The castle buzzed with activity. Floors were mopped, privies limed, larders stocked, bedding laundered. Carpets were beaten, faces washed and new tapers set in place of the old, even if the old were not yet burnt out. All of this was being done because Rob Macalduie, the young Laird of Barras’s would-be bride was on her way to inspect his holdings, buildings and his people to see they were worthy of her. In addition, she was coming to look over the young the laird himself with much the same purpose in mind. If she liked what she saw, they would be wed three days hence. If not, she would leave.

For as well as being a very rich girl raised in the French courts and fostered by the powerful Duke of Gordon, Jeanne Forbes and was one of the king’s favourites. As such, even though a marriage between her and Rob would unify their two Highland clans – clans that had been fighting for generations – the duke had given her the unprecedented prerogative to deny Rob’s suit if she didn’t find favour with him. It was not a pronouncement that anyone in either clan – their wealth and manpower depleted by years of contention – liked.

What if this Jeanne with her frenchified notions took a dislike to a tapestry in the Great Hall? Or what if they served her mutton and she preferred beef? What if she favoured slender men dressed in black velvet and lace? Well, she’d certainly not find his likes in the tall, broad-shouldered and heavy muscled figure of Rob Macalduie who’d spent most of his twenty-two years swinging a claymore.

How could the king have agreed to leave the fates of his brave liegemen to the whim of a seventeen-year-old girl?

But he had and there was nothing for it but to hope that Jeanne Forbes understood her duty. At least, everyone agreed, Rob understood what was at stake. Which is why he’d been driving his servants and kinsmen this past fortnight, exhorting them to scrape lower, bend a deeper knee, and above all to be careful of what they said and in what tone they said it.

None of which sat well with his cousin, Alex Graham, who thought it all well below the dignity of a laird of Barras to humble himself for a girl. But then Alex also thought he would have made the better laird than young Rob and – in spite of the old man naming Rob his chosen heir with his dying breath – should have been named such with the old laird’s passing four years ago. It was a claim that Rob had never bothered nor needed to refute. He’d let his record on the battlefield and the prosperity his people enjoyed speak for his ability to lead. Now, he wanted to guide them on to a new path – one of peace. Truth be told, at twenty-two Rob Macalduie of Barras was sick unto death of death.

Indeed, Rob was so sick of killing and raiding, ambushes and slaughter, and so set on the notion of peace, that he’d taken pen to paper to court Jeanne Forbes from afar. He’d begun his suit nearly a year ago when the subject of an arranged marriage between them had first been broached by the king himself. His first letter still had the power to embarrass him in recollection.

Young girls, his aunts had counselled him, love pretty words, particularly words they could wrap in ribbons and tuck beneath their pillows at night. If securing her hand entailed having to spout sweet-sounding inanities then, by all that was holy, inanities he’d spout. He would have done far more to secure welfare for his clan.

He’d been surprised when in her returning letter she’d bade him dispense with such fudge and went on to advise him not to bother writing again in an ill-fated attempt to convince her that he was the sort of man he imagined she must want. Thenceforth he’d dispensed with the inanities and written her, if not eloquently, honestly.

In return for his efforts, he found himself discovering his bride’s nature. Her letters revealed Jeanne Forbes to be practical and willful, comically pleased with her own cunning – though Rob suspected she wasn’t nearly so sly as she imagined herself to be – generous, quick-witted and engaging.

The only thing he didn’t know about his bride was what she looked like.

At the start of their correspondence she had made the stipulation that they should not tell each other anything of their physical appearance, as appearances can change in a heartbeat – a point she graphically illustrated in a tale about an uncle who rode down to a pub one night a bonny, braw man and returned two days later sans nose, one eye and an ear, lost in a brawl in the tavern’s yard. She thought they should instead focus on that which mattered more – their characters, their values, their temperaments.

Which was all very fine and high-minded, but when everything was said and done, though mature far beyond his years, at his core Rob was still a young man and could not help but want what every young man wants, which was a bonny armful in his bed. But, he couldn’t insist. She had him, in all ways, at point nonplus. He needed to win her, not the other way round.

Which is why he stood now surrounded by his closest kin in the small gatehouse annexed to his small castle’s outer curtain wall, awaiting the arrival of his would-be bride, about whose looks the only thing he knew was that she had red hair like all the Forbes. His men would have laughed themselves sick if they’d known how apprehensive he was. He’d stood unarmed and afoot and, without a tremor, faced down the mounted charge of his enemy; he’d dived into an ice-choked loch with nary a second thought to drag an unconscious kinsman from its frigid clasp; he’d felt a broadsword plunge into his shoulder but fought on without check until the battle was over. Yet at the thought of meeting this lass, this Jeanne Forbes, his belly clenched and his heart stuttered in his throat.

What if despite her lofty-minded intentions, despite the communion they’d found in their letters, despite what he wanted, what their people needed, she would not accept him as her husband?

He had never doubted himself before. He had never been allowed that luxury. A laird must be purposeful and certain, show no doubt or indecisiveness. And he hadn’t. But that was as laird. As suitor … what did he know of his strengths – if he had any – or weaknesses? Even if she was a squat, sour dumpling with a pockmarked face or a bony, unsmiling crone, Jeanne Forbes was a prize and a plum one at that.

He, on the other hand, was but a minor lord. Not pretty. Uneducated. Without court manners. She bent to his suit and he knew it well. Barras was a lesser estate, his clan negligible in the Highland hierarchy. His castle might be well-made and snug in winter, cool in summer, but there was no gainsaying it was small. He had no money for velvet gowns and jewels, no troubadour to sing her to sleep at night, no imported spices to tempt her palate – nor even a cook who’d know how to use them – all things her letters had revealed she was accustomed to. She improved his prospects; he did not improve hers.

What if she took one look at Barras castle and decided to return to the French court where she’d been raised? And the worst of it was that not all he feared had a political foundation. Whatever the girl looked like, whether or not she was a beauty, her words had found their way into his imagination, his mind … his heart.

For the third time in as many minutes he glanced out the small, narrow window at the road leading to the castle gates. Though still some miles off, her party could be seen making its slow, stately approach. A dozen men-at-arms and half again as many courtiers pranced about a pair of large, richly painted wagons. Outriders in hunting garb rode the fields on either side of the road, their falcons sweeping the sky above, their coloured jesses streaming like banners against the blue summer sky.

“She’ll be pox-faced, have no doubt of it,” Colin Frasier, his uncle, warned him for tenth time. “Why else would she be so old and not yet wed?”

“At seventeen, she’s hardly a hag.”

“She’ll be pretty enough,” allowed his foster brother, Francis Macalvoy. “But as cold as the Shetlands in January. French women are all cold.”

“Ach. I say tumble her on her arse and spread her legs wide.” Alex, arms crossed over his chest, sneered. “She’ll say ‘aye’ soon enough she’s with child.”

“I might warn you, anyone raping the lady is far more like to find themselves beheaded then bedded.”

At the sound of the female voice the men swung toward the doorway. A slender young woman stood silhouetted in the doorframe. The afternoon sun set a nimbus glowing around rich, red-gold coloured curls that fell in long ringlets over her shoulders and flirted with creamy bosom displayed above her gown’s low décolletage. Her eyes were dark and tip-tilted at the outer corners, lending her a faintly exotic air. Her brows were equally dark and elegantly arched. A lovely, breathtaking lass.

She wore a mantua of rich blue linen, the front skirt pulled back and fastened into a train that revealed the front of the embroidered petticoat beneath. The bodice was simple, the décolletage low and square cut, but the exposed corset beneath was studded with pearls and tooled in silver threads, laced tightly up the front and ending in a pronounced V at the waist. Around her shoulders hung a soft, primrose-coloured cloak. A fashion not seen in the Highlands, the effect was lush and rich and provocative.

But it was not her dress that struck silence into the four men, nor her amused tone, nor even the sight of her rampant red-gold tresses or dark, flashing eyes. It was the white bitch standing silently at her side, the girl’s hand resting lightly atop its wide, anvil shaped skull.

She wasn’t a particularly large dog, but from her thick neck and powerful shoulders to the heavy, rounded haunches and deep chest everything about her bespoke immense power. Dark, intelligent eyes stared unblinkingly at them from above a jaw bulging with massive muscles. A dark teardrop-shaped mark rode beneath one eye.

Rob had seen this sort of dog before. Called an Alaunt, it was used on the battlefield, terrifying the enemy with its tenacity and ferocity. Of late, however, he’d seen it being used in baiting, a “sport” for which Rob, as one who’d been on both sides of similarly savage and unfair matches, had no love.

Why this slip of a girl was companioned by so fierce a creature interested him. And who the bloody hell was she – aside from the obvious answer that she was kin of Jeanne’s, a fact attested to by the red hair. But as such, why would Jeanne Forbes send her lady’s maid unescorted to his castle?

“I have heard the Scots were a reticent lot, but hadn’t realized they were mutes,” the girl declared as their surprised silence dragged on. “Of course, being overheard plotting the rape of one of the king’s favourites might rob the hubris from even the most arrogant Highlander.”

Her gaze was flickering between the faces of the men silently regarding her, finally coming to rest on Francis Macalvoy’s lavishly clad figure.

Ah, Rob thought, she has been sent beforehand to report back to her mistress her impressions of Jeanne’s future husband and has decided that Francis must be the laird.

Certainly he looked the part more than Rob. Francis liked well the nicer things of life and dressed in finery and frippery whenever the opportunity arose. ’Twas a crime that even though he wore his dun-coloured hair cut to his shoulders and scented, his face would never win a lady’s heart. Beneath a thick beetling brow, a battleaxe had skewed an already over-sized lantern jaw permanently out of alignment and the pox had added their deep marks to his gentle, homely visage.

But whatever beauty he’d never claim about his face, Francis seemed determined to make his own in his dress. To greet Jeanne Forbes, he’d donned a grey doublet, slashed and pinked as were his trunk hose. His trews were a deep burgundy and the cloak suspended from his shoulder was deep green velvet lined in gold.

In contrast, Rob doubtless looked his subordinate. He wore but a simple leine and leather waistcoat under a short coat of dark green wool and, of course, his plaid, belted at the waist. Except for his stockings and shoes, his legs were bare. He’d caught his hair back from his face and bound it, not bothering to let it flow to his shoulders like Francis in the style his foster brother assured him was most admired at court. Well, they weren’t at court, and best this girl reported back to her mistress that the laird of Barras was no popinjay.

“Some of us speak, lady,” Alex said, a curl on his lip. “Though we prefer action to words. Perhaps you’d care for a demonstration?” He leered at her as he stepped forward and Rob was about to intervene when a great, deep rumble issued from the chest of the white dog. Alex stopped, uneasily regarding the tensed bitch who’d stood up now, her hackles raised.

“Who are you, lass? What are you doing here, unescorted and unprotected?” his uncle, Colin Frasier asked.

The girl touched the dog’s head and at once the bitch dropped to a sit. She smiled, steel as well as humour in her gaze. “I’m hardly unprotected, as you see. And as to who I am, I’m Joan, maid of milady’s chamber. And as to why I’m here, I come bringing the Laird of Barras a gift from the Lady Forbes.”

Once more her gaze flickered towards Francis who, Rob was amused to suspect, seemed to have been struck mute by the sight of a real French lady. At least French-raised. That hair was born in the Highlands and no doubt of it.

“And what would that be, Joan?” Rob asked, coming forward from where he’d stood in the back.

The girl’s gaze swept over him, widening a bit in an expression Rob could not read before a faint blush spread over her cheeks, confounding and beguiling him all at once, for he had said nothing to give rise to that sweet blush and yet once he’d seen it, it lodged in his heart, enchanting him. Caught offguard, he shook off the sudden, intense attraction. ’Twould never do to go lusting after his bride’s companion. He was not that sort of man and he had no intentions of becoming one.

“Well?”

In answer, the girl reached beneath her cloak and withdrew from some inner pocket a small, wriggling white creature, a pup but a few weeks old, Rob guessed.

“He’s an Alaunt,” the girl said proudly, petting the broad head of the beast beside her. “Paula here’s only whelp. Both Paula and the sire’s ancestors came from the Holy Lands, brought back with the crusaders from my … my lady’s family. I,” the girl’s eyes fell, suddenly shy, “I trained her.”

“Paula?” Alex burst out, laughing. “Ye named the bitch Paula?”

“Aye,” she said. “For the saint.”

“What sort of name is that for a baiting dog?” Alex jeered.

Joan swung towards him, her eyes flashing. “She’s no baiting dog and never will be. She’s a companion and a guardian should there be cause. But she’ll not ever spill her blood for the obscene pleasure of a bunch of drunken boys.” Her eyes flashed with contempt and disgust.

At this, Alex surged forward in fury, only to meet the immovable bulk of Rob’s massive arm. “Stay, Alex,” he murmured through clenched teeth.

His cousin needed no further instruction. Alex was a loyal man, if not a temperate one. He spun away from Rob, stalking to the door and shoving the girl aside as he passed, spitting down at her, “I’d keep the bitch close if I were you,” and Rob, already angry at Alex’s treatment of Jeanne Forbe’s liege woman, felt a black rage seize him.

Before he realized his own intent, he’d snatched Alex back and spun him around, gripping him around the neck and slamming him to his knees.

“By God, Alex, you go too far,” he rumbled. “If you—”

“Stay!”

Rob felt another’s hand on his shoulder.

“Leave off!”

Again he heard Francis’s urgent voice and looked up to meet his foster brother’s worried gaze over Alex’s head.

“Let him go or Joan will be forced to report to her mistress that having no foreigners to fight we fall upon each other like the very pit dogs she decries,” Francis said in a low voice. “Leave off, I say.”

Thank god for Francis’s reasoned calm, a calm for which Rob himself was usually known. But some instinct had snapped to life at Alex’s threat and he knew that he would never allow any man to lay rough hands on the gallant girl. With a bare nod of acquiescence, he released his hold on Alex’s throat, leaving his cousin sputtering and groping his way out the door with the aid of his amazed father.

He looked up at Joan. Her hand was clenched at her bosom, her eyes wide and frightened. Her gown’s sleeve had pulled up revealing a crescent-shaped red welt on her forearm. Rob froze.

He knew the story of that scar: a brazier filled with roasting nuts, a greedy toddler and inattentive nurse. He knew because in one of her first letters to him Jeanne Forbes had written him about her “battle scars”.

Jeanne, not Joan.

But then, Joan was simply the Scottish version of Jeanne. She had come, Rob realized, to learn about him covertly. If she had arrived as herself, his behaviour would be at its best and his kin and servants would keep their tongues well guarded. But if she arrived as a simple companion, she would be more likely to learn what his servants and kinsmen thought of him.

It was, he acknowledged, a practical ploy. And a cunning game.

One that two people could play …

The dark-haired young giant moved with lethal quickness for one so large and broad-shouldered. One moment the sneering, fair-haired Scot was growling his threat and the next he was on his knees clawing uselessly at the vise-like grip around his throat. And then the man Jeanne took to be her intended husband – for who else but he would be wearing such princely garb? – proved further proof of this supposition by staying the giant’s hand and sending the other two men from the room.

He was a judicious man then, neither passionate like the young giant nor violent like the other. A worthy man, then. A man who understood prudence and politics. She should be happy. Delighted. For political reasons had brought her here to this small castle to accept its laird as her husband.

She shouldn’t be surprised by his actions. In his letters, Rob Macalduie’s commitment to a lasting peace amongst the feuding Highlanders had been framed in careful, weighted words. His thoughtful and circumspect letters had demonstrated the statecraft that would be necessary to ensure it. Aye, he was a statesmen in the making, was Rob Macalduie.

And it was for just that reason she had ventured on this impersonation. For Rob Macalduie’s words had been too carefully select, too self-conscious, had sometimes made her feel that she’d revealed too much of herself in her own effusive ramblings while discovering too little about him. She wanted to know, to really know, what sort of man she’d agreed to wed. It was a small enough thing to insist upon.

She studied her fiancé now as he stood in deep and tense conversation with the young Scot whose broad back all but obliterated her view of the laird. She’d been told that Rob Macalduie had been in more battles than she had years and it stood to reason that he’d carry physical reminders of them. She knew that physical beauty was a vanity and an illusion but … she had hoped that he’d be not unpleasant to look at.

But alas, he was. His brow overhung deep-set eyes like a rock shelf over small pebbles, and his heavy brow stretched across that great land bridge like a brown weasel. His huge jaw hung at an oblique angle, caved in at one side. But he did have kind eyes – worried eyes, but kind – and his hair was pretty, thick as a lass’s, long and scented. And he was well-shaped. Though not so well-shaped as the large young warrior who had turned towards her.

Now, he was handsome. His eyes were a clear green, fringed by thick short black lashes, his brow high and clear, his nose was bold and straight. His jaw was clean-shaven, his shoulders and the breadth of his chest beneath the leather waistcoat strong and hard, and the size of his hands and the length of his muscular legs and –

Oh my. She pulled her gaze away, feeling her face growing hot. His wide, well-shaped mouth quirked in a smile. The brigand! The great lout! He obviously thought she’d blushed because of him. Well, aye. She had. But he was no gentleman to make note of it.

And ’twould not do, besides! He would be her kinsman in but a few days.

“Lady,” the laird was saying and, even though it was hard to pay him the heed he merited when the younger man was watching her so intently, she forced herself to do so.

“Aye, sir?”

“When will your lady be arriving?”

Lady? Oh. Oh! He meant her! She must stop paying heed to the grinning Highlander.

“If I may make a request, sir. She bids your indulgence in letting me be her eyes and ears here for a single day.”

“Why so?” asked the giant.

She essayed a prim smile. “So that when I return to her tomorrow I might teach her better how best to please.”

“Ach!” At this the young giant broke into laughter, winning a sharp look from his laird. “Those are pretty words, lassie. Skilful. Are they yours … or hers?” His smile was vulpine.

Damn the man. He would make his laird doubt her. “Sir?” she managed to say with a guileless smile.

“Faith, yer a beauty,” he murmured, his gaze roving over her person so openly she felt another blush rise. Why didn’t the laird do something? But then, why should he? If his man indulged in a flirtation with his intended’s companion, what matter was it to him?

Well, it would presumably be a great matter when she revealed who she was. She should do so now, before this got out of hand and the black-haired giant found himself exiled when the laird recalled his brazenness towards her. But … she hadn’t learned anything of the laird yet and very soon it would be too late. She would be married to him. This would be her most promising opportunity to see him as his people saw him. Perhaps her only opportunity.

She would be careful. Starting now. She turned away from the dark-haired Highlander towards the laird, ignoring the giant.

But he refused to be ignored.

“But, won’t your lady be uncomfortable, sleeping in a wagon on a narrow cot with a lumpy mattress?” he murmured from close behind her. “Why subject her to that when here her bed would be strong. And broad. And firm.”

He wasn’t talking about beds. Fire flashed up her throat and into her face as she heard the laird make some sort of constrictive sound in his throat. She could feel the giant coming closer, caught a faint scent of pine and heather and a rich sort of earthiness. She glanced down at Paula. The white bitch was looking at the man, wagging her tail, her tongue lolling happily. The tart!

She looked up, meeting the laird’s sympathetic gaze, silently praying he would agree to her request and take her away from this man’s proximity.

“Sir?” she asked.

“Faith, lady, do what you must,” the laird said, unhappily it seemed to her. “Since your mistress is not to arrive today, there’re other matters to which I must attend.”

“Of course,” she said. “I would not be in the way. If you could send one of the women to—”

“There’s no need to take some poor woman from her duties, or her leisure, when I am already here and more than willing to act as your guide …” the young warrior said. “Joan.”

No. No! “But,” she sputtered, “don’t you have things to do, too?” She cast a desperate look at the laird. “Doesn’t he have things to do?”

“Like what?” asked the giant.

“Like … hacking things? Sharpening your claymore?”

“Though kindly meant I am certain, you may lay aside your concern regarding both my prowess and my sword. I promise you that my prowess is at its zenith and my claymore is … well-shaped.”

“Oh!” She gasped.

“He’s right, lady,” the laird said. “You’ll not find a better guide nor a more knowledgeable one and so I will leave you in his care.”

“But, what of Paula? And what of her pup?”

“They’d best stay with you until … They’d best stay with you for now.” And with that, the laird sketched a quick bow and left.

Slowly, Jeanne turned around to regard her guide. He was standing with his fists on his hips, his bare legs braced wide beneath his belted kilt. She’d never seen so large, so intimidating, so virile a young man.

“Well, Joan,” he said, his teeth flashing white and strong in his dark, handsome face, “what would you like to see first?”

She blushed, her cheeks turning as bright as autumn apples and ducked her head. Rob was utterly captivated. Her letters had revealed her intelligence and character, but not her youth or femininity. Hers was a girl’s blush, shy and unknowingly seductive and Rob felt his body react to its sweet temptation.

To disguise his discomfort, he hunkered down on his heels and held out his hand to Paula, palm down, fingers curled under. At once, the white bitch came forwards, tail-wagging, ears notched back in pleasure at the invitation. She sniffed his hand and he scratched her silky neck. Needing no further encouragement, she bowled into him, knocking him flat on his arse, and proceeded to bathe his face with her great pink tongue. He laughed and this only encouraged her further, for she squirmed in delight, planting her great boulder head in his lap and rolling over so that her four paws waved in the air.

“Ye great hussy!”

Rob looked up to find Jeanne smiling down at them. He grinned back. “I like a lass who’s a bit of a tart.”

“Bit of a tart?” She laughed and the sound was lovely, infectious, but then recalling herself, her smile faded and the blush deepened. She raised her chin to a haughty angle – because even though for all she knew “Joan” could be his equal or even his subordinate, Jeanne Forbes was definitely his superior – and demanded, “What is your name?”

It must have dawned on her then that she had not been introduced to anyone for her brows knit together. “What is anyone’s name? Who were those men?”

He rose, dumping poor Paula at his feet and sketched a bow. “Forgive our poor manners. ’Tisn’t everyday Barras is treated to the company of someone so elegant and exotic as yer fair self.”

She eyed him closely but since his words were no less than the truth, she could find no deceit nor mockery in his face or tone and so blushed again, making him smile even broader.

“My name is Rob, my lady,” he said then, catching the slight widening of her eyes, added, “Aye. ’Tis a name as common as bracken in the Highlands, I’m afraid. As to who the others might be,” he continued, not giving her time to ask his surname, “the older man is Colin Frasier, the laird’s uncle and the graceless cur he hauled out of here is his son, Alex.” He left off naming Francis, but then she assumed she already knew his identity.

“Now, where would you like to go?” he said, offering her his arm. After a second, she took it. “What would you like to know?”

He smiled down into her tip-tilted eyes. Her lashes were so long they brushed the delicate flesh beneath her arched brows. This close he saw her eyes were the colour of wild honey, a rich glowing amber. Eyes a man could get lost in. “What would you like to see? How can my laird win your … mistress’s heart? What would impress her most? What least? Let’s connive between the two of us, Joan, to see this union come to pass. And then,” he covered her delicate hand with his and felt the fingers flutter like a captive bird beneath, “we’ll have time to devote to getting to know one another.”

“Oh!” A gasp escaped her lips and she turned her head away. “No! No. Never.”

“Never?” he asked, cocking his head, pleased. Despite their mutual attraction, she understood honour and duty, the meaning of sacred vows and political necessity. Once sworn to Rob Macalduie she would be his and no other’s – no matter how much she might want to. And she did.

He could tell from the agitation that lifted the delicate lace kerchief covering the soft swells of her bosom, by the colour staining her throat and the warmth of the hand beneath his, the glow in her eyes, the catch of her breath …

“Well, there’s a sadness then,” he said, trying not to sound too cheerful about it. He gave a gusty sigh. “But if that’s the way it is, far be it from me to try and foist my attentions on an unwilling maiden. So then, where is it you wanted to go?”

Her head swung up, her gaze sharp with disappointment and, aye, exasperation. He almost laughed. He’d apparently given up too easily and her pride did not like it much.

“The stables,” she said frostily.

He was surprised. He would have thought she would want to inspect the Great Hall, the solars or the stores, the buttery or the chapel, places where the wealth of a lord could be gauged. But he nodded and led her with the white pup in her hand from the gatehouse annexe across the bailey, Paula trotting behind. No one looked surprised by their passage or took particular note of him, though Jeanne in her finery and the great, muscled dog at her side drew many an interested glance.

His people were used to seeing him hither and yon about the castle. He’d been born and raised within these walls and, while treating him with deference, everyone accepted that theirs was a laird who must know everything about those things and people for whom he was responsible. There was no room he had not been in, no roof he had not climbed over, no floor he hadn’t trod, no person with whom he hadn’t shared a word and a drink.

They entered the stables at the far end of the bailey, Paula hard on their heels. The light inside was soft and diffused, the horses in their stalls whickering softly at the sight of the strange dog.

“Who goes?” a young man’s voice croaked from overhead. A second later a gangly lad of fifteen or sixteen years jumped down from the loft where he’d been napping or – a giggle from above caught Rob’s wry attention – indulging in another more pleasurable pastime. One look at his laird and the boy dissolved into abashed silence for which Rob thankfully offered up a prayer.

“I’m showing the lady the stables, Davie. I won’t need your help so you can go to the kitchen and have Maura fetch you a cold glass of buttermilk.” He glanced up. “And one for yer friend, too. If she’s a mind to come … No. Not word from you now. Yer secret’s safe with me.”

“Thank—”

“I said, not a word,” Rob repeated. “I meant it.”

The wide-eyed lad bobbed his head and, with a backward glance at Jeanne, made a tching sound at which a pretty young face, round-cheeked and dusky-skinned, appeared above them. Without a second’s hesitation the girl swung her legs over the edge and dropped lightly to the ground. Then with a giggle and blush, she grabbed hold of Davie’s hand, hastily pulling him through the stable door, leaving him and Jeanne alone. At last.

“You know the stable lad’s name.”

“Aye.”

“Does the laird?”

“Aye. Of course.”

“No. Not ‘of course’. I’ve been in many a castle where the lord wouldn’t know the name of his cook, let alone the stable boy.”

“Well,” said Rob comfortably, “this isn’t such a grand castle as those.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she murmured, releasing his arm and walking down the aisle separating the stalls. The ground underneath was even and freshly spread with sweet hay. The scent of warm horse, grain and dust filled the air. His gaze followed her, the gentle sway of her hips, the straight spine and shiny red-gold hair.

She stopped outside his stallion’s stall and looked back over her shoulder at him. “An Arabian steed?” she asked.

“Half,” he answered. “The other half is Highland mare. In other words, no particular lineage.”

“Hm,” she said, reaching in and rubbing her hand down the great steed’s velvety face. Rob was unconcerned. He didn’t tolerate vicious animals in his stables.

“Why did you ask to see the stables first?” he asked curiously.

She gave a little shrug. “A lord would make sure his chapel’s cross was shined and his larder well-stocked to impress a woman he hoped to marry. The solars would be fitted anew with linens and draperies, the halls swept, tapestries borrowed, beaten and hung. It’s an easy enough thing to make a place look wealthy and welltended. It’s not so easy to make a hungry horse look fat. And a mucked-out stall tells more about a lord’s husbandry than a clean dining hall.”

Young and girlish and innocent she might be, but Jeanne Forbes was also smart and canny. They’d make an imposing team. He nodded.

“And do the stables tell you anything else about the laird of Barras?”

“Aye,” she said. “The temperament of his horse tells me he would rather persuade than conquer. Am I right?”

He hesitated, uncertain if her words were meant as a compliment or a criticism. Many men – and women – considered intimidation the only way to see things done. “Force doesn’t make a thing love you, only fear you, and it’s the nature of things to try to destroy those they fear. You can only hold a thing to you through trust.”

She regarded him silently. Her expression was impossible to read. “Are those your sentiments, Rob? Or the laird’s?”

“We share like views,” he said.

“Hm.” The pup she carried had begun mewling, causing Paula to dance lightly before her mistress. With a chuckle, Jeanne pushed opened the door to an empty stall and carefully laid the pup on a bed of straw in the corner. At once, Paula flopped down and the pup began nursing.

Jeanne rose, dusting the hay from her skirts, and came back to him. The light filtering in from the open doors glazed her hair with a fiery sheen and the air in stables dusted her skin with a fine golden talc. He wanted very much to take her in his arms and lick the fine powder from her brow, her cheeks, and her lips … She tipped her head back, eyeing him seriously and he realized she didn’t have the slightest notion of the effect she had on him, or where his errant thoughts were taking him. Them.

“What sort of man is the laird, Rob?”

He started, unprepared for the question. He’d expected her to ask him about Barras’s power, land, loyalties, even his faults but not something so all encompassing, so intimate.

“I am uncertain as to your meaning, lady,” he said slowly.

“Is he a good man?”

“Well, now, paining me though it does to say, he’s not much for church-going.”

“No, no,” she said impatiently, shaking her head. “Let me ask this … what does he value?”

That was easier. “Honesty. Hard work. Peace.”

His answer didn’t appear to satisfy her. “But what of the man?” she insisted. Then an inspiration seemed to come to her. “What will he do with the pup?”

“He’ll value him as a gift from his lady.”

“He’ll not have him fight? Or will he?” She was standing very close now, her expression worried. He could see the ruby sheen in the shadows of her red-gold hair, a sprinkling of gingery freckles across the bridge of her nose.

“No. That I can promise. He’s no love of violence for its own sake.” She smelled like sun and soap and she was regarding him so earnestly, so seriously and he wanted … He wanted …

He reached across the space separating them and tipped her chin up. Her lips parted in surprise and before she could react he’d bent down and brushed a kiss over her mouth. He heard her breath catch and he shifted closer, this time letting his lips cling. Her own were soft and plush and warm and sweet. So sweet. She swayed and he caught her wrists together, bracing her hands against his chest as his kiss deepened, his tongue sliding between her lips to taste—

She shoved against him, hard, and he stumbled back, amused and aroused and pleased, because he wanted her and she wanted him. He had never imagined, never had the hubris to hope, that their union could be more than an expedience for both of them. But now … he nearly laughed with the joy of it, the wonder and fortune of it. She would be his mistress as well as wife, and he would be her lover in addition to husband. Although she didn’t know this yet. Indeed, at the moment she looked decidedly put out.

“Why did you do that?” she shouted.

“Well, Joan,” he said in his most reasonable tone, “yer a lass and I’m a man and the stables are as private a place as a solar, and you looked willing and lord knows I am, so … why not?”

Half of him hoped she would choose now to dispense with her masquerade so they might go forth in honesty. But the other half of him, that half that was still a boy, reacted to the girlishness of her blushes and stutters. That half liked not being cautious, politic, and wise beyond his years, and liked that for these moments she wasn’t Jeanne Forbes, who held the future of his portion of the Highlands in her hands, but “Joan”, a pretty, hot-headed, passionate girl.

Apparently, “Joan” didn’t appreciate his answer. She gasped. “How dare you? I am not some tart to be tumbled in a stall!”

He gave her a lop-sided grin. “How about in a loft?”

Her eyes grew round and he decided to take her momentary silence as consent. Besides, he was in a lather to taste her again, to feel her hands on him. He scooped her up while she was still floundering for a reply. She was light and finely made but well curved and womanly.

He’d one foot on the ladder leading up before she managed to sputter, “Put me down, you great ox! I’m not some doxy! I’m … I’m …”

He didn’t put her down, but neither did he start up the ladder, instead he waited, interested to see what she’d say, how far she’d take her masquerade.

“I’m … I’m betrothed!” she blurted out.

“Aye?” he said, feigning surprise. He bounced her higher up in his arms and in response she flung her arms around his neck, clinging. He liked the feel of her arms around him and he bent his head down, nuzzling her neck. Her skin was velvety and smooth, like sun-warmed chamois. The pulse at the base of her throat trip-hammered beneath his lips.

Delicately, he nipped the tender skin and heard her draw in a startled breath. Her arms tightened. “Didn’t you hear me?” she asked in a high and unnatural voice. “I’m to be wed!”

“No matter, lass. So am I.”

And as quickly as he said the words, he found himself with a hellcat in his arms. With a strangled sound of fury, she pummelled at his chest, kicking her feet and flaying about so violently that he almost dropped her. Startled, at the last second she clutched hold of his leine, trying to keep herself from falling, but tearing his shirt open at the chest in the process. Taking advantage of her momentary stillness, he repositioned her in his arms, grinning wickedly down into her upturned face.

“Have a care, lass,” he said. “I’m eager, too, but not so wealthy that I can afford to have one of my best shirts ripped.”

He waited for her to start struggling again but instead she simply stared at him, her exotic eyes widening and then, before he understood what was happening, her arms wrapped tight around his neck and she was drawing herself fully against him, the soft roundness of her breasts crushed to his naked chest.

“Take me, then. Take me now!” she whispered huskily a second before her mouth found his.

“What?”

If she wasn’t so furious at him, she would have laughed at the dumbstruck expression on Rob’s face. Rob Macalduie’s face. But she was furious, whether at him for leading her on or at herself for being so roused by his kisses that, for a moment there, before she’d tumbled to his true identity, she had actually decided to let him have a few more kisses. Because she’d never been kissed like that before, never had the tingling in her lips stretch in a taut wire of need to the very pit of her belly. And deeper.

Not that she would have ever sanctioned anything more and she would never have let him kiss her in the first place had she known what he’d been about, but once he had, oh, aye! It was amazing, stirring, and as potent as the brandy from the king’s own cellar.

Even as she’d been anticipating another kiss, she’d been promising herself that she would not betray her husband once the marriage vows were spoken. She had also been telling herself that there was no betrayal in sharing a simple kiss with a would-be suitor before she’d even properly met her intended groom. It was a mere kiss. A simple thing to remember when she closed her eyes three nights hence on her wedding night and accept the laird’s attentions. She wondered briefly who he was, the man she’d mistaken for her future husband.

“I said,’’ she repeated patiently, “take me now.”

“But …”

Clearly, this wasn’t going the way Rob had anticipated. Somehow, she managed to keep from laughing and feigned a confused expression.

“Don’t you want me? Have you changed your mind?” she asked sweetly, arching her back, just a little, so that her bosom swelled against his hot flesh.

“God, no!” he whispered hoarsely.

She almost took pity on him. After all, she’d begun this game and she supposed she deserved his goading. How far would he go, she wondered? He assumed she didn’t know who he was yet. Was he using this encounter as a test of her virtue? She thought not, mostly because he’d no more control of the desire raking his body than she.

His great chest rose and fell in a heavy rhythm, his breathing harsh and ragged. A strand of hair curled against his damp throat and his eyes were dark with hunger.

“Then …” Her fingertips played in the crisp dark hair covering his chest and he shuddered, “are you going to take me up to the hayloft?”

Her gaze flashed to the ladder and his arms tightened about her. “Lady, perhaps you are right,” he said, sounding desperate, “perhaps we should consider the ramifications of our acts.”

She pouted, plucking the glass token hanging on his chest and giving it a rough tug. It was the token that had given him away, a small glass vial containing a glint of red-gold, a strand of her own hair that she’d sent to him last year. He’d obviously forgotten he wore it.

Of course, she now realized he knew who she was, too, and had been playing with her, punishing her for her deception by pretending to seduce her. Only now it had become real. She knew this because she knew he would never try to seduce one of Jeanne Forbe’s own companions on the virtual eve of his marriage. Not because she mistook him for a saint. No, the reason she knew he must realize her identity was because he had politicked and manoeuvred and argued for their marriage and he wouldn’t risk that for a tumble in the hay even had she been the Medici witch, Helen of Troy and Cleopatra all rolled into one. If she knew nothing else about Rob Macalduie it was this: he wasn’t stupid.

“If you’ve suddenly lost your … will, so be it,” she said. “But in that case there’s no need for us to stand about hoping it returns. I should like next to see the chap—”

“I have not lost my will!” he thundered. “I have will aplenty, lady, and am half a mind to—”

“What I want takes no mind at all,” she cut in, reaching up and pushing the dark hair from his handsome face. “Simply … will.”

He threw back his head, groaning. She smiled. He was too honourable to take her under these circumstances. The question was, was she?

She turned in his arms, letting imagination lead where experience failed her. She pressed her lips against the heavy plane of his chest and then, quite deliberately, touched the tip of her tongue to the salty skin and trailed a long, searing line to the base of his throat. He drew in a long, shaking breath in response and she laced her fingers around the back of his wide neck, pulling his face down to hers. Their mouth met in a heated kiss, open and hungering, locked into a fever of yearning, their tongues dancing together. The fervour of their actions caused her gown to pucker and pull, her breast escaping above the décolletage and rubbing erotically against him. Its touch galvanized him.

With a low sound of anger, he dipped down, setting her on her feet. She swayed, suddenly being ripped from his embrace, dizzy, suffused with unfulfilled longing. She put a hand up to steady herself and he backed away from her. His chest was working like a bellows; his gaze was predatory and keen, frantic and raw.

“Mother of Mercy, how to tell you who I am?” he breathed in a low voice not meant for her ears. “How do I right this?”

But she did hear and was pleased beyond measure by his words, his honour, his self-restraint. Rob Macalduie was a man she could love. May already be in love with, truth be told, and had been falling in love with at the arrival of each new letter, circumspect, reasoned, but flavoured with hints of wry humour and self-deprecation.

“I know who you are,” she said breathlessly. “You are Rob.”

“Aye, but—”

“Rob Macalduie, Laird of Barras, betrothed to Jeanne Forbes who you well know is … me.”

For a moment he simply stared at him and for an instance, Jeanne feared she might have read into his character things that were not there, and hoped she was not wrong, but then his handsome face lit with a huge grin. “You knew!”

“Aye, but for a far shorter time than you did.”

“Faith, lass, we’ll make a fearsome pair, I warrant,” he said, still smiling, handsome great devil of a Highlander that he was.

“I warrant,” she agreed, suddenly shy beneath the hungry, roving, possessive glint in his eyes.

“So, now that we’ve been revealed to one another, what next?” he asked, still looking greatly amused, oddly proud and decidedly boyish.

She thought of all the things her uncle and the king had told her to explore, all the questions a prudent woman would ask a prospective groom, all the things she ought to insist she see, the people she must ask to interview. But then her gaze caught on a piece of hay drifting lazily down from above.

“I’ve always wanted a proper tour of a hayloft,” she said.

And soon enough, she had one.