost like a parent soothing a hurt child.

Was this Alex's office? Was he placating a disgruntled tenant?

Her fingers touched the brass door handle, but she resisted the impulse to enter. Men didn't care for women to interfere in matters of business. She intended to win her husband over, not irritate him. There would be time enough later to satisfy her curiosity.

Turning, she started down the passageway. An agonized howl came from the closed room. The sound sent prickles down Helen's spine.

Instinctively she responded to the cry of pain. She raced to the door and wrenched it open, lifting her skirts as she hastened inside.

She found herself in a long, spacious chamber lined by shelves full of apothecary jars and life-sized drawings of skeletons and anatomical forms. The tall windows let in the sunshine. In contrast to the starkness elsewhere in the house, this room contained a comfortable clutter of medicine cabinets, an examining table, and several cots. And Helen could not have been more surprised to discover a sorcerer's cave.

In the center of the room, Alex bent over a man who was stretched out in a leather chair with his white-knuckled hands gripping the arms. A wooden table held a host of metal instruments along with linen bandages and various bottles and jars. Alex straightened, holding a wooden drill-like implement with a wicked-looking hook on the end.

Alarmed, she hurried forward. "Dear God, what is going on?"

Alex pivoted on his heel and glared. "I told you not to come in here."

'T heard a scream." She peered past him and recognized Dougal, the village blacksmith, a sheepish look on his puffy, bristled cheeks. "What are you doing to that poor man?"

"That puir man had two rotten teeth. I removed them." Alex laid the implement on the table and snatched up a wad of cloth. Over his shoulder, he snapped, "Now go awa', you're intruding here."

Helen folded her arms and stayed put.-She watched as Alex finished with the blacksmith, packing the afflicted area with gauze, instructing him to eat only soft foods until the morrow, and admonishing him to use a cleansing powder daily lest he lose more teeth.

After the man departed, she stared at Alex, recalling his skill in caring for Abbott's broken ankle. Abruptly it all made sense. "You're a physician."

He strode to a washstand and soaped his hands. "I trained in Edinburgh. So that my people wouldna suffer from lack of proper care."

"You might have told me." Frustration simmered inside her, but it was overshadowed by sudden comprehension. "You brought Meg in here last night. Did she have a medical complaint?"

"A burn on her abdomen. I thought it wise to have a look."

"In the midst of your wedding celebration?"

A ruddy flush entered his cheeks as he dried his hands on a linen towel. In the late afternoon sunlight, his face had a rough beauty like the craggy mountains beyond the windows. "Our wedding wasna cause for celebration," he said bluntly. "You ken that as well as I."

A tart retort soured her tongue. But she reminded herself that taming him would take patience and persistence. She would not let him draw her into an endless war where they did nothing but fire shots at each other.

"If ever you need an assistant," she said, "I'd be happy to help."

"You'd swoon at the first drop of blood."

She gazed steadily at him. "You're mistaken. After Papa and I survived an earthquake in Turkey last year, I helped care for the wounded."

Alex cocked a skeptical brow. "Did you pat the injured on the hand?"

"Believe what you will. But your clansmen are my people now, too. And they were kind enough to welcome me yesterday-unlike you."

Before he could do more than grimace, a knock sounded.

"Go awa' with you now," Alex snapped to Helen as he crossed the room and opened a door that led directly outside.

In rushed a wild-eyed woman carrying a wailing child. It was Jessie, the little girl who had stared in awe at Helen outside the kirk. Helen's heart lurched. Blood matted the girl's fair hair and trickled down her delicate face.

Alex carried the girl to the examining table. "Here now, lassie. Let me have a look. I willna hurt you."

Using a cloth, he blotted the blood to expose a deep, jagged cut along her hairline. Her mother hovered close, sobbing, "She was playin' in the glen an' slipped on the rocks. Will she die?"

"She'll be fine. But the wound needs stitching." Alex hunkered down to Jessie's level. "You must lie very still, lassie. 'Twill only be a few pricks and we'll be done."

Jessie battered him with her fists. "Go awa'! Dinna hurt me!"

"Jessie!" Her mother helplessly wrung her hands. "Ye must listen to the laird an' do as he says."

Jessie only cried louder and thrashed harder.

Helen took firm hold of the girl's dainty shoulders. "Sshh. Let me tell you a story, Jessie. It's about a beautiful, brave princess who found herself the prisoner of a wicked beast. But you must be quiet now if you wish to hear all the adventures she had."

Jessie took a few hiccupping breaths. Her stiff muscles relaxed slightly under Helen's soothing massage. She gazed up wide-eyed, her face streaked with tears. "W-what was her name?"

"Her name was Helen, just like me. She traveled all over the world with her father, the king, and they visited many strange and wonderful places. Like the ancient pyramids of Egypt and the bazaars of Baghdad. Once, she even fed the monkeys on the Rock of Gibraltar."

"How did the princess get caught by the beast?" Jessie asked. She didn't seem to notice that Alex was carefully cleansing her oozing wound.

"Well, one day while they were visiting the strangest and most wonderful land of all, her father was called back to his kingdom. But Princess Helen was so eager to explore the lovely countryside that she decided to go on without him, though people warned her the mountains were enchanted, and that a fearsome beast lived there. Princesses, you see, are not easily frightened away by fearsome beasts. No matter how loudly they roar." v Helen saw Alex's lips compress, though his attention was focused on the curved needle which he plucked from the tray of implements. Seeing that he was about to suture the wound, she hastily continued. "One sunny morning, Princess Helen set out to explore the mountains. But by the afternoon, when she ventured deep into the forest, an icy wind began to blow and snow fell so thickly she feared she might freeze to death. Just then, she came -upon a beautiful castle with lights twinkling in every window. When she knocked, the door opened by magic. She called out, but no one came. So she hastened toward a warm fire crackling on the hearth and a table laden with a fine feast of hot soup and cake and sugar plums.

"After the princess had enjoyed the most delicious meal of her life, a noise came from the shadows. She saw him then-the beast. He was big and fierce-looking, as shaggy as a bear. He said that eating his food had cast an enchantment over her and now she belonged to him forever."

Jessie had her thumb in her mouth, sucking hard while Alex finished the few stitches and knotted the end. From the black look he sent Helen, she knew he understood that the feast was their two idyllic nights together.

"The princess was afraid at first, but though the beast growled and snarled, he never, ever hurt her. As the days passed she saw kindness in him. And she learned he had once been a handsome prince until an evil witch had hexed him. Only a love pure and true could break the spell." Helen lowered her voice to a husky murmur. "The princess was determined to love the beast. She was the one woman who could heal his heart."

Alex uttered a low, derisive sound. But his hands were gentle as he applied a clean linen bandage with sticking plaster.

Jessie pulled her thumb out of her mouth. "Did the princess ever turn the beast back into a prince?"

Smiling, Helen rubbed the child's small back and ignored a fierce glance from Alex. "Of course, she did, darling. No matter how difficult the task, princesses always accomplish what they set out to do."

Over the next fortnight, his wife was a constant presence and a source of endless irritation. Alex did his best to drive her away, though when it came to bodily tossing her out of his office, he found he couldn't do it. So he raged and snapped, willing her to take the hint and leave him alone.

But nothing he said seemed to discourage her, and after a time, he noticed all the little ways in which she changed his life. She assumed the role of an adept assistant, brisk and cheerful with the natural ability to calm his patients. She rolled bandages, handed him instruments, and gave sympathy to the fearful. On busy days, she brought him a hot lunch on a tray. Somehow she found out all his likes and dislikes-no doubt by gossiping with Flora-and made certain he had bannocks and blackberry jam for his breakfast, cock-a-leekie soup or smoked haddock with his dinner, along with a glass of his favorite ale. On cold, dark days, when the mist came down from the mountains, she brought him piping hot tea with shortbread.

He tried escaping the house, calling on patients. But as often as not, he would encounter his wife in the glen on her rounds to visit the crofters. She delivered broth to the sick and blankets to those in need. Often she simply sat down for a chat, getting to know each and every one of his people.

Her people now, too, she had said.

He seethed with rage at the way she was deceiving them into thinking she truly cared. He wanted to warn them that Lady Helen was only playing at being the laird's wife. When she tired of living her princess-and-the-beast fairy tale, she would go scuttling back to civilized England.

But he gritted his teeth and said nothing. Time would prove him right. He was the MacBrut. He could outwait one paltry female.

If lust didn't kill him first.

She never mentioned their two nights together. Yet with every swish of her silk dress or whiff of her sultry scent, she teased him. With every smile, every casual brush of their hands, she reminded him that she was his for the taking. He could lock the doors and have her right there on the cot in his office. He could go to her chamber at night and lose himself in the sweetest pleasure he had ever known. She was his wife, after all.

But coupling held the risk of pregnancy. He could not condemn another child-his child-to a mother's abandonment.

By the time three weeks had passed, he existed in a purgatory of perpetual arousal. Need for her made him irritable and edgy. So did his need to know she had not conceived. By his calculation, she should begin her monthly flow any day now.

One morning, she entered his office looking pale and fragile. It was on the tip of his tongue to inquire about her health when Jamie came knocking on the door. A horse had kicked him. While Alex cleansed the bloody hoof mark on the stableman's shoulder, Helen stood close by to hand him a linen compress, then the basilicum ointment to treat the wound.

He and Jamie exchanged a bit of banter, but she didn't join in as usual. Perhaps she had started her courses. The thought cheered Alex. Women- were often peevish around that time, weren't they?

When he held out his hand for the bandage, she didn't give it to him. He shot her a frown, only to see her swaying on her feet. Her face was milk-white, her hand pressed to her mouth.

The signs of illness jolted him. Even as he took a step toward her, she uttered a little sigh and crumpled into his arms.

Chapter Eight

Helen couldn't fathom why she still lay abed when daylight flooded the room. Then Alex's big form moved between her and the window to block the blinding sun. And it all came flashing back to her: seeing Jamie's injury, feeling queasy and light-headed in the moment before all went black.

Alex must have carried her upstairs to her own bed. She blinked at the square canopy with its plain blue curtains. The sheets felt smooth and cool to her perspiring skin.

His face taut, Alex towered over her. "How are you feeling?"

Her head ached. Her palms felt cold and clammy. Worst of all, her stomach churned. Determined not to show weakness, she pushed herself upright. "I feel perfectly fine-" A rush of nausea overwhelmed her.

Luckily, he had the chamber pot ready. Through her misery, she felt the gentle stroke of his hand on her brow. He murmured something soothing, but she felt too wretched to pay attention. When she was done, he handed her a glass of water. "Rinse your mouth," he ordered.

She meekly obeyed. Then she lay back with her eyes closed, mortified that he had seen her at her worst.

Something deliciously cool came down on her forehead. She groped to touch it. A damp cloth.

The mattress dipped as Alex sat down on the edge of the bed. "Now," he said, "how do you really feel?"

"Better."

"And what do you suppose is the source of this illness?"

She had a suspicion she knew. But he looked disgusted, and she didn't feel strong enough to ward off his attack. "There's a family with the croup-"

"You dinna have the croup." He grimaced as if he'd choked on a dose of bitter medicine. "I would guess, Lady Helen, that you're pregnant."

Pregnant.

Rather than face his ill humor, she closed her eyes again. She had wondered about her unsettled stomach. And her monthly time was late by a few days. She had hoped and prayed, and her prayers had been answered with a baby.

Despite her physical discomfort, she felt a great surge of joy. Their lovemaking had started a new life inside her. They would be a family now, and Alex could not send her away. Because in nine months-no, eight-"she would give birth to his baby. The sheer wonder of it lent her strength.

"In late June," she said, opening her eyes. Her happiness blossomed into a smile. "So much for your knowledge of fertility."

His mouth twisted scornfully. "Aye, I blame myself for this mistake. I should ha' turned you out when you came crawling into my bed. You're the last woman I'd choose to be the mother of my bairn."

His cruelty withered her smile, and she placed her hands over her womb. "I won't have you calling our baby a mistake. Nor will I let you drive us away with your malice."

"Understand this," he said coldly. "Once the bairn is born, I dinna care if you go back to England. But you'll leave the child here with me."

"I will never abandon my own baby."

"So you say. But time will tell the truth."

The frigid contempt on his face chilled her soul. Just love me and I'll stay forever, she wanted to whisper. She had a dismal flash of their future together, a life without tenderness and joy, without shared happiness in the birth of their baby. Alex was determined to push her out of his world.

And she was just as determined to stay.

From that emotionally charged moment onward, Alex refused to allow Helen in his surgery. Flora would assist him when necessary, he said. Helen should not expose herself to disease and risk harming the baby. She felt too ill to argue. Besides, she had developed an aversion to strong odors. One whiff of the herbs and medicinals on his apothecary shelves would send her running from the room.

So she slept late each morning and took a nap each afternoon. In between, she nibbled on dry toast and sipped weak tea until she could get out of bed. She kept her mind off her queasiness by sewing baby clothes, helping Miss Gilbert with the mending, and planning renovations for the house.

Helen also devoted a few hours each day to writing a journal about her travels, describing the delights of touring a Turkish bazaar, the excitement of mountain climbing in Switzerland, the romance of boating on the canals of Venice. Someday, her child would read these adventures and know there was a vast world beyond these starkly beautiful Highlands.

She wished she could share her experiences with Alex, too. But he wanted nothing to do with her-_v except at mealtimes when he bullied her into eating a few bites of bland food to keep up her strength.

He spent his waking hours either in the surgery or visiting patients. At times, Helen might have thought she lived alone except for the clothing he left for Flora to launder or the tramp of his footsteps on the stairs at night.

Then, on a cold, crisp evening in late November, he came to her in the drawing room, where she sat reading on the chaise by the fire. Her heart turned over at the sight of his bluntly chiseled features, the muscled body she yearned to be held against.

He announced his intention to leave on the morrow for Edinburgh to attend a series of medical lectures. "The journey is too far for you," he said. "You'll remain here."

The mere thought of riding all day in a jolting carriage was enough to make her stomach rebel. "How long will you be gone?" she asked softly.

"A few weeks. Perhaps longer. And dinna think to run to England. I'll expect a letter from you once a week to prove you're still here."

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask tartly if he would reply to her correspondence, when he turned on his heel and strode out of the room.

Irked, Helen went to bed. After a restless night, she awakened at dawn to the realization that she was playing his game. He wanted to make her angry-so he could prove her to be a heartless lady.

Well, she wouldn't let him depart for Edinburgh without a kiss. She would forget her pride and melt this terrible coldness between them. She would show him that despite his ill humor she meant to stay.

But she rose too quickly and suffered a bout of illness. By the time she felt able to run down the icy stairs, hastening out into the blustery morning, her husband was already riding away on his big black horse.

He never even looked back.

Alex delayed his return until well into the new year.

The medical lectures had ended the third week of December. Yet he dallied in the city, tending to business concerns and visiting acquaintances. He hated to admit it, but a part of him ached to spend the holidays with Helen, taking care that she ate during the feasting, making certain she stayed inside during the bitterly cold weather. His concern was only for the bairn, he told himself. Toward his wife he felt nothing but resentment.

And lust.

He lay awake at night in the rooming house and thought about her. He thought about the silkiness of her hair against his skin. The snug velvet glove of her body enclosing him. The soft joyful cry she made when she climaxed. He wanted her with shameful ferocity.

He was a bloody coward, he knew, for lingering in the city. A blasted fool for fearing the effect his wife had on him. Despite all his reasons to despise Helen, he found himself looking forward to her letters. He had expected a few terse lines of complaint, but instead she wrote pages describing the minor illnesses that Flora treated in his absence, recounting amusing incidents in the village, and making light of her own infirmity.

The more Helen breezed over the state of her own health, the more he wondered if her condition had worsened. He imagined her lying in bed, frail and wan. One morning in early February, he read in a medical journal the case history of a pregnant woman who had died from an inability to eat. That very same day he received an unusually brief letter from Helen. If a few sketchy notes was all she could manage, she must be on a decline.

Heedless of the ice and snow, he rode hard for home, arriving late in the afternoon, the winter sun a dying spark beyond the ashen hills. The house shone like a beacon in the gathering dusk. The ground-floor windows glowed bright yellow except for the drawing room, where something covered the glass, a faint luminescence shining from within.

Flora would never light so many candles. Something must be wrong.

In the stable, Jamie didn't come running to take his mount. Cursing in the darkness, Alex led the horse into an empty stall, gave him a quick rubdown and a handful of oats. Then he dashed toward the house.

The kitchen was deserted, too. An enticing aroma eddied from a bubbling pot over the fireplace. A bowl of half-peeled apples sat on the long wooden table, as if Flora had been called away from her baking.

Something must be terribly wrong.

He saw visions of Helen wasting away to nothing. Helen gasping her last breaths. He'd been bloody daft to stay away for so many weeks.

Alex stormed down the corridor toward the front of the house. The chatter of voices pulled him to the drawing room. So did an odd, acrid odor.

He skidded to a halt in the doorway.

The furniture had been pushed into the center of the room and draped in dust covers. Holding a bucket, Cox balanced on a ladder and daubed the wall with a brush. Wielding another brush, Jamie crouched at the baseboard while Flora directed him. Half the walls bore the familiar dull brown; the rest shone a sunny yellow. Nearby, Miss Gilbert and Helen conferred over swatches of fabric, their heads bent together, one gray, the other golden.

The wee mongrel raced toward him, tail wagging, claws clicking on the wood floor. But Alex had eyes only for his wife.

She looked up and saw him. Her lips parted first in surprise and then formed a smile that turned his insides to mush. She bloomed with health, her cheeks glowing pink and her eyes bright. Her sky-blue gown showed the slight mound of her pregnancy.

She dropped the swatches and hastened toward him. "Alex! You should have sent word you were coming home."

A slow burn crept over him. He felt like a daft auld woman for worrying. "You were ill when I left," he ground out. "And you dinna say much in your last letter."

She stopped a few paces away. "I was too busy to write more. But I'm perfectly fine now. In fact, I've been eating rather too well." Laughing, she caressed her belly. "Soon you'll be thinking you wed a cow."

Nothing could be further from the truth. She embodied a fantasy with her lush breasts and fertile curves, the delicate beauty of her face framed by spun-gold hair. He wanted to carry her straight up to bed and slake his need. Even worse, he wanted to cuddle with her all the long, cold night.

The others crowded around him. "Is not our lady looking bonny?" Flora said, her hands clasped to her gaunt chest.

Jamie said, "On Hogmanay, I fetched the cream from the well for her."

"She hasn't been ill a moment since," Miss Gilbert added.

Alex knew the old custom. The cream was the first water drawn at midnight on the New Year. Drinking it brought great luck to a person.

"It's amazing," Helen said, beaming at the others,, who clearly adored her. "I cannot thank you all enough."

"Dinna be daft," Alex said. "You passed the first three months, that's all. 'Tis nature you should thank, not superstition."

She wrinkled her nose. "Whatever the reason, I feel wonderful after that beastly sickness." She slipped her hand through the crook of his arm. "Come, Alex. I want to hear all that you've been doing."

The last thing he needed was to be alone with his wife. Her radiance drew him like a lodestone. He ached to laugh with her, to share in her natural joy, to let down his defenses. But then she would plunder the most vulnerable part of himself when she left.

She pulled him through another doorway. The morning room too had been renovated. The walls were painted a soft moss green to complement the new striped chairs and rosewood tables. Green and gold draperies framed the tall windows. The cozy aura invited him to sit down and stretch out his cold feet to the crackling fire.

He remained standing. "I dinna give you permission to refurbish my house."

"Our house," she said. "And you weren't here to voice an objection." With the loving care of a wife, she removed his wool scarf.

Her floral scent, the brush of her breasts, nearly drove Alex mad. He stomped away from her and jerked open the buttons of his overcoat. Knowing he sounded petulant, he said, "I liked the house the way it was."

"With chipped paint and nary a stick of furniture?" She smiled slyly. "Dinna be daft, Alex."

"Dinna mock me." He threw down his coat. "Once you leave here, I'll be stuck with your changes."

"Then I'll take the new furniture and draperies with me when I depart. Not that I ever intend to-oh!l" Her hand flew to her abdomen.

Alarm sent him striding to her. "Are you in pain? Lie down and I'll have a look at you."

"I'm fine." A serene softness curved her mouth. She took hold of his hand and spread it over the gentle rise of her belly. "I felt our baby move."

He stood transfixed by her warmth, his hand splayed over her thickened middle. Her closeness bathed him in a sweet rush of wanting, a desire that plumbed deeper than mere lust. He told himself to draw back, to declare she was mistaken.

Then he detected the faintest fluttering against his palm.

The breath snagged in his lungs, and a tremendous awe shook him. In his role of physician, he had often felt the fetus kick inside the mother's womb. But those bairns had not been his own.

Our baby.

Helen's small hand covered his. Their gazes met, and he was aware of a bond between them, a bond more compelling than vows spoken in kirk. The tenderness in her clear blue eyes lured him with rich promise. He wanted to give himself into her warmth, to tumble headlong into the wonder of her love.

Impossible.

Lady Helen didn't love him. She loved playing the laird's lady. The sooner she was gone from his life, the better.

With effort, he restrained his unruly emotions. "The bairn seems healthy," he said.

He started to pull his hand away, but she held on to it, gently massaging his skin. Her fingers looked delicate and pale against his large, chapped hand. "You feel cold from being outside," she said.

" 'Twas a long, wearying ride," he muttered. "I'll go awa' upstairs now."

"I'll go with you." A tender smile bowed her lips. "I missed you, Alex. You should have a proper welcome home."

His body leapt to burning life. Sweat prickled down his back as he fought the urge to pull her close. Then sanity slew his fervor. If he strengthened his attachment to her now, he would damn himself to hell later.

"Nay," he said curtly, pushing her hands from him. "I need nothing from you, Lady Helen. Nothing at all."

As winter slowly passed into spring, Helen remembered her husband's rebuff whenever she felt tempted to seek him out. She should have known better, she chided herself. Why had she pursued a man who already had made clear his scorn for her?

Because she wanted their marriage to be real. She wanted to heal the years-old wound that festered inside him. And she wanted to assuage her longing for the comfort and love of a husband.

It was not that Alex spurned her entirely. He showed a keen interest in the health of their baby, making certain Helen ate properly and got sufficient rest. He answered her questions about the impending birth and counseled her on alleviating the minor discomforts of pregnancy. Yet their relationship was more doctor and patient than husband and wife. His deep-seated distrust loomed like an unbridgeable chasm between them.

With determined cheer, she spent much of her time embroidering tiny garments for the baby and Converting a small alcove off her bedchamber into a nursery. Jamie and Cox carried down Alex's old cradle from the attic, and Flora polished the carved oak to a sheen. Miss Gilbert sewed endless sets of bedding and layette items, fussing as if she were the grandmother. They were all her family, Helen thought with pride and appreciation. She would never be alone so long as she had them. Yet wistfully she hoped for more.

Time will tell.

She clung to that thought, stubbornly hugged it to her heart as her body swelled with Alex's child. And sometimes she fancied he was softening toward her. As spring turned to summer, he accompanied her on visits to the crofters. He listened silently while she solicited advice on child-rearing from the mothers in the village. And on the stroll home, he tolerated her delight in picking wildflow-ers, in walking barefoot through the heather, in stopping for a drink of icy-fresh water from a mountain stream.

Those lazy days encouraged her to hope he might grow to love her. She was content to put off resolving their problems until after the baby was born. That moment finally came on a sunny day in June.

Chapter Nine

Her laughter drifted through the opened window of his office.

Normally Alex would have ignored his wife. He knew better than to seek out her company lest he be seized by useless longings. But this morning, the infectious sound of her merriment floated from somewhere outdoors, and curiosity proved stronger than his willpower.

Stepping outside, he saw that Flora had set up the round wooden laundry tub alongside the stream that meandered behind the house. Sunlight dappled the two women, both in mobcaps and plain work gowns.

Beautifully pregnant, Helen stood in the tub, her skirts hitched above her knees and her feet plunged into the wash water. The sight of her bare legs caused a shameful response in him. The feeling burned so fiercely he deflected it into anger.

Stones crunching beneath his boots, he strode across the yard. Helen saw him, and her expression lit with pleasure. With her rounded belly and the tendrils of golden hair framing her face, she looked like the goddess of fertility.

"Why the devil are you treading laundry like a peasant?"

The splashing of her feet ceased, though her eyes still danced. "It's too fine a day to sit sewing. And I was too restless, besides. So here I am."

"You'll fall and harm the bairn."

"Och, dinna be daft, Alex," she teased in a fair imitation of him. "I'm perfectly fine…" Her voice trailed off, and she rubbed her tailbone.

Frowning, he slipped an arm around her. "You're having pains."

"Only sometimes in my lower back."

"Since when?"

"Why, yesterday. It's the weight of the baby, Flora says." '

"Or the start of your labor," he said grimly. "Step out of there at once, and I'll examine you in my office."

No sooner did he help her over the side of the tub than a gush of liquid ran down her legs and into the grass. "Oh, my," she breathed, her eyes widening in shock.

Willing his hands not to shake, he lifted her into his arms. " 'Tis only your water breaking. The sac around the bairn."

She clung to his neck. "Then the baby will be born… today?"

" 'Twould seem so." He didn't mention the fears that leapt out to throttle him. Sometimes labor went on for days. Many women died in childbirth, or from a fever afterward. He had witnessed it himself, those times when even the finest-trained physician could do nothing…

Helen sucked in a sharp breath. Her fingernails pressed into his neck, and he felt the sudden tightening of her belly. "Breathe with the pain," he murmured in her ear. " 'Twill pass shortly." Lifting his head, he barked, "Flora, run on and ready the bed."

"Aye, m'laird." The older woman dashed toward the house.

Alex wasted no time in striding after her. Helen sighed as the cramp eased, and she buried her face in the crook of his neck. His mouth dry, he considered the ordeal ahead of her. She would endure agony in the hours to come. And there was little he could do to help her.

She suffered another pain as he was lowering her to the bed. The swiftness of it alarmed him. While Flora plumped the pillows, he rubbed Helen's lower back. He had seen prospective fathers pacing outside a croft, and he'd felt a mild sympathy. Now already he understood the frustration and powerlessness that a man felt for his laboring wife.

When the pain lessened, he unbuttoned her gown and helped her out of it. Turning to him, she smiled and touched his cheek. "Don't look so fierce, Alex. This is surely a happy occasion, for tonight I'll hold our child."

Her excitement astounded him. She looked determined and unafraid, completely trusting in him. Her tender blue eyes promised fulfillment of the hopes and dreams that had lain dormant within him for too long. He wanted to tumble into her warmth, to believe she would stay with him forever.

Then the pains struck quickly, mercilessly. As morning wore into afternoon, Helen uttered not a word of complaint, begging only a sip of water now and then, or asking him to massage her back. In between, she told him how much she wanted their baby to grow up here in the wild beauty of the Highlands. She talked of seeing him take his first steps and going on picnics. She would start a school so their child could learn in the company of the village children. With incurable longing, Alex wanted to believe her idyllic plans. But a part of him doubted. She could not truly mean to spend her life here.

By sunset, her resilience began to flag, and she closed her eyes between the waves of pain. Her golden lashes enhanced the delicacy of her flushed skin. During each contraction, she clung tightly to his hand, and Alex would have sold his soul to ease her agony. Surely the pains had been too close for too long. Experience told him there were differences in each woman's labor, that one baby came easily while another proved difficult. But the worries crowded in on him. She was so small, so dainty, and he was a big man. What if the infant were too large? What if he lost Helen?

Though the room was warm, a cold sweat caused him to tremble. He mastered himself with effort. It was stunning to realize how empty his life would be without her smiles, her chatter, her endless optimism. Somehow, she had become as vital to him as air.

At that moment, she uttered a fierce cry, her fingers knotting in the bedlinens as she strained to expel the baby. When he sprang to examine her, he saw to his relief the crowning of the head. He encouraged her to focus all of her strength into bringing their child into the world. She did so with great fortitude, and within moments he held a slippery, squalling baby.

" 'Tis a boy," Alex muttered, half dazed with elation.

The next moments passed in a blur. His actions automatic, Alex tied the cord and delivered the afterbirth, then washed up while Flora wrapped the baby in a blanket and brought him to his mother. Helen cuddled the infant in her arms and laughed with joy. "Oh Alex, we've a son. Isn't he beautiful?"

Alex sat down beside her. "Aye," he whispered.

He could trust himself to say no more. Reaching out, he touched the boy's still-damp black hair. He'd always found red-faced, squalling newborns rather ugly. But this one made his eyes burn with fierce, protective ardor.

Helen's radiant smile enveloped him. Seeing her cradling his son, Alex felt giddy, love-daft. Impelled by a powerful impulse, he leaned forward and gently kissed her. For one sweet moment, their lips melded with tenderness and hope.

He knew then that it was too late to fight his feelings for her. He wanted the three of them to be a family. His life-his son's life-would be incomplete without Helen.

But he didn't know how to hold her.

Chapter Ten

"I haven't been to Scotland since Justin and I wed at Gretna Green," Isabel said. "Oh, it's such a lovely place."

Sitting on the porch steps, Helen shared a smile with her half sister. The mountainous vista enhanced the delight of enjoying Isabel's company again. With the sun glinting on her loosely upswept copper hair, Isabel looked too young to be the new Duchess of Lynwood. "I'm glad you and Papa came to visit," Helen said fervently. "I've missed you both ever so much."

"And I wouldn't have missed meeting your husband and little Ian for the world," Isabel declared. "I've never seen a man dote so on a baby."

It was true, Helen knew. In the past weeks, Alex had proven himself a fine father, never hesitating to change a nappie or rock Ian to sleep. Now if only he would pay half so much attention to her. Deliberately, Helen deflected the conversation away from Alex. "Speaking of doting," she said, "Papa certainly dotes on his grandchildren."

She shaded her eyes to watch Lord Hathaway standing beneath the old oak tree, pushing Isabel's four-year-old daughter in the swing while Isabel's son toddled after the dog. The trill of childish laughter floated across the park. They had been here for a few days, having come six weeks after baby Ian's birth. Justin was due to arrive tomorrow after tending to estate business. And Helen would see Justin and Isabel hug with the tenderness she herself longed for from her own husband.

She felt the soft touch of Isabel's hand on her arm. "Helen? I don't mean to pry, but is everything all right between you and Alex?"

One glance into those sympathetic sherry-brown eyes cracked the dam around Helen's emotions. She spilled out the story of how Alex resented their forced marriage, glossing over the details of who had seduced whom. "We can't truly be a family until he loves me," she concluded with a sigh.

"Oh, but he does! I've seen the way he looks at you. As if he were a starving man and you were a feast."

Helen doubted that. Her throat ached as she remembered their tender kiss after Ian's birth. Other than that brief closeness, Alex had remained aloof. Sometimes he vanished for the entire day, as if he needed time alone.

She turned her gaze to the distant loch, and the deep blue reminded her of his eyes. "You must be mistaken. If he truly loved me, he would want to…" Reluctant to reveal their lack of intimacy, she bit her lip.

"He hasn't shared your bed for a while," Isabel guessed. "Do you know, Justin had a peculiar notion after our first was born. He swore he wouldn't subject me to the rigors of childbirth again. So I had to seduce him."

She didn't know that Helen had already seduced Alex. Twice. "I wish it were so simple."

"It is simple. A man likes to pretend he has a strong will. But he can't resist a determined woman-especially not the woman he loves."

"Och, there ye are, m'lady," said a voice from behind them. Smiling broadly, Flora held out a basket. "Perhaps 'twas forward of me, but I packed a feast of the laird's favorites. I ken ye two need some time alone."

"A picnic!" Isabel exclaimed. Her eyes sparkling, she shooed Helen up from the step. "What a perfect idea. Papa and I shall watch Ian for the afternoon. While you take your husband on a picnic."

Half an hour later, Helen stepped into Alex's office. In her damp palm she clutched the basket of food. She didn't quite understand how Flora had come to appear at the right moment, but it all seemed part of the magic of hope. In a flurry, Helen had fed Ian and then put him down for his nap before changing into a rose-pink gown, cut low over her newly maternal bosom. All the while she had trembled to imagine Alex caressing her. Perhaps Isabel was right. If they found pleasure in each other's arms again, perhaps intimacy could mend the terrible rift in their marriage.

He sat writing at his desk, the window open to the balmy August day. As she approached, he looked up sharply and her heart sank. In his rough features she could see no sign of unrequited love. Instead, his dark brows were lowered as if he resented being disturbed.

She would not let him drive her away. Not today. "We're going on a picnic," she said firmly. "Just you and I."

He stared, his eyes enigmatic. She braced herself for a refusal, but he merely said, "On one condition. That I choose the place."

"Agreed." So long as it’s secluded, she added to herself.

He rose from the desk and took the covered basket from her. Without another word, he opened the door and ushered her out into the sunshine.

His easy compliance surprised Helen as he led the way up a gentle slope fragrant with heather. Bees buzzed the pinkish-lavender blooms alongside the dirt path. As the hill grew steeper, Alex dropped back and cupped her elbow, helping her over the rocky, upland trail.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

He shot her a cryptic glance. "You'll see soon."

She took another look, and recognition excited her. The last time she'd been this way, snow had covered the great boulders, and the trees had worn their autumn grandeur. Already, she could see the crumbling gray stones through the trees up ahead.

The castle.

Nestled against a sheer rock cliff, the ancestral home of the MacBruts looked majestic in the sunlight, like an ancient warrior standing straight and tall. The square keep loomed beyond the twin towers. Something sweet and wistful stirred in her breast. Here, Alex had made her a woman. Here, they had conceived their son.

She expected Alex to set down the picnic basket in the meadow outside the stone walls. But he steered her through the open gate and toward the keep with its dismal aura of neglect. Helen slowed her steps. She wanted a new beginning, uncluttered by the past.

"We should have our picnic out on the grass," she protested.

"This willna take long. I've something to show you."

In the sunlight, his features had the rough splendor of an unpolished gemstone. Helen sensed a grim determination in him as they entered the castle. His fingers felt tense and stiff on her arm.

Their footsteps echoed through the vast chamber. Even in the midst of a summer day, the great hall was dim and cool. No cheery fire lit the huge hearth, and she found herself edging closer to Alex's warmth.

To her surprise, he slid his arm around her waist and let his hand rest on her hip. The breath faltered in her throat. She glanced up at him, wondering if his embrace was a thoughtless gesture. But his gaze was focused beyond her.

They stopped before a long table of gleaming oak. The polished silver candelabra glinted in the sunlight that streamed from the high windows. At one end, two fine china plates with crystal goblets were set as if for an intimate dinner.

Helen blinked at what had once been the cobwebbed banquet table. "Someone's cleaned it," she said in amazement.

Alex set down the picnic basket. " 'Twas me."

"You?”

He nodded, his eyes serious. "My father preserved the place because he was brokenhearted. Then I did so too to remind myself of my mother's cruelty. But I didna want Ian to carry on that legacy."

Helen hardly knew what to think. Was it possible Alex had changed? That he would cease to judge her by the mistakes of another woman?

He went on. " 'Twas I who told Flora to pack us a picnic. I wanted to show you what I'd done here." On that astonishing statement, he took Helen's arm and guided her up the winding stone stairs.

In the laird's bedchamber, too, much had been altered. A new mirror replaced the age-spotted one over the dressing table. Lemon-yellow silk draped the four-poster bed with its collection of plump feather pillows. The musty odor of neglect had been replaced by a fresh, flowery fragrance.

"Roses," she murmured. "You've refurbished this room, too. Why?"

"Surely you shouldna have to ask."

He gazed at her as if begging to be spared an explanation. But Helen had suffered too many lonely nights to forgive him so easily. Walking to the bedpost, she leaned against it for support. "I do have to ask. Tell me."

He glanced around as if the walls held the right words. After a long moment, he looked at her, his expression twisted with raw anguish. "I did it for you, Helen. To show you that the past doesna rule me anymore. To convince you to stay with me."

Her heart leapt with hope. Did he truly mean it? She took a shaky breath. "You need a mother for Ian, that's all."

"I canna deny the needs of our son." Alex's voice lowered to a hoarse murmur. "But I also need a wife. I need you, Lady Helen."

For once, he spoke her name like a caress instead of a curse. It wasn't a declaration of love, but close enough. She wanted to laugh and weep with joy. Clasping the bedpost to keep from running to him, she teased, "And just how would a big, braw man like you propose to keep his wife happy?"

A gleam entered his eyes. His gaze made a slow sweep of her from head to toe, lingering on places that ached for his touch. Then he strutted toward her. "I've a few notions in mind."

Her pulse beat faster. "Such as?"

He stopped so close she could feel his body heat. With his finger, he traced the edge of her bodice. "We might start by testing the new bed."

Helen drew in a breath. "And then?"

"And then I might spend a long while kissing you… touching you… pleasing you." He did just that, his mouth moving over the tender skin above her bosom, his hands reaching behind to unbutton her gown.

She tilted back her head, charmed by the magic of his seduction. It was a dream come true after all those lonely months of resolute hope and stubborn prayer. As her gown slithered to the floor, she reveled in the extravagance of sensation, the rare pleasure of his caress.

Her hands rested on his broad shoulders, but not for long. A boundless love overflowed her, spilling through her with the need to gratify him, too. She arched against him and kissed the rough features that had become so dear to her. They undressed each other and tumbled into the feather bed, nestling naked in a pool of sunshine and desire. He sought to go slowly, to prolong her pleasure until Helen writhed in frustration.

"Enough," she whispered, guiding him home. "I want you now."

As he joined their bodies, a moan of intense pleasure vibrated from her. He lay still, bracing himself with his hands on either side of her. His eyes were dark with passion-and regret. "I dinna mean to hurt you, lass. To take you so soon after giving birth."

"You'll hurt me only if you dinna hurryl"

She moved her hips, wanting all of him, drawing him deeper within herself. He groaned, setting the quickened pace she craved, the glorious friction that took her higher and higher until at last she plunged over the verge into a sea of perfect bliss. She was aware of him falling with her, his harsh cry echoing, his strong body shuddering. The happiness lingered when she came back to herself in the warm shelter of his arms. Her husband. She wanted to stay right here in bed with him forever. If only she could.

She stroked his bristled cheek. "We should have our picnic soon."

With a wicked grin, Alex brought her hand to his loins. "Was this not feast enough to satisfy you, wife?"

Helen laughed. "Certainly. I only meant we'll need to return home in a while. Lest our son howl for his next meal."

"Ah, the lucky lad must have his feast, too." Appreciatively, Alex caressed the swell of her breasts. Then he gazed into her eyes. "Helen, you ken we took no risk today. A nursing mother canna get pregnant-"

"Dare I trust your knowledge of fertility?" she teased.

His grin lasted only for a moment. "I dinna like to burden you with another bairn if 'tis not your wish."

"But Ian needs brothers and sisters. And I would like a big family. Wouldn't you?"

"Aye, very much." He cupped her cheek in his big hand, and a look of yearning lit his craggy features. "My dearest lady," he murmured with stirring possessiveness, "I do love you."

Her throat tightened from the fulfillment of her dreams. "You needn't say that to keep me. I love you enough to stay."

"I'm through saying things I dinna mean. And I'm sorry for acting like a daft auld fool." He brushed a kiss across her lips. "I'll keep you happy, I swear it. We'll travel to England if you like, or anywhere in the world if it pleases you."

His willingness to change for her sake touched her heart. "Oh, Alex. I'd sooner stay right here." She moved sinuously against him. "With you, my love, forever."

Would you like to read the exciting story of Lady Helen's past? Helen was once engaged to wed Justin Culver, heir to the Duke of Lynwood, until a mysterious beauty entered their lives, the half-sister Helen had never known she had.

You can find their fascinating tale of intrigue and love in HER SECRET AFFAIR by Barbara Dawson Smith, published by St, Martin's Paperbacks in May 1998.