“There are other reasons a woman might shiver,” he said wickedly, his tone rich with suggestion. “Mayhap one day ye’ll discover that pleasure and know of what I speak.”

  She rolled her eyes, uncertain if he was truly flirting with her. Horatia had no experience with such matters and doubted she would acquire any now. “I don’t suppose you could assign me a chamber and have a bath prepared? I am exhausted and could use a good soak.”

  “Of course,” he said with a congenial smile. “I’ll send for a maid to assist ye. Wait here for the maid.” He bowed slightly. “We’ll speak further at dinner. And I’ll send that missive to the Earl of Rosebery as ye requested.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly, though she was unsure if he heard her as he strode down the corridor, leaving her alone in the vast foyer. She could not decide whether he had been rude or merely efficient in addressing her needs. Either way, she chose to forgive him. He had saved her, after all, and she could not begrudge him for failing to meet her expectations of decorum.

  Horatia watched him go until the turn of the corridor swallowed his broad shoulders and the easy confidence with which he moved through his own house, as though stone and shadow were obedient to his step.

  Only then did she remember to breathe.

  The foyer seemed twice as large without him in it, the air cooler, the silence louder. A great stair swept upward to a dim landing, and beyond it, passages yawned like the mouths of caves. The house was impressive in a bleak, Highland sort of way—ancient, stern, and unapologetically itself. Horatia drew her cloak tighter about her shoulders, though she told herself it was not the cold that made her do it.

  There are other reasons a woman might shiver.

  The words returned with infuriating clarity. She pressed her lips together and refused to let her cheeks warm. Men said all manner of things when they thought themselves clever. It did not signify. It could not signify. Not when she was stranded, dependent upon his hospitality, and awaiting news that would determine the course of her entire future.

  A maid would come. A bath would be prepared. She would wash the road from her skin and the fear from her bones, and then she would sit at dinner like a rational, well-bred lady and speak of practicalities—letters and routes and plans. She would not think about the way his voice had turned rough upon the word pleasure, as though it was a thing he knew intimately.

  Horatia turned toward the nearest window, more for occupation than interest. Outside, the light was beginning to thin, the sky a wash of pewter. The hills rolled away into mist, touched here and there by dark brush and the faint bruised purple of heather. It was wild and beautiful—and very far from everything she had known. Her throat tightened. She would not indulge in melancholy. She had come too far, endured too much, to fall apart now because a corridor echoed and a man with wicked eyes had decided to tease her. It mattered not that she did not want to be in Scotland and she certainly had never anticipated this sojourn at Castle Montclaire. She could not drown in those thoughts or lose her mind in what might or might not happen. The master of the castle did not want her. At least not in a permanent way… Did she want him to want her that way? Of course she didn’t. Truly. She. Did. Not.

  She smoothed her hand over her skirts as if it would erase those wayward thoughts. It did not help. A soft footfall sounded behind her. Horatia turned sharply, expecting a maid in cap and apron. Instead, an elderly woman stood a few paces away, as still as a portrait, her gray hair coiled in a severe knot. Her dress was plain but neat, and her gaze was shrewd in a manner that made Horatia feel immediately examined and, worse, found wanting. “Ye’ll be Miss…” Her voice trailed off as she Lachlan hadn’t given her Horatia’s name. Perhaps he hadn’t… The woman’s mouth tightened, as if the title itself offended her. “The lady the laird brought home.”

  Horatia lifted her chin. “I am Lady Horatia Whitaker. My carriage had a mishap…” She stopped. Why was she even explaining herself to this woman. She cleared her throat and said in a cool tone. “I trust his lordship explained I am in need of assistance.”

  “Lady Horatia,” she corrected, voice steady. “Aye. He did.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed slightly, taking in Horatia’s dirty hem and travel-worn skirts, the faint tremor she could not entirely suppress. “I’m Mrs. MacRae. I keep this house from tumblin’ intae chaos.” Her gaze moved past Horatia, toward the corridor where Lachlan had disappeared. “He said ye wanted a bath.”

  “Yes,” Horatia said, suddenly conscious of how clipped she sounded. “If it is not too much trouble.”

  Mrs. MacRae made a sound that might have been a scoff or a sigh; it was difficult to tell which. “Trouble is what he drags in with every good intention.” She motioned, brisk and unyielding. “Come along. Ye’ll catch yer death standin’ about admirin’ the draughts.”

  Horatia followed, her boots quiet on the stone. The passageways were narrower than the foyer and more intimate, lit by sconces that threw soft, flickering light over tapestries and antlers. The scent of peat smoke lingered in the walls. Somewhere deeper in the house, she heard voices—men, perhaps—low and indistinct.

  “Are there many… guests?” she asked, choosing the safest sort of question.

  “No,” Mrs. MacRae replied. “No one but the servants about. Lachlan isn’t the socializing type.”

  That did not reassure Horatia in the slightest. They climbed a staircase, turned twice, and came to a chamber that was warmer than the rest of the house. A fire burned low in the grate. The bed was canopied, the linens pale, the furniture heavy, as if built to outlast generations. A copper tub stood near the hearth, steam rising from it in delicate ribbons. Horatia’s eyes stung unexpectedly at the sight. She had not realized how deeply she craved warmth until it was in front of her.

  Mrs. MacRae began to unhook the cloak from Horatia’s shoulders without asking permission, efficient as a surgeon. “I can manage,” Horatia said, though her fingers were stiff and uncooperative.

  “Aye, and ye can also scrub yer own back with your elbows,” Mrs. MacRae said, unimpressed. She set the cloak over a chair. “If ye’re determined to be proud, do it in private. I’ll send in one of the girls to help ye wash. They’ll be quick and they’ll keep their tongues in their heads.”

  Horatia nodded, humiliated by her own relief.

  Mrs. MacRae paused at the door, one hand on the latch, and fixed Horatia with that same sharp scrutiny. “Ye’ll dine with him.”

  “Yes.” It would be rude to hide in he room. Lachlan had come to her aid.

  “Aye. One of the girls will show ye where tae go.” Her voice turned drier.

  Horatia’s pulse quickened. “He promised he would send a letter to the Earl of Rosebery.”

  Mrs. MacRae’s eyes flicked over her face, as if measuring the weight of that name. “Promised, did he?” She grinned.

  There was something in the woman’s tone that sent her on edge. There was almost something gleeful in it that did not bode well. What did that mean. “Yes. He did.”

  “Then it’ll be done,” Mrs. MacRae said, brisk again, but there was something in the way she spoke that still made her wonder at her statement. Why was that idea so intriguing to the woman? “Lachlan does foolish things, but he does them thoroughly.”

  With that, she was gone, leaving Horatia alone with the fire, the steam, and the sudden, aching quiet. Horatia sank onto the edge of the bed, her hands folded tightly in her lap. She should undress. She should bathe. She should rest. Instead, she sat perfectly still and listened to her own heartbeat, as though it might tell her what she could not admit even to herself.

  Lachlan had promised and if his promise held—if the letter reached the Earl—then everything might change by morning. Surly her cousin would come to retrieve her. Even if he had a wedding to plan for. He would never leave her stranded at a strange castle with a man she was not acquainted with.

  Horatia rose at last, moving to the mirror above the washstand. The girl who stared back at her looked pale, wind-bruised, her eyes too bright. She did not look like someone who belonged in a Highland laird’s house after surviving a carriage accident. Horatia lifted her chin at her own reflection, as if daring herself to falter. “You will not be frightened,” she whispered. “Not here. Not now.”

  The latch clicked softly. A young maid slipped in, curtsying quickly, cheeks pink from the heat. “Miss—my lady,” she corrected herself with a flustered glance, “Mrs. MacRae sent me. I’m Elspeth.”

  Horatia forced her features into composure. “Thank you, Elspeth.”

  Elspeth moved to the tub, testing the water with her hand. “It’s hot, but not too hot. Shall I⁠—?”

  “Yes,” Horatia said, and then, because she was not made of stone, she added more softly, “Please.”

  As Elspeth began to unfasten the damp buttons at Horatia’s dress, Horatia let her eyes close for a moment. The heat against her skin felt like mercy. Dinner would come soon enough and with it, Lachlan’s questions—his wicked smile, his unsettling ease, and the promise that hovered between them like the mist beyond the windows.

  Horatia opened her eyes again. She would meet it all with her head held high. His teasing meant nothing. Could not mean a damned thing. Horatia did not belong in the highlands and she certainly could not find the Laird of Montclaire appealing. So she would bury those feelings like she did every thing else, deep down inside of her.

  Three

  Lachlan strolled into the sitting room, uncertain of what he might find. Horatia had gone to the bedchamber he had arranged for her, and he assumed she had taken the bath she had requested. The thought had provided ample fodder for his imagination. Ever since her departure, all he could envision was her, naked and wet—her beauty unveiled for him alone. But of course, he had not acted on such fantasies. To enter her bedchamber uninvited would have been the height of impropriety and exceedingly rude. If she had extended an invitation, however… well, that would have been another matter entirely.

  He had made every necessary arrangement beforehand. The bedchamber had been prepared, and yes, it was the one designated for the Duchess of Montclaire, had he a wife to occupy the room. He had placed her there strategically, knowing that if—or rather, when—he seduced her, access would be very convenient. Only a dressing room separated her chambers from his, though she likely had not noticed the connecting door.

  Lachlan had also dispatched a footman to her broken carriage to retrieve her trunk. The man had returned earlier with the trunk, reporting that the driver was no longer at the site. Lachlan suspected the driver had gone to fetch help. It would not be long before that odious Earl of Rosebery repaired the carriage and began searching for his betrothed—if, indeed, the scoundrel had any true affection for her. Lachlan doubted it. One thing he knew for certain: Horatia deserved far better than to be shackled to a man as vile as Rosebery.

  But did that mean she ought to be with him? Lachlan was not blind to his own hypocrisy. His intentions toward Horatia were no less dishonorable than the earl’s. He had no plans to marry her; his aim was purely seduction. Yet, even as he recognized her innocence, he could not abandon his scheme. His desire for her burned too fiercely, and he had set them both on this course. As he stepped farther into the sitting room, he frowned. He had expected to find her there, but the room was empty. Just as he turned to search for her, Horatia entered with a bright smile.

  “Ah, there you are,” she said. “I feared you had abandoned me to this castle.”

  “This is my home,” he replied. “Even if I were tae leave, it would no’ be for long—especially with a lass as bonny as ye awaiting my return.”

  A faint blush tinted her cheeks, and she glanced away. She was not immune to him. That spark of attraction between them would make her seduction all the easier. “Such pretty words, my lord,” she said, tilting her head to study him. “Tell me something.” She stepped farther into the room, her gown flowing around her in a way that accentuated her figure. The fabric clung to her bosom, making Lachlan jealous of its proximity. His hands itched to replace the fabric, to cup and caress her. “How is it,” she began, “that a gentleman as charming as you remains unmarried?”

  “Och, lass,” he said with a chuckle. “Are ye hoping tae convince me of the merits of matrimony?” He winked, his tone teasing. “Or are ye applying for the position yerself?”

  “Of course not!” Her eyes widened in indignation, though her lips twitched as if fighting a smile. “It simply seems odd that you have not yet found a woman to fill the role.” She narrowed her gaze. “Is there something I should know? Some dark secret that keeps ladies from knocking down your door?”

  “No’ at all,” he replied smoothly. He would not confess that he had no desire to wed, nor that many ladies did, in fact, pursue him. A ducal title—even a Scottish one—held a certain allure. “I simply have no’ found the right lady for the role.” He extended his hand to her. “Shall we go in tae dinner? Ye must be famished.”

  She sighed, as though resigning herself to her fate. “I have not had a proper meal in some time,” she admitted. “Dinner would be most welcome. However,” she added with a pointed look, “this is only a temporary reprieve. I have many questions for you.”

  He suppressed a grin. She did not even know he was a duke yet, and already her curiosity seemed endless. Once she discovered his title, her questions would likely double. He had no qualms about evading whatever queries she posed. “Ask me anything ye wish,” he said lightly. “I have nothing tae hide.” The lie slid off his tongue with ease. There were things he would not confess to or even admit to for any reason. She did not need to know that though. Taking her hand, he placed it in the crook of his elbow and led her from the sitting room.

  They walked in companionable silence to the dining room. Pulling out a chair for her, he waited until she was seated before taking his place at the head of the table. This was not the formal dining room but the smaller, more intimate one used for family meals. He rarely dined there alone, but it seemed fitting for the occasion. “Now,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “tell me about yerself. Why are ye traveling to the earl’s estate?”

  “Are you acquainted with the Earl of Rosebery?” she asked.

  He grinned at her as he thought of his rival. “We have met,” he said in a light tone. “It would be hard no’ tae have. He is my closest neighbor.” and they loathed each other…

  “Then we are that close?” Horatia lifted a brow. “Good. It should be simple enough for him to retrieve me on the morrow.”

  Like hell he would. Lachlan’s jaw tightened at the thought of Rosebery coming anywhere near Horatia. His Horatia. That man was not going to be anywhere near her. When had he started thinking of her as his? That was dangerous. He stewed silently, grappling with thoughts he did not care to examine. This situation was becoming far more complicated than he had anticipated. He had much to consider, and he did not like the direction of his thoughts. This was not good at all…

  Lachlan forced his expression into something approaching ease, though the possessive thought still scraped at the edges of his mind like a burr caught in wool. His Horatia. A ridiculous notion. A dangerous one. He lifted his wine and took a measured sip, buying himself a moment while the footman set down the first course—broth fragrant with leeks and pepper, a plate of oatcakes beside it. The very ordinariness of the food steadied him. This was a dinner table, not a battlefield, and he had faced worse than an inquisitive English lady with a fine mouth and eyes that did not know how to lie.

  Horatia’s gaze followed the footman’s movements before returning to Lachlan. She held her spoon with perfect propriety, yet there was a restless energy in her posture, as though her body wished to pace while her manners demanded she remain still. “You did not answer my question,” she said gently, but the gentleness did not soften the edge.

  “What question was that, lass?” he replied, setting his glass down with care. “I doona recall one.”

  “How familiar are you with Lord Rosebery?.” She took a delicate sip of broth. “You said you were neighbors.”

  Lachlan’s mouth twitched. “Aye we are. I have met him.” He had met him several times. Not once had he found the man appealing. He was wretched and selfish to his core.

  “So you are not friends?”

  “No we are not,” he said, letting the Scots syllable slide into place because it felt safer than the truth. “We doona have many common interests”

  Horatia frowned, clearly unsatisfied. “He is… your neighbor.”

  “He is,” Lachlan agreed.

  “And you don’t want to be friendly with him?” She tilted her head to the side and studied him. “Not even in a neighborly sort of way.”

  He watched her carefully. She had not asked his title outright and he wondered about that. Why hadn’t she? She had not said my lord with any hint of recognition beyond the polite assumption that a man who owned a castle must surely be something. Perhaps she truly did not know. Perhaps Rosebery had not bothered to tell her the name of the man whose land he bordered—though of course he would not, if he wished to keep her compliant and ignorant. Lachlan softened his voice. “He had no given me any reason tae pursue such a relationship with him. It is easier this way.” He tilted his lips upwards. “Are ye concerned for my welfare lass?”

  Her lips curved, as though she accepted the evasion for what it was. “You are charming.”

  “So ye keep sayin’.” He reached for his spoon. “Now—why were ye traveling tae his estate?”

  Horatia’s fingers tightened fractionally around her spoon. A pause—small, but telling.

  “The earl is to marry,” she said at last. “I am here for the wedding.”

  The words landed with such quiet certainty that Lachlan’s chest tightened, as if a strap had been pulled too hard across his ribs. He had known it. Of course he had known it. Lachlan knew the wedding was to happen soon. She had asked him to send a missive to that dreadful man too. Yet hearing it spoken plainly, in that clear voice, turned it from suspicion into something sharper.