Praise for USA TODAY bestselling author Margaret Moore:

‘The talented Moore has penned another exciting Regency.’

—RT Book Reviews on HIGHLAND ROGUE, LONDON MISS

‘The story is fresh, fun, fast-paced, engaging and passionate, with an added touch of adventure.’

—The Romance Readers Connection on THE NOTORIOUS KNIGHT

‘Readers continue to ask for “Moore”.

Her latest book is a sparkling, dynamic tale of two lonely hearts who find each other despite their pasts and the evil forces surrounding them.’

—RT Book Reviews on HERS TO DESIRE

‘Colourful and compelling details of life in the Middle Ages abound.’

—Publishers Weekly on HERS TO COMMAND

‘A lively adventure with enough tension and romance to keep me turning pages.’

—International bestselling author Roberta Gellis

on HERS TO COMMAND

‘This captivating adventure of thirteenth-century Scotland kept me enthralled from beginning to end.

It’s a keeper!’

—Romance Junkies on BRIDE OF LOCHBARR

‘Margaret Moore is a master storyteller who has the uncanny ability to develop new twists on old themes.’

—Affaire de Coeur

‘When it comes to excellence in historical romance books, no one provides the audience with more than the award-winning Ms Moore.’

—Under the Covers

‘I hardly think a simple kiss is cause for such an extreme reaction.’

His unrepentant cavalier attitude cut her to the quick—until she realised it was another proof of his degeneracy. ‘It was a kiss that I did not want, did not invite and did not enjoy. It was also an affront to my dignity, as well as a sign of gross disrespect.’

The man grinned. ‘Good God, all that? Was it treason, too?’

‘How would you like it if I reached over and started pawing at you?’

‘Why don’t you try it and we’ll see?’

She was horrified, appalled, disgusted—and tempted, which was surely wrong and sinful.

‘Or do you fear for your virtue?’ he asked. ‘If so, rest assured. You’re the last woman in England I would ever want to seduce.’

‘As if you’d have any hope of succeeding!’

‘Careful, Miss McCallan,’ he replied. ‘I like a challenge.’

About the Author

USA TODAY bestselling author MARGARET MOORE has written over forty historical romance novels and novellas. She graduated with distinction from the University of Toronto, has served in the Royal Canadian Naval Reserve, and is a past president of the Toronto chapter of Romance Writers of America. For more information about Margaret, including a complete list of all her books, please visit her website at www.margaretmoore.com

Previous novels by the same author:

THE OVERLORD’S BRIDE

COMFORT AND JOY (in The Christmas Visit) BRIDE OF LOCHBARR LORD OF DUNKEATHE THE VAGABOND KNIGHT (in Yuletide Weddings) THE UNWILLING BRIDE THE DUKE’S DESIRE HERS TO COMMAND HERS TO DESIRE THE DUKE’S DILEMMA MY LORD’S DESIRE THE NOTORIOUS KNIGHT KNAVE’S HONOUR

And as a Mills & Boon® Historical Undone! eBook:

THE WELSH LORD’S MISTRESS

Highland Rogue, London Miss

Margaret Moore

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Chapter One

London February 1817

Esme McCallan paced restlessly in the solicitor’s office in Staple Inn. From beyond the closed door she could hear the hushed voices and footsteps of clients coming to meet with other attorneys. Some of the steps were as brisk as Esme’s, others slow and shuffling and defeated.

None of them belonged to her brother.

Esme hated waiting, as Jamie well knew, yet here it was almost 3:30 p.m. on a wet, chilly afternoon and Jamie was not here to meet her, even though he himself had set the time. There was only one thing that could irritate her more and—

It happened.

Quintus MacLachlann strolled into the office without so much as a tap on the door. Of course she hadn’t heard him approaching; the man moved as silently as a cat.

Dressed in a brown woollen jacket, indigo waistcoat, white shirt open at the neck and baggy buff trousers, one could easily assume he was the son of peasants and earned his keep bare-knuckle fighting. Only his voice and lord-of-the-manor self-importance suggested he was something else, if not the truth—that he was the disgraced, rakehell son of a Scottish nobleman who had squandered every advantage his family’s wealth and station had provided.

“Where’s Jamie?” he asked with that combination of arrogance and familiarity she found particularly aggravating.

“I don’t know,” she replied as she perched on the edge of the small, serviceable, oval-backed chair her brother kept for his clients. She smoothed out a wrinkle in the lap of her dark brown pelisse and adjusted her unadorned bonnet by a fraction of an inch so that it was more properly centered on her smoothly parted, straight brown hair.

“That’s not like him,” MacLachlann unnecessarily observed as he leaned back against the shelves holding Jamie’s law books. “Was he meeting someone?”

“I don’t know,” she repeated, silently chastising herself for her ignorance. “I’m not informed of all the appointments my brother makes.”

MacLachlann’s full lips curved up in an impudent grin and his bright blue eyes sparkled with amusement. “What, the mother hen doesn’t know every move her little chick makes?”

“I am not Jamie’s mother and since Jamie is a grown man with a fine mind and education that he has not wasted, no, I don’t keep watch over his every move.”

Her words had no effect on the wastrel, who continued to grin like a demented gargoyle. “No? Well, he’s not with a woman, anyway, unless she’s a client. He never indulges in that sort of thing during the day.”

Esme’s lips tightened.

“So there’s something else the mother hen doesn’t know, eh?” MacLachlann said with a chuckle that made her feel as if she’d stepped into some kind of low establishment where all manner of indecencies occurred—probably the sort of place MacLachlann spent most, if not all, of his evenings.

“My brother’s private life is not my concern,” she said, sitting up even straighter and fixing MacLachlann with a caustic glare. “If I made all his business mine, I would know why he ever hired a rogue like you.”

The sparkle in MacLachlann’s blue eyes changed into a different sort of fire. “Is that supposed to hurt, little plum cake?” he asked, thickening his brogue and using an epithet she hated with a passion. “If it is, ye’ve missed the mark entire. I’ve been insulted in ways that’d curl the toes of your thick-soled boots.”

Tucking her boot-clad feet under her chair, Esme turned her head toward the square-paned window that overlooked the soggy inner garden and didn’t deign to answer.

She must speak to Jamie about MacLachlann’s insolence. If MacLachlann wouldn’t treat her with the proper respect, there had to be other men in London who were equally capable of finding out information. Her brother need not employ MacLachlann for that purpose, even if he had gone to school with Jamie.

With a self-satisfied smirk, MacLachlann strolled over to the desk and, with one long, ungloved finger, tapped the documents she’d placed there. “I wonder what your brother’s clients would say if they knew his sister was as good as a partner in the business? That it was a woman who wrote the contracts, wills, entailments and settlements and did most of his research for him?”

Esme jumped to her feet. “I merely help him compose the first draft of such documents and find legal precedents for him. Jamie always writes the final documents and checks everything I do. If you dare to say or imply otherwise to anyone, we’ll sue for slander. And if you write it anywhere or tell any member of the press who reports it, we’ll sue for libel—not that you’ll be able to pay any damages.”

“Settle down, Miss McCallan, and put your law-book mind at ease,” MacLachlann replied in his most patronizing manner. “I won’t tell anybody about all the work you do for your brother.” His customary smirk left his face for the briefest of moments. “I owe him too much.”

Just what? she wanted to ask. Jamie had never told her exactly where or how he’d encountered MacLachlann in London. Jamie had simply brought the obviously inebriated man home, let him sleep in the spare room and then given him employment as a sort of investigative associate. Naturally she’d had questions, most of which Jamie declined to answer, saying only that MacLachlann had fallen on hard times and was estranged from his family. Only later, through snippets of conversation between the two men, had she learned that MacLachlann had disgraced his family with his wastrel ways.

She’d also discovered, through firsthand observation, that he could be very charming when he wished to be, especially with women, who then responded as if he’d somehow turned their minds to porridge.

Not hers, of course. She was far too wary and sceptical to be swayed by his shallow charm, should he ever have attempted to sway her with it.

She glanced at the gilded clock on the mantelpiece and saw that it was now nearly 4:00 p.m.

“Impatient, are we?” the wastrel inquired.

“You may have nothing better to do than loiter,” Esme declared as she started for the door, “but I do. Good day.”

“What, you’re going to leave me here all alone?” MacLachlann demanded with bogus dismay.

“Yes, and gladly,” she snapped as she opened the door and nearly collided with Jamie.

“Ah, here you are, then, the pair of you and no blood spilled,” her tardy brother said with a smile, his stronger accent telling her that despite his apparent good humor, he was upset.

“I finished the documents you wanted,” she said, curious about what had happened, although she would never ask such a question with MacLachlann in the room. Hopefully she could find out later, when she and her brother were alone. “I discovered an interesting precedent in a case from 1602, concerning a sheep whose ownership was disputed due to lack of an earmark.”

Jamie hung his tall hat on the wall hook by the door. “I’ll deal with Mrs. Allen’s suit tomorrow,” he said, running his hand through his close-cropped brown curls as he went around the scarred and ancient desk they’d found at a used furniture shop. “And while I thank you for bringing the papers, I have another matter with which I hope you’ll both assist me.”

A swift glance in the wastrel’s direction proved he was no more keen to have anything to do with her than she was with him.

“Sit down, Esme, and let me explain. You, too, Quinn, if you please,” her brother said, nodding at the chair.

Regarding her brother with a combination of curiosity and dread, Esme did as he asked. She again perched on the edge of the chair, while Quinn sat on another equally small chair and tilted it back so that all the weight rested on the back legs.

“You’re going to break that chair if you lean back in such a fashion,” Esme charged.

“Care to make a wager on it?” MacLachlann replied with that mocking grin she hated.

She didn’t give him the satisfaction of answering.

“I’ve asked you both here,” her brother began as if neither one had spoken, “because I need your help with a matter that requires legal expertise and discretion, as well as a certain amount of subterfuge.”

“Subterfuge?” Esme repeated warily.

“Surely you’re not so naive as to believe the practise of law doesn’t occasionally require some creative espionage,” MacLachlann said, “at least when it comes to finding out facts that some people would prefer to keep buried.”

“I understand there may be facts that need to be ferreted out, but subterfuge sounds illegal,” she protested.

MacLachlann rolled his eyes and looked about to say more, but Jamie spoke first. “It’s not the method I would prefer. However, I fear that in this instance, subterfuge may be the only way to find out what I must,” he said. “Certainly it will likely be the fastest, and the sooner the matter is resolved, the better.”

Esme forced her qualms, along with her dislike of MacLachlann, into a corner of her mind and focused on her brother.

“I had a letter from Edinburgh this morning. Catriona McNare needs my help.”

Esme’s mouth fell open as she stared at her brother. “Lady Catriona McNare asked for your help? After what she did to you?”

Jamie winced before replying. Although she felt her indignation more than justified, she was sorry she hadn’t been more circumspect.

“She needs the help of someone she can trust, and a solicitor’s confidential opinion,” he said. “To whom should she turn but me?”

Anybody except you, Esme thought, remembering the night Catriona McNare had broken her engagement to Jamie.

Poor Jamie’s face had been as white as snow and his eyes full of such mute misery, she’d spent all night outside his bedroom door, afraid he might harm himself.

“There are plenty of solicitors in Edinburgh she could hire,” she said.

A resolutely determined look came to her brother’s usually mild coffee-brown eyes. “Catriona’s asked for my help, and she’s going to get it.”

“Help with what?” MacLachlann asked, reminding Esme that he was still there.

A studious expression had replaced his mocking smirk, and it made an astonishing difference. Not an improvement, exactly, for smirking or otherwise, MacLachlann was a good-looking man. It did, however, hint that there might be some measure of sincerity in him after all.

Probably about a teaspoon’s worth.

“It seems her father has suffered some financial setbacks,” Jamie explained. “Unfortunately the earl won’t confide in her or reveal exactly what he’s been doing with his money or what documents he’s been signing. She’s afraid the situation will get worse unless something is done.

“I would go to Edinburgh myself, but if I arrive and start making inquiries, people will wonder why. Nobody will know you, though, Esme. We didn’t have a chance to introduce you to anybody before …” He hesitated for the briefest of moments. “Before we left for London.”

And a new life, far away from Lady Catriona McNare, the Mistress of Duncombe.

“There’s nobody I trust more when it comes to assessing legal documents than you, Esme,” Jamie continued. “You’ll be able to tell if there’s anything wrong with the ones the earl’s been signing.”

“I suppose you’ll want me to get the documents?” MacLachlann asked.

“I don’t want you to steal them,” Jamie clarified, much to Esme’s relief. “I want you to get Esme into the earl’s house so she can see the documents.”

So much for her relief.

“What exactly do you mean, get me into his house?” Esme demanded. “House-breaking is against the law, punishable by—”

“I don’t mean break into the house,” Jamie interrupted. “I simply want Quinn to help you get near the documents so you can read them.”

“Hence, subterfuge,” MacLachlann supplied.

“But what sort of subterfuge?” Esme persisted.

“We need an excuse to get you into the earl’s house without raising suspicion. If I wouldn’t be welcome there—and I certainly would not—neither would my sister,” Jamie said. “Quinn, you’ve mentioned that your older brother, the Earl of Dubhagen, has been living in the West Indies for the past ten years, although he still keeps a town house in Edinburgh. It’s occurred to me that if he returned to Edinburgh, he’d surely be invited to any fetes or parties or dinners Catriona and her father would host. I’ve heard that all the sons of the Earl of Dubhagen were remarkably similar in appearance, so I thought—”

MacLachlann straightened as if Jamie had slapped him. “You want me to impersonate Augustus?”

“In a word, yes,” Jamie said, “and since your brother is married, you’ll need a wife.”

The full implication of what her brother was proposing hit Esme like a runaway horse.

“No!” she cried as she jumped to her feet, every part of her rebelling at this ludicrous plan and especially at the thought of pretending to be MacLachlann’s wife. “That’s ridiculous! And illegal! There must be some other way. Some legal way to—”

“Perhaps—if we knew what exactly was happening and who’s behind it, if indeed there’s anything illegal going on at all,” Jamie replied with remarkable patience. “It could be that Catriona is mistaken and her father’s losses are simply the result of poor business decisions. If he’s legally competent to make those decisions, there’s nothing she can do. But she has to know, one way or the other, and that’s the assistance I intend to give her—or rather, that I hope you’ll help me to give her.”

“But why must we impersonate anybody?” Esme protested. “MacLachlann is still a nobleman, isn’t he? Wouldn’t he be invited? Couldn’t we say I’m a friend of his family who’s come to visit? Why must we pretend to be other people?”

“I’m a disgraced, disowned nobleman,” MacLachlann said without a hint of shame or remorse. “I can’t move in the same social circles anymore. Augustus and his wife can.”

To her chagrin, he no longer seemed upset or even slightly dismayed by this incredible scheme.

“What if we’re caught?” she demanded. “I’m not going to prison for Catriona McNare!”

“I have no intention of going to prison, either,” MacLachlann said with infuriating calm, “but since it’s my brother I’ll be impersonating, I have no fear of that. As Jamie no doubt took into consideration when he concocted this scheme, Augustus has a holy horror of scandal. He’ll never charge his own brother with a crime. He’d be only too happy to pass it off as some sort of joke on my part.”

Jamie’s little smile and the looks the men exchanged told her that Jamie was, indeed, well aware of this possible outcome.

Nevertheless, that didn’t satisfy Esme. “Your brother might not want to see you imprisoned, but he might have no such qualms about charging me with impersonating his wife.”

“No need to worry, little plum cake,” MacLachlann said with what could be genuine joy. “I know—and can prove—a few things about my dear brother’s past indiscretions that he won’t want revealed to the general public. That should keep you safe from prosecution.”

“Surely people will realize I’m not the earl’s wife.”

“Nobody in Edinburgh’s ever met her,” MacLachlann said. “They met and married in the West Indies.”

He sounded as if he thought there were no more objections to be made, but there were other considerations—important ones, if they would be living together as husband and wife. They would be cohabiting the same house, sharing the same domestic arrangements. People would assume they shared more than that. Who could say what an attractive wastrel like MacLachlann might also assume? That he would be able to …? That she might even be eager?

The thought was … horrifying. Yes, terrible and awful and she would never succumb to any attempted seduction by him, or any man, no matter how handsome or charming he was. “I have no wish to pretend to be your wife, in any capacity or for any reason!” she firmly declared.

MacLachlann coolly raised a brow. “Not even if your brother asks you?”

He had her there, and he knew it. She could see it in his mocking blue eyes.

“Esme,” Jamie quietly interjected. “Never mind. I can see my plan isn’t going to work.”

Her brother came to her and took her hands in his. Only once before had Esme seen such an expression of defeat in Jamie’s eyes, and this time, she had put it there. “I know I’m asking a tremendous boon, so if you refuse, I won’t blame you. Quinn and I will find another way to get the information we seek.”

Yes, they probably could—but it might be another way that would send Jamie to Edinburgh and bring him back into Lady Catriona’s orbit, to have his heart broken again, or that old wound reopened.

To be sure, Jamie’s plan was not without risk, and she didn’t want to help Lady Catriona McNare, but how could she deny his request when he had never asked anything of her before? He was the only family she had. Their mother had died of a fever two days after giving her birth and their father of heart trouble when she was twelve and Jamie an eighteen-year-old solicitor’s clerk. Not only that, he allowed her liberties few other men would. What was this risk when measured against all that he had done for her and the way he let her almost practise law? “Very well, Jamie, I’ll do it.”

MacLachlann picked a piece of lint from his lapel. “Now that that’s all settled, I’ll write to my brother’s solicitor informing him that the Earl of Dubhagen has decided to return to Edinburgh and ask him to hire suitable servants, as well as see that the house is made ready for our arrival.

“Your sister’s going to need some new clothes,” he added, addressing Jamie as if she wasn’t there. “Her current wardrobe is hardly suitable for an earl’s wife.”

Esme opened her mouth to protest, then realized his observation might have some merit. While her clothes were clean, tidy and serviceable, an earl’s wife would have more fashionable garments made of more expensive material.

“Esme will have plenty of new clothes,” Jamie assured MacLachlann as he went to his desk and pulled out a book of cheques. “You should, too. I’ll also pay for the hire of a coach to take you to Edinburgh, and you’ll have some household expenses, as well.”

He wrote out a cheque, the size of which made Esme gasp. Jamie was in charge of their finances and always had been, so she knew little of that part of his business, yet although he had always been generous with her pin money and paid the household expenses without complaining, she’d tried to keep house as frugally as possible. Then to see him hand over so much money to a man like MacLachlann …!

Even more frustrating, when MacLachlann took the cheque, the man didn’t so much as bat an eye at the amount.

Instead, he tugged his forelock and said, “Thank you, sir! When are we to depart on this mission?”

“Do you think you can be ready in a week?”

“I can. The question is, can my charming wife?”

Esme ground her teeth and reminded herself that she must put up with MacLachlann’s insolence for Jamie’s sake. “I’ll be ready.”

“The coach and driver will be waiting at our house in a week,” Jamie said. “Come as early in the day as you can to get a good start on the journey.”

“I hear and obey,” MacLachlann replied as he strolled to the door, then turned back and gave them a theatrical bow. “And so, my little plum cake and dearest, bogus brother-in-law, I bid you adieu until we depart for Edinburgh. I only wish I could take my lovely bride to the ancestral seat in the Highlands, but alas, I fear time will not permit.”

The scoundrel was enjoying this far, far too much!

“Careful, my love,” MacLachlann said as he straightened, “lest your face remain permanently in that most unflattering expression.”

Then, with another aggravating smirk, he sauntered out of the room.

Esme immediately turned to confront her brother, but before she could say anything, he spoke with heartfelt sincerity. “I do appreciate you’re taking a risk for me, Esme, and I’m more grateful than words can express.”

Her frustration diminished; nevertheless, she had to voice her concern. “That was a lot of money to simply hand over to such a man, Jamie.”

“It will be well spent and if there’s anything left over, duly returned to me,” her brother replied.

He went to his desk, opened the top drawer and took out a ledger she’d never seen before. “Quinn keeps excellent account of everything he spends when he’s doing a job for me, so I know where every ha’penny has gone. Here, see for yourself.”

He opened the leather-bound book and turned it toward her. On the ruled lines were itemized expenses written in a hand even neater than her own.

On the surface, the list looked extraordinarily complete, down to a loaf of bread and pint of ale for a dinner. And yet … “How can you be sure that was how the money was spent?” she asked.

“Receipts. He gives me receipts, for everything. I have them here.” Jamie opened another drawer and took out a large folder full of pieces of paper of various sizes and in various conditions. Some looked as if they’d been crumbled into a ball, others seemed quite pristine.

“Very well, he may be fiscally responsible,” she conceded, “but there are other elements of his character, of his past, that are far from exemplary.”

“There’s no denying that he’s made mistakes in his past, as he’ll fully acknowledge. But he’s committed no crime and the only person he ever harmed by his actions has been himself.”

Esme pushed the folder back to her brother. “Yet his own family has cast him out, have they not?”

“It’s their loss more than his. His was a most unhappy childhood, Esme.”

“His family are rich and titled. Many people grow up in far more terrible conditions, yet don’t lose their money gambling or waste their days in idleness and drinking to excess.”

“A boy raised with wealth can still be lonely and miserable,” her brother observed. “And he never uses his childhood as an excuse. Indeed, he very rarely speaks of it. I found more out about his family from other friends at school than I ever did from him.”

Jamie put the ledger back in the drawer and raised his eyes to regard her steadily. “While he gambled and drank too much, that was in the past. He’s been absolutely trustworthy and done everything I’ve ever asked of him, and well.” Her brother sat on the edge of his desk. “He feels remorse, too, although he rarely shows it. Do you know where I found him that night I brought him home?”

She shook her head.

“On Tower Bridge. He never said what he was doing there, but the way he was standing there, looking down at the water …” Jamie shook his head before turning to stare out the window, unseeing. “I don’t think he was taking the air, and if I hadn’t been searching for him and found him …”

Quintus MacLachlann had been about to kill himself? She found it difficult to accept that a man of such vitality would ever seek to end his existence.

“Thank God I did find him, and I’ve been more than glad ever since,” Jamie said as he pushed himself off the desk.

He looked back at Esme and studied her face. “Is that all you’re worried about, Esme? Or do you think he might try to take liberties with you? If so, rest assured that he won’t. He’s had … well, there have been women in his life, I know, but he’s never been cruel or lascivious. If I thought there was any chance of that, I’d never let you go with him, especially in the guise of his wife. Besides, if there’s a woman alive who’s immune to any man’s attempted seduction, it’s you.”

Yes, she would be immune to any man’s seductive efforts, especially those of a man who teased and mocked her.

Jamie put his hands on her shoulders as he looked deeply into her eyes. “You can trust him, Esme. Please believe me when I say that beneath Quinn’s devil-may-care exterior is a good, honest man, or I’d never have suggested you go to Edinburgh with him.”

Esme nodded her head. She wanted to believe Jamie. She wanted to believe she was going to Edinburgh for a just cause with a trustworthy man.

But she really wished neither Catriona McNare nor Quintus MacLachlann had ever been born.

Chapter Two

A week later and attired in new trousers and Wellington boots, a shirt of brilliantly white linen, black silk cravat, double-breasted vest in a black-and-gray horizontal-striped satin, black woollen jacket, and an equally new bottle-green greatcoat with three capes, the formerly Honorable Quintus Aloysius Hamish MacLachlann strolled up the street toward Jamie McCallan’s town house, a valise bumping against his thigh.

Jamie’s home was a well-kept little establishment on the edge of Mayfair, close enough to impress the ton, but far enough away to be affordable if a man made a good living, as Jamie obviously did.

As Quinn trotted up the steps to the front door and raised the polished brass knocker in the shape of a thistle, the curtain at the front bow window shifted. The movement was barely noticeable, yet it was enough to suggest that somebody was keeping watch.

Esme, no doubt. The woman was like a prison guard. She was also beyond prejudiced, always ready to believe the worst of him, regardless of any evidence to the contrary and despite the necessary work he did for her beloved brother.

Since she thought him beneath contempt, was it any wonder he was always tempted to say outrageous things to her? To tease and mock and goad her until she gave him the edge of her sharp and clever tongue?

Jamie’s butler, a tall, slender fellow of indeterminate age, opened the door and took Quinn’s hat and valise. “They’re waiting for you in the drawing room, sir.”

“Thank you,” Quinn briskly replied, darting a passing glance at his reflection in the pier glass in the spotlessly clean foyer. In this rig he did look like his brother, certainly enough that the ruse should work.

He’d never imagined Jamie had such a devious streak. Well, there had been hints of it at school, he supposed. A few times Jamie had gone with him to sneak a bit of food from the buttery, and once even told him when the cook would be away, but he’d never gotten drunk on the cooking sherry, or cheated on tests, or lied to the headmaster.

The drawing room was as neat and tidy as the foyer. It was simply, but tastefully, furnished, with nary a figurine or knickknack in sight. He had never seen a speck of dust or dirt in either Jamie’s home or office. He suspected even dust and dirt were too intimidated by his sister to linger. Books there were in plenty, however, and what furniture there was had been well-crafted. The camelback sofa and chairs were worn, but comfortable, and the mantel—

Esme stood by the mantel, but Esme as he’d never seen or imagined her. Her eyes were downcast, her dark eyelashes fanning over smooth, pink cheeks and her slender, yet shapely, figure encased in a well-fitting traveling gown of soft pale blue wool. The bodice, bordered by a band of scarlet ribbon, accentuated perfect breasts. Glossy, chestnut-brown tresses were beneath a charming bonnet decorated with small scarlet rosettes, and a few even more charming tendrils of soft curls fell upon her cheek and neck.

She looked young, pretty, fresh, modest—the very picture of Youthful Femininity, until she raised her head and glared at him with irate hazel eyes, her bow-shaped lips turning down in an equally irate frown.

“Although I see you at least remembered to shave, you’re late,” she snapped, running an imperious gaze over him.

He sauntered farther into the room, just as fiercely determined to prevent her from seeing that he was even remotely disturbed by her disapproval. “I went to a barber, so now my cheeks are as smooth as silk. Care to feel?”

“Certainly not!” Esme exclaimed before she abruptly turned away.

But she was blushing, and she’d lowered her eyes again, as if she was tempted to touch him but didn’t dare.

Good God, could Esme McCallan secretly want to touch him? This was a most interesting development and one definitely worth exploring. “You look lovely, Esme.”

“I’ll thank you to keep your unwelcome remarks to yourself!”

“You’re the first woman I’ve ever met who didn’t appreciate a compliment.”

“If I thought there was any sincerity to your observations, I might be flattered.”

Despite her contempt, he tried again. “I am being sincere. You look very nice. I never realized what a difference a change of clothes could make.”

She whirled around to face him.

And then, a miracle. She smiled—a warm and genuine smile. His heart leapt with what might be joy, although it had been a long time since he’d felt anything like true happiness, so he could be wrong.

“Jamie,” she said, walking past him.

She’d been smiling at her brother, who had entered the room behind him.

Of course. He must have been momentarily mad to think Esme would ever smile at him like that, and he must not be disappointed. After all, there were plenty of other women who were eager for his attention.

“I’m sorry I’m late, Jamie,” he said before Esme could condemn him. “I was delayed by the tailor.”

“Never mind. There’s still plenty of time to get out of London and a good distance before dark,” Jamie replied. “The money was well spent, I see.”

“So was yours. I confess I had my doubts about your sister’s ability to pass for a titled young lady, but in those clothes, I think she could.”

“How delightful that my garments meet with your approval,” Esme said coldly. “Now might I suggest we be on our way? The sooner we reach Edinburgh, the sooner we can conclude our business and return.”

Quinn couldn’t agree more.

As the hired town coach rattled along the road north, Quinn didn’t bother to hide his scowl or attempt to make conversation. Why should he exert himself with a woman who was so obviously determined to detest him?

Water from the puddles left by the heavy rain the previous night splashed up nearly to the windows, and the sky was dull and overcast, with a brisk breeze that did nothing to add to the comfort of the coach.

“If you slouch any more, you’ll ruin your greatcoat,” Esme noted as the heavy vehicle upholstered with striped worsted jostled over yet another rut in the road. “It must have cost my brother a pretty penny.”

“I doubt it cost more than the pelisse you’re wearing and probably less,” he replied, sliding a little lower on the seat just to spite her. “I’d wager my whole wardrobe cost less than one of your gowns, and I have the receipts to prove it.”

She gave him a haughty look. “I know how to drive a bargain.”

“I’m sure a look from you can freeze the marrow of a modiste’s bones and convince her to work at a loss,” he agreed. “I, however, believe in paying for a job well done.”

“I only want my money’s worth.”

“Your brother’s money’s worth,” he pointed out.

That brought a flush of pink to Esme’s cheeks. “If women could have a profession, I’d have been a solicitor, too, and gladly earned my own income.”

She’d probably be as good a solicitor as her brother, Quinn mentally conceded. She might be one of the most unpleasant women on the face of the earth, but he couldn’t deny her legal expertise.

“I think you’d be a better barrister,” he said, and that was no lie. “I can easily imagine you interrogating a witness on the stand.”

She frowned, clearly not pleased with his comment. “Solicitors do all the real legal work, the preparation and research, while barristers unfairly reap the glory—the way noble landlords reap the benefits of their tenants’ labor, even if those landlords are wasteful, drunken gamblers.”

God give him patience! And the remembrance that he himself had made her criticism possible. Nevertheless … “Unless you want the servants to gossip about our marriage, you’re going to have to at least pretend to like me when we get to Edinburgh.”

“I see no reason why,” Esme replied. “There are plenty of unhappy marriages in Britain. Ours can simply be another.”

“Not if we’re to be invited to balls and parties and things, and we should be, so we can find out if other gentlemen are experiencing financial woes, or if that’s unique to the earl.”

Esme shook her head. “I rather think the opposite. A squabbling couple is sure to be an object of curiosity and if people think we’ll give them something to talk about, we’ll be more likely to be invited. Haven’t you noticed that people are more curious about a quarrelling, bickering couple than a happy one?”

“If that’s the case, the hatred you harbor for me is indeed fortunate and we stand an excellent chance of being the most popular couple in Edinburgh.”

“I don’t hate you, MacLachlann,” Esme said with infuriating composure. “I’d have to care about you to hate you.”

It was like a slap to his face, or a blow to his heart, to hear her calm dismissal of him. But he would die before he’d allow himself to show that she—or anyone—could hurt him.

“Whatever you think about me, Miss McCallan,” he said just as coolly, “your brother’s asked for my help and he’s going to get it. It would make that task easier for us both if you would refrain from condemning me every time you speak to me. And while I don’t expect you to respect me, can you not at least cooperate? If not, we should return to London.”

Esme got a stubborn glint in her eye. “I am cooperating, or I wouldn’t be here.” She took a deep breath and smoothed down her skirts. “However, I agree that continued animosity will not be beneficial to our task. Therefore, let us begin again.”

He kept his relief hidden, too, even as he wondered exactly what she meant by “beginning again.”

“If I’m supposed to be your wife, I should learn more about your family. As it is, all I know is that your father was an earl and your older brother is the heir. Have you any other siblings?”

Of all subjects, his family was the last one he ever wished to discuss. Unfortunately, she had made a point that he couldn’t refute—she should know something of his family history. “I had three more brothers—Marcus, who was the second oldest, then Claudius and Julius. Marcus died in the war with France, Claudius died of a fever in Canada and Julius fell from his horse and broke his neck when he was sixteen. I had a sister, but she died in infancy before I was born.”

If he were looking at any other woman, her expression at that moment might indicate sympathy. However, since it was Esme, her furrowed brow probably meant she was simply memorizing the information.

“And your oldest brother’s name is Augustus?”

“My father had an unfortunate love of Latin and Roman history.”

“So he called his fifth son Quintus.”

“Yes.”

“A name you dislike quite intensely, to judge by that expression.”

“Not just the name. I had little love for my father—and he for me.”

“I’m sorry.”

She actually sounded sincere.

“Don’t be,” he said sharply. If there was one thing he didn’t want from Esme McCallan, it was pity. He didn’t miss his family. He’d always been too different from them—too spirited, too full of life to exist in their staid world of hunting and shooting, exchanging tales of fish caught, pheasants downed and stags sighted. He’d yearned for something different—life in Town, a vibrant, colorful, exciting existence. Expensive. Sensual. Seductive. “I found ample compensation as I grew older.”

“With women, I suppose.”

He very much doubted Esme would ever understand why a man would try to console himself in the arms of a woman, even if it provided only a fleeting moment of pleasure and forgetfulness.

He couldn’t even imagine Esme naked in a man’s arms, kissing him, stroking, making love with sighs and moans and whispered endearments, writhing and passionate, crying out at the moment of climax.

Actually, he could.

Which was a very disconcerting discovery.

“How old is Augustus?” she asked, startling him out of his stunned reverie.

“Forty-five.”

“Which makes you …?”

“Thirty.”

She nodded thoughtfully, and he noted that she didn’t seem to find it impossible that he could pass for a man fifteen years his senior.

What did it matter if she thought he looked older than he was? “His wife is twenty-seven. It’s fortunate you can easily pass for that.”

She didn’t seem the least bit upset by his observation.

On the other hand, maybe he shouldn’t be surprised by her lack of reaction. He’d never met a woman less vain of her looks. “She was seventeen when they married,” he added. “Augustus always liked his women young.”

Esme didn’t look nonplussed by that, either. “They have no children?”

“Not yet, but if I know Augustus, it isn’t for lack of trying.”

A spark of interest lit Esme’s hazel eyes, which gave him another shock. He’d expected her to react with prim condescension, disgusted by the mere suggestion of the physical relations between a husband and wife.

“What was in the marriage contract?” she asked eagerly. “There was one, I assume.”

He should have known it wasn’t the sexual nature of a relationship that excited her, but the legal. Still, it was rather interesting watching her when she was talking about the law and her hazel eyes became vibrantly, intelligently alive. He could easily envision her brain as a sort of well-oiled machine, all whirring gears and levers.

But as for any marriage settlement or contract his brother might have made … “I have no idea. Nor do I care.”

She frowned. “You should. If he dies before you and there are no children, the inheritance—”

“I won’t get a penny and the title will probably go to my cousin Freddy. I was disinherited, remember?”

Finally something dulled those shining eyes.

“I should mention that my brother prefers his women pliant and ignorant, so his wife is likely as uninformed and stupid a young woman as you’re ever likely to meet.”

“Oh?” Esme replied as if about to write a treatise on the MacLachlanns. “Is that a family trait?”

Once more feeling the need to be on the offensive, MacLachlann inched forward so that their knees were nearly touching. “I prefer intelligent women who know what they want and aren’t afraid to ask for it. In fact, intelligent women who are interested in the law fascinate me.”

Especially if the woman regarding him had shining hazel eyes in a pretty, heart-shaped face, with full lips and soft cheeks, and her head proudly poised above a slender, yet shapely body, the proximity of which was proving more of a temptation than he ever would have expected.

An expression flashed in Esme’s bright eyes, but it was gone before he could tell what it was, and the rest of her expression didn’t alter. “I don’t believe you.”

He sat back and laughed as if she were right.

Esme gave a long-suffering sigh. “If we are to work together, you should cease attempting meaningless, flirtatious banter or trying to elicit a reaction from me. Simply convey the information I require if people are to believe you are Augustus and I am your wife.”

Despite his increasing frustration and his own resolve to remember that she hated him, suspicion was not what was being aroused.

“For instance,” she briskly continued, clearly and blessedly ignorant of her effect upon him, “what did your family call you? Quinn? Quintus?”

“Several epithets I don’t care to remember. Since we’re going to be husband and wife, you’d better start referring to me as ‘my lord’ or some form of Dubhagen.”

“Pretending to be husband and wife,” she immediately corrected.

Of course she would want to be precise.

A different sort of expression came to those hazel orbs. Almost … mischievous.

“Dooey,” she declared. “After Doo-agen,” she unnecessarily clarified.

He knew how the name of his family’s title and estate was pronounced.

But Dooey sounded like some sort of dim-witted beast. “You can call me Dubhagen, or my lord. If you call me anything else, I’ll ignore you—or refer to you as my little haggis.”

As he expected, she didn’t like that. “Very well, my lord,” she grudgingly conceded. “What is your sister-in-law’s name?”

This was going to be interesting. “Hortense.”

Esme reared back against the squabs, then her eyes narrowed. “Is it really, or are you just saying that to upset me?”

“It really is,” he honestly admitted. “However, I think it would be best if we avoided the use of first names, even in private. That way, should our ruse be discovered prematurely, nobody can say we were using their names.

“I could call you Horsey,” he proposed as if seriously considering it, although her features were not at all horse-like. “Or my little plum cake.”

He had called her that last Christmas to tease her, but now, when he considered how delectable she looked, it seemed rather fitting.

Good God, had he just thought of Esme McCallan as delectable?

She glared at him as if she could kill him where he slouched. “If you do, I shall call you my dearest ducky.”

Eager to get his feelings back to normal, he not only took up the challenge, but he also upped the ante. “I could call you my sweet encumbrance.”

“My darling incarceration.”

He frowned and sat up straighter. “My beloved shackles.”

She shifted forward, as if being nearer to him spurred her imaginative efforts. “My handsome millstone.”

He told himself not to notice how pretty she looked, or think about her rosy lips, or how it would be to have her looking up at him with desire instead of annoyance.

Or how his traitorous body was responding to her excitement, her appearance and her proximity. “My adorable … punishment.”

“My wonderful pestilence.”

“My dearest—”

“I’ve used that already!” she cried, eyes aglow and full of triumph.

There seemed only one way to snatch victory from defeat—a way that was simply too tempting to resist.

He took hold of her face with his gloved hands and kissed her right on the mouth.

Never had Quintus MacLachlann felt such an immediate, powerful jolt of desire as the one that hit him the moment his lips touched hers. It was like being struck by liquid passion, hot and all-encompassing, enveloping him and filling the air around them.

He would never have guessed how soft and kissable Esme McCallan’s mouth might be. He’d had no idea how much he’d want to keep kissing her, for as long as he could.

Or that he wanted to be the only man who ever kissed her.

But so it was, as he moved his mouth over hers in a hired coach lumbering northward toward Scotland.

Chapter Three

Esme had never been so confused and disconcerted in her life.

Quintus MacLachlann was kissing her and it wasn’t terrible. His mouth was on hers intimately, his lips gently gliding over hers, and she didn’t find the sensation repellent.

Indeed, it was completely intoxicating, as if she’d imbibed the entire contents of Jamie’s brandy bottle in one gulp.

She’d never been kissed before. Never once, in all her life. No man had ever wanted to, or dared. Only MacLachlann—the rogue who’d probably kissed a thousand women in his time, and with no more genuine affection than he’d bestow on a horse or dog he found of use.

Shame and disgust at her own weakness drove Esme backward. Indignation at his bold, disgraceful act followed just as swiftly.

“How dare you?” she demanded as she retreated to the farthest corner of the coach. “You … you … cur! Don’t you ever do that again! If you do, I shall write to my brother immediately and you’ll never work for him again!”

Instead of being upset, MacLachlann crossed his arms and regarded her with mild amusement. “I hardly think a simple kiss is cause for such an extreme reaction.”

His unrepentant, cavalier attitude cut her to the quick—until she realized it was another proof of his degeneracy. “It was a kiss that I did not want, did not invite and did not enjoy. It was also an affront to my dignity, as well as a sign of gross disrespect.”

The man grinned. “Good God, all that? Was it treason, too?”

“How would you like it if I reached over and started pawing at you?”

“Why don’t you try it and we’ll see?”

She was horrified, appalled, disgusted—and tempted, which was surely wrong and sinful.

“Or do you fear for your virtue?” he asked. “If so, rest assured you’re the last woman in England I would ever want to seduce.”

“As if you’d have any hope of succeeding!”

“Careful, Miss McCallan,” he replied with a leer she wanted to slap off his face. “I like a challenge.”

“You disgusting, vain oaf! Even the thought of you touching me makes my skin crawl! You are impossible! I should order this coach to turn around at once.”

The sardonic amusement disappeared from Mac-Lachlann’s face. “Are you forgetting that Jamie is counting on us? Is that how you’d repay him for all he’s done for you? I can’t think of one man in a thousand who’d let his sister take such a place in his life, let alone his business.”

He was right. Nevertheless, so was she. “Then I must insist that in the future, you treat me with respect, not like one of your dockside dollies.”

“Although I admit I made an error by acting without warning, I don’t consort with prostitutes,” he said without a hint of remorse or apology. “And if we’re to pass as Augustus and his wife, you had better get used to the occasional spontaneous kiss. The men in my family are known for their passion and public displays of affection. If I don’t ever touch you when we are in public, people will surely wonder why.”

As if she were that naive. He was just trying to find an excuse for whatever lustful impulse seized him. “I don’t believe you.”

“Why else would I kiss you?” he countered.

Since this was Quintus MacLachlann, who enjoyed teasing and tormenting her, it couldn’t be because he found her attractive. There had to be another reason, and she found it. “To silence me in the only way a man of your ilk would, because I was besting you in an argument.”

His expression told her she’d guessed correctly, which was … No, she wouldn’t find it disappointing. Not when the man who’d kissed her was Quintus MacLachlann.

And then a slow smile spread across his face. “Which just goes to prove my point. My brother is of the same ilk, Miss McCallan, and he would use the same method to silence his wife in a similar situation.”

“If that is true,” she sceptically replied, “we should have a signal of some sort, so I can steel myself in preparation for your assaults. Otherwise, I’m liable to recoil in horror.”

His dark brows lowered and his lips turned down in a frown. “You enjoyed that kiss or you would have stopped me the moment I touched you. Don’t try to deny it. We both know it’s true.”

It was true, as Esme well knew, yet to acknowledge the veracity of his statement would be to give him the upper hand, and that she would not do. He was, after all, a man and men believed they had every right to rule over women. Moreover, he was a very virile, powerful, confident man whose kiss had completely overwhelmed her reason. She must take care that such a thing never happened again or he would no doubt try to take command of the entire enterprise. And her. “I cannot deny that you have a facility in that regard, MacLachlann, and one I found momentarily interesting. However, I am not like the sort of women with whom you usually consort. I suggest you remember that and give me some sort of indication that you are about to embrace me before you again take such liberties in the name of verisimilitude.”

MacLachlann folded his arms and regarded her with his usual and infuriating insolence. “How about a wink?”

“Hardly subtle, although my brother seems to think you are a paragon of discretion.”

“I am,” he replied. “Otherwise, you would know all about my private life, which you don’t.”

“I have no wish to know about your private life.”

Despite her honest response, she couldn’t deny that she’d sometimes wondered where he lived and with whom he passed his leisure time, especially after he’d spent an evening with Jamie and she had heard them laughing in the library. MacLachlann had an attractive laugh, rich and deep and merry.

“I shall look at you like this,” he said, bringing her back to the present.

Was it possible for a look to raise one’s body temperature? How else to explain the rush of heat that overtook her as he regarded her with an expression of apparently genuine desire?

She definitely didn’t want to encourage that. “If that’s the best you can do, I suggest something else.”

As she expected, that loving expression died instantly, replaced with mocking insouciance. “How else do you propose I convey the full measure of my desire for my wife?”

“By treating her with courtesy and respect,” Esme returned. “That is how a gentleman shows his regard for his wife.”

“Or his mother, or his sovereign,” he replied. “A man should show a little something more passionate toward his wife, don’t you think? Or maybe you don’t, in which case I shall pity your husband, if you ever get one.”

His words stung, because she secretly did want to marry, and have children, too. But she wasn’t about to let him discover any chink in her armor. “If you must demonstrate your spousal affection in company, a simple kiss on the cheek will suffice.”

“Very well,” he conceded with a shrug—and to Esme’s vast relief. “A little peck on the cheek it will be.”

Then he turned to look out the window and said not another word.

Quinn was glad Esme stayed silent for the rest of that stage of their journey. He didn’t want to endure another quarrel with her, or be bombarded by her caustic observations. It was enough that she’d made it clear that pretending to be his wife was something she considered abhorrent. As for that kiss … Although she’d reacted as if he’d ravished her right there on the seat, she’d responded with shocking passion, at least at first.

He would not imagine making love with Esme McCallan right here on the seat, her body against his as he thrust, hot and hard, driving them both to ecstasy.

God help him, what was wrong with him? Was he fatigued? Feverish?

Really that lonely?

Fortunately, they had only a few more miles to go before the coach entered the yard of an inn in Stamford through its high, arched gate. It was a bustling, busy, half-timbered place, with guests, servants, grooms, stable boys and maids going about their work. Vines covered the stone wall surrounding the yard and straggled around the edges. Large stone troughs stood filled and ready, and smoke billowed from the chimneys of the public rooms and kitchen. Although it was not yet evening, the glow of the windows foretold bright lamps, warmth and candles within.

Glad it was no longer raining, Quinn dutifully helped Esme disembark from the coach, as their roles demanded. Meanwhile, the innkeeper, a thin, sallow fellow in plain homespun jacket, neatly tied cravat, white shirt and dark trousers, rushed toward them. A beefier servant in a yoked smock appeared from the stable and started to take their baggage from the boot.

“Good day, good day!” the innkeeper cried, making a swift survey of their clothes and the coach. Quinn didn’t doubt the middle-aged man could gauge the value of their garments and equipage almost to the penny. “Staying the night, sir?”

“Yes,” Quinn replied with his most charming smile. “My wife and I require two rooms.”

The innkeeper frowned and rubbed his nearly bald pate. “Two, eh? I’m sorry to say, sir, we’re nearly full up. I have only one room left that’ll be good enough for you and your wife.”

That was a problem.

“I’m sure one will be sufficient,” Esme replied sweetly, slipping her arm through Quinn’s.

It took a mighty effort not to stare at her, for he’d never in his life guessed Esme McCallan could sound so docile and demure. As for the sensation of her arm in his and the possibility of sharing a room …

Gad, how long had it been since he’d made love to a woman? Too long, clearly. What else could explain the way his body seemed to leap to life the instant the scornful, prudish miss, who never looked at him except to frown, touched him? She could barely tolerate him, while he’d been more excited by that one kiss, and now this touch, than by a practised courtesan’s most seductive efforts.

Determined to act as if he wasn’t aroused and their relationship was perfectly ordinary, he patted her gloved hand. “Yes, one will be quite all right. Please show us to the room and have our baggage brought up. And we’ll require a supper, of course.” He’d already decided on one point of procedure for this part of their journey and saw no need to change it. “We’ll dine in our room.”

Esme’s grip tightened. He ignored that, and her, as they followed the innkeeper across the yard, through the door and into the crowded taproom. Not surprisingly, several of those inside turned to watch the new arrivals and more than one of the men regarded Esme with open admiration.

He could guess what they were thinking—that she was lovely and desirable. That they’d gladly bed her, if they could only have the chance.

A rush of primal possessiveness filled him and he glared at them all as if they were thieves attempting to steal his most valuable possession.

Not that Esme needed that sort of assistance. She could cut a man down to size with a look, or a few sharp words. Indeed, he’d pay good money to witness that … except she couldn’t see them. That fancy bonnet she was wearing was like blinkers on a horse, shielding her from their attention, and him from seeing her face.

“Here you go, madam, sir,” the innkeeper said after they’d gone up the stairs and he opened the door to a small, but comfortably appointed room. Although there was a commode and a washstand with plenty of fresh linen, most of the space was taken up by a large curtained bed that looked at least two hundred years old. “When would you like supper?”

“Eight o’clock,” Quinn replied as Esme walked over to the small, mullioned window and looked out at the yard. “We’ll breakfast at six.”

“Right you are, my lord. Boots outside the door for cleaning, if you like.”

“Thank you.”

With a nod, the innkeeper went out and closed the door, leaving Quintus MacLachlann alone in a room with a large, probably very comfortable bed.

And a beautiful woman who hated him.

Out of the corner of her eye Esme watched MacLachlann stroll toward the curtained bed covered with a brown woollen blanket. He pushed down on it as if checking its softness … or stability.

Good heavens, surely he didn’t think …! “You will, of course, be sleeping on the floor tonight,” she said as she turned to face him.

MacLachlann flopped on the bed like a landed fish and cushioned his head with his hands while crossing his long legs. He still had his boots on, too—the typical behavior of a selfish, inconsiderate man who thought only of his own comfort and not of the person who would have to clean the covering.

“Have you forgotten we’re supposed to be married?” he asked, as if she was stupid.

Her hands balled into fists as she turned back to glare at the massive oak tree at the edge of the yard. How she’d dearly love to wipe that smug, arrogant grin from his face! “Supposed to be, but most definitely are not. You’re the last man on earth I’d ever want to—”

A vision popped into her head, of Quintus MacLachlann in that same pose and place, naked and smiling with a come-hither look in his eye.

“Ever want to what?” he prompted, his voice low and husky and rather close, too.

She stiffened. Had he gotten off the bed?

Wherever he was, she didn’t want to let him know she was curious about him in any way, so she didn’t even move her head to glance in the small framed mirror over the washstand to try to locate him.

“Ever want to marry,” she continued. “If you’re the best I can hope for, I’ll gladly be a spinster. You’re far too insolent, rude, crude and barbaric, as exemplified by your behavior in the coach.”

“I assume you’re referring to the kiss.”

Of course she was. How could he possibly think that kiss was appropriate, or that she would enjoy such an unwelcome familiarity?

Except that she had. Far, far too much. Even now she couldn’t stop thinking about it and wondering if she’d feel that same surge of longing and excitement if he did it again. “I’m also referring to your impudent manner of speaking. And slouching.”

“Saints preserve me!” he cried with a mockery that was impertinence personified. “I had no idea that even my posture was damning me in your fine eyes!”

Determined not to be cowed or intimidated by him, she turned into the room, to find him only about two feet away, looking like the epitome of a Handsome Gentleman—except that he was no gentleman, as she well knew.

Nor was she a trollop or loose woman. She was Jamie McCallan’s sister and a virtuous woman, and she expected to be treated with respect. “Your language is most inappropriate, as was that kiss.”

“Inappropriate, but enjoyable.”

“For you perhaps, but not for me.”

His eyes seemed to glitter with feline satisfaction and his smile would have done credit to a satyr. “Liar.”

“You are insufferable!” she declared, turning her back to him and wrapping her arms around herself.

“You liked it when I kissed you.”

She glared at the window. “Leave me alone.”

“I liked it, too.”

She mustn’t listen. Anything he said couldn’t be taken at face value, and any feelings a man like MacLachlann aroused must be suspect. Despite his new apparel and clean-shaven appearance that had suddenly and vividly reminded her that he was the son of an earl, he was still a disgrace and a scoundrel who had probably seduced scores of women. That was what she must remember, not the yearning she felt when his lips slid softly over hers. “Go away!”

“You don’t mean that.”

“I assure you, I do!”

There was a knock on the door.

Grateful for the interruption, Esme darted past MacLachlann and opened the door, to find the beefy servant waiting with her trunk full of new clothes on his back.

“Please put that at the foot of the bed,” she directed.

Another servant, twice the weight and age of the first, followed with MacLachlann’s much smaller valise. “Put that beside my wife’s baggage,” he said, reaching into his pocket for a few coins. He gave them to the men, who tugged their forelocks, then departed.

Ignoring MacLachlann, Esme pulled off her bonnet, set it on the dressing table and started to tug the pins from her hair. She would feel better when her hair was down; she always did.

She realized he was watching her. “Must you stare at me?”

His lips lifted in another of his insolent grins. “Make you anxious, do I?”

“It’s rude.”

“If you’re going to criticize me for staring,” he said, “you shouldn’t look at a man the way you were looking at me this morning.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You were looking at me as if you were imagining what I looked like naked.”

“I was not!” she exclaimed—and she hadn’t been. When he first entered the drawing room, she’d been thinking that he looked even more handsome in his new clothes and freshly shaven. It would surely increase his considerable vanity if she admitted that, though, so instead she told a partial truth. “I was worried about this journey and what we have to accomplish.”

“You don’t find me handsome?”

What a conceited question! He didn’t deserve an honest answer. “No.”

Instead of looking suitably quashed, his lips curved up in the most devilish, triumphant smile she’d ever seen as he moved toward her. “One of my particular skills is being able to tell when somebody’s not being completely honest and forthcoming, and you, Miss McCallan, are not.”

She backed away. “I was not picturing you completely nude this morning.”

She had later, but not that morning.

“Not completely nude?”

“Yes! No, that is …” She hit the windowsill and could go no farther. “You stay away from me! Don’t you dare kiss me!”

With a look that combined astonished innocence with devilish satisfaction, he spread his arms. “Miss McCallan, I assure you I have absolutely no intention of kissing you again—unless you’d like me to, of course. Then I place no limits on my actions.”

“You … you … you!” She jabbed her finger at him as if that would ward him away. “Stay back or I’ll call for help!”

He didn’t move, and his smile turned into a leer. “You could call for help, but we’re supposed to be husband and wife, remember? That gives me the right to do whatever I like with you.”

At his arrogant, yet ignorant, answer, a thrill of triumph surged through her. “No, it does not. Among other things, the Habeas Corpus Act of 1679 renders it illegal for a husband to imprison his wife in order to force conjugal relations.”

That sobered him, and his leer became a scowl. “I suppose if any woman alive can be counted on to know such a thing, it’s you. Fortunately for us both, I wasn’t going to kiss you.”

“Now who’s lying?” she charged, even though she had no idea if that was really his intention, or not. “Not that it would be a compliment if you were,” she added primly. “You would probably kiss almost any woman over fifteen and under seventy, and for the most minor of reasons.”

“While you’ll probably never be kissed again!” he retorted as he turned on his heel and went out, slamming the door behind him like the arrogant, spoiled wastrel he was.

Even if he kissed like a tender, compassionate lover.

Chapter Four

“I’ ve brought your supper, madam,” a man called out from behind the closed door of the bedroom of the inn sometime later.

MacLachlann hadn’t returned and Esme wouldn’t have been surprised to learn he intended to remain below for the entire night.

“Come,” she replied, setting the law book on the table beside her chair near the window. After MacLachlann’s childish exit, she’d decided to brush up on the differences between Scottish and English law so she would be prepared. She certainly wasn’t going to waste any time pondering MacLachlann’s mental state, or any abilities—sexual or otherwise—he might possess.

Then MacLachlann himself strolled into the room. He was carrying a large tray holding covered dishes, as if he were a waiter.

This was hardly the behavior of a nobleman, and one possible explanation instantly came to mind—except that he didn’t appear to be drunk. Indeed, his gait was remarkably steady, as if the tray and its burden weighed next to nothing.

Not sure what to say or do, she picked up her book and got out of the way so he could put the tray on the table.

“You’re going to ruin your eyes reading in the dark,” he said evenly, and as if they hadn’t quarrelled earlier.

If he was going to ignore what had happened, so could she. “It was still light enough to read. And I note an earl would hardly carry a tray.”

“He does if he’s hungry. I also told them that I wanted to make up for a silly quarrel with my wife.”

That would explain the slammed door, if others had heard it, and they probably had.

He gestured for her to sit. “Dinner is served, my lady.”

Although she didn’t consider their quarrel silly, they needed to work together, so she would behave as if there was a truce between them. She put her book on top of her trunk and took her place at the table before removing the napkin covering a small basket of freshly baked bread. It smelled heavenly.

Meanwhile, MacLachlann slid into his chair with his usual lithe, masculine grace. He always moved like that, as if he were part cat. “I don’t suppose that’s a novel,” he said, nodding at her book while buttering his bread.

“It’s about mortgages and promissory notes,” she replied, lifting the covering over the plate before her to reveal a dark, rich beef stew, with carrots and potatoes in thick gravy. It smelled nearly as good as the bread.

“Heaven spare me! And you didn’t fall asleep?”

“I enjoy research.”

“I dare say there are some people who enjoy having a tooth pulled, too,” MacLachlann reflected as he lifted a spoonful of stew.

Despite the necessity of getting along with him, both his tone and his words rankled. “Just as I suppose there are some people who enjoy drinking to excess.”

“I was never one of them.”

“Really?” she pointedly replied as he continued to eat with relish.

“I don’t deny I used to get drunk, and often. I deny that I ever enjoyed it.”

“Then why did you do it?”

He raised his eyes and regarded her with a disarming frankness. “To forget.”

What? she wanted to ask. What did he want to forget? His family? Some past misdeed? A woman?

But if she asked and he answered with that apparent honesty, she might find herself caring about him.

He looked down at his food. “I was a fool, wallowing in self-pity and blaming all my misfortunes on others—the gamesters who won what money I had, my supposed friends who deserted me when I had nothing left. My father, who never liked me. The rest of my family, with whom I had nothing in common. I believe I even blamed my mother for dying when I was a child. It was easier to do that than admit that I’d made terrible mistakes. Then one night I found myself on Tower Bridge, alone, drunk, penniless, thinking I would do the world a favor if I jumped and never surfaced.”

He raised his eyes to look at her again. “That’s when your brother found me. He’d heard I was in London from one of my false friends he was representing, and sought me out.

He took me to an inn, bought me dinner, told me he wanted my help, and that he would pay me for it. I’ve never gotten drunk since.”

As MacLachlann made this unexpected confession, Esme discovered she could no longer meet his steadfast gaze. She’d always thought he felt no shame and no remorse for his wasted youth. How wrong she’d been! She’d never heard such sincere regret.

Yet all the answer she dared make to his confession was a subdued “Oh.”

If she said more, what might she confess? That she’d never seen such excellent accounts? That she thought he was astonishingly handsome? That when she heard him laugh, she wanted to laugh, too? That she’d been overwhelmed with desire when he kissed her in the coach?

“Finished?” he asked, his voice as casual as if they’d been discussing the price of tea.

As hers ought to be, despite the rapid beating of her heart. “Yes,” she said, pushing the plate away.

MacLachlann rose and went to the bell pull by the small hearth to summon a servant, then returned. “I don’t expect you to understand why I drank,” he said quietly, regarding her with a furrowed brow. “I don’t imagine you’ve ever done anything wrong in your life.”

She couldn’t meet his gaze, and she couldn’t lie. “Once I stole a shilling from Jamie. I felt so guilty, I never spent it. I still have it, in a box in my room at home.”

Even now the guilt of that small sin tore at her and made her feel ashamed. Nevertheless, she risked a glance at MacLachlann, to see him smiling with delight. “Dear me, I’m consorting with a criminal!”

While what she’d done was no great crime, she immediately regretted having revealed her secret.

MacLachlann stopped smiling. “Good God, I think you feel worse about that than I do about …” He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Some of the things I’ve done that are much worse. I do appreciate your confidence, little plum cake,” he said, “and rest assured, your secret is safe with me.”

He spoke so earnestly, she was sure he would keep her confidence.

Although that was a relief, she couldn’t help wondering why he was suddenly being so kind, so sincere, so serious and chivalrous. And why was she finding it so easy to believe that he was being honest about keeping her secret, and that he really would?

As she looked into his eyes, trying to decide if she could truly trust him, another unwelcome knock heralded the arrival of a servant to take away the tray.

As MacLachlann wordlessly waited, Esme reached for her book and pretended to read. She was trying to act as if nothing extraordinary had happened, and as if she stayed with a man—a handsome, compelling, seductive man—every night.

After the servant had gone, she held her breath, expecting MacLachlann to leave, too.

He didn’t. He sat in the chair across from her, and he didn’t say a word.

His silence was tense and unnerving, filling her with uncertainty and stress, because … because he was there. Watching her.

Finally, after reading the same paragraph five times, she’d had enough. She closed her book and said, “I’d like to retire.”

“Please do,” he replied as he stretched his long legs out in front of him.

“I wish to go to sleep,” she added pointedly.

“So do I.”

“You should go below until I’m in bed. Then you may return and sleep on the floor. You can have the blanket.”

“How very generous. However, I’ve seen quite enough of the taproom and its patrons for today, especially if you’re expecting me to sleep on the floor.”

“Where else could you—?”

His gaze flicked to the bed.

Good heavens! “Never!” she cried, jumping up. “Not here and not in Edinburgh, either!”

“Calm yourself, Miss McCallan,” he said, rising as well. “I have absolutely no desire to make love with you tonight, or ever.”

She believed that, too, and felt a most ridiculous pang of disappointment.

And although there was no obvious change to his expression, she had the sudden horrible feeling that he could sense that disappointment.

She immediately straightened her shoulders. “If you did touch me, I would have you charged with attempted rape.”

“I doubt that,” he said as he went to the door. “That would mean telling the world we aren’t really married.”

With his hand on the latch, he paused and looked back at her, his expression enigmatic. “Good night, little plum cake.”

After he was gone, Esme sat on the bed and rubbed her temples. Even for Jamie’s sake, how was she ever going to endure this untenable situation with the most insolent, infuriating man in Britain?

Who tempted her beyond reason.

It seemed MacLachlann might be regretting his revelations, for he apparently had no more desire to converse than she did as they continued their journey north to Scotland. Unfortunately, she couldn’t easily ignore him. During the day, when MacLachlann hunched in the corner of the carriage, either asleep or staring moodily out the window, she could fill her mind with legal precedents and possible scenerios that could explain the earl’s financial distress; at night, though, when they stopped at an inn and had to play their roles of husband and wife, it proved more difficult to pretend he wasn’t there.

At least MacLachlann never again made a fuss about sleeping on the floor. Every night, he went below while she prepared to retire, then returned when she was already in bed and presumably asleep.

But she only feigned sleep to avoid another confrontation. More than once she’d been rewarded—or cursed—by the sight of MacLachlann’s naked back, all hard muscle and sinew, with a few scars marring his marble-smooth skin. His shoulders and bare arms were likewise muscular, as if he’d spent several years at the oars of a boat. Or boxing. Or fencing.

The rest of him was equally fit, muscular and well-formed.

So now during the day she was too often aware of his body beneath his fine new wardrobe, even as she reminded herself that he was still Quintus MacLachlann and they had a job to do that required her utmost attention.

At last, however, Edinburgh Castle appeared in the distance and the city beneath it came into view. She wasn’t surprised when the carriage went toward the New Town, where all the gentry and aristocracy lived since the Great Flitting at the end of the previous century, when they’d abandoned the older, inner part of the city for fine new houses.

MacLachlann continued to stare out the window, a deep, disgruntled frown darkening his features. Either he was annoyed with her, or as concerned about their purpose and their ability to achieve their goal as she, or else Edinburgh held no happy memories for him. Given what she’d learned of MacLachlann, she wouldn’t be surprised to discover all three reasons brought that expression to his face.

The carriage came to a halt outside a large, imposing three-story stone house with a huge fanlight over the door. She’d assumed that the town house of an earl would be a large and fine one; even so, she was not quite prepared for a house as big as a palace, with an abundance of windows and black double doors that gleamed like liquid pitch. No doubt there was an enclosed garden at the back and a coach house and stables off the mews for horses and carriages, too.

“Home sweet home,” MacLachlann muttered with an absence of anything remotely like joy as the doors of the house opened and a butler appeared on the threshold, looking suitably austere and grave.

MacLachlann hissed a curse and before she could ask what was the matter, he said, “It’s McSweeney. Been with the family forever.”

“Do you think he’ll recognize you?” she asked, trying to hide her own dismay at this unforeseen turn of events.

“If he does, we’ll just have to brazen it out. If he doesn’t, he’ll probably go out of his way to avoid me. He never liked Augustus.

“And remember to act vapid and stupid,” he added. “I daresay all the servants will be more curious about you than they will be about me.”

That wasn’t exactly comforting, Esme thought as a liveried footman came out from behind the butler, trotted down the steps and opened the door.

MacLachlann got out of the coach, then held up his hand to help her down.

She tried to ignore the warmth of his touch, and his expression that could be encouragement as she stepped onto the pavement.

“McSweeney, you old dog!” MacLachlann cried as they started up the steps. “I thought you must be dead by now.”

“As you can see, my lord, I am not,” the butler replied, sounding exactly like an undertaker in a house of bereavement.

“Nor hired by another family?” MacLachlann asked.

“I was, until your solicitor inquired about the possibility of my return to Dubhagen House, my lord.”

“He offered you a pretty penny, too, I don’t doubt. That’s a solicitor for you, always ready to spend a client’s money.”

Esme’s grip tightened at the insult, but MacLachlann ignored her as they continued into the house.

MacLachlann glanced over his shoulder as the butler ordered the coachman to drive around to the mews, then whispered with obvious relief and delight, “McSweeney didn’t bat an eye. If we can fool him, we can fool anybody.”

She was relieved, too, but she couldn’t share his confidence. For one thing, he’d been raised to his role. She had not.

Nor had she grown up in such opulent surroundings. A round mahogany table with an enormous oriental vase full of roses stood in the center of the marble-tiled foyer, their scent lost amid the stronger odors of beeswax and lemons. Pier glasses hung on sea-green walls decorated with ornate white plaster work.

Two middle-aged maids holding brooms and dustpans were in the corridor leading to the back of the house, a hall boy with an empty coal scuttle lurked by a door that probably led below stairs, another footman in scarlet livery waited by the door to what was likely the drawing room and three more maids peered down from the landing above, reached by a wide hanging stair.

“See that our baggage is unpacked at once,” MacLachlann ordered with a casual flick of his hand. “I’ll show her ladyship to her bedroom myself. I trust it’s ready?”

“Absolutely, my lord,” the butler replied. “Your solicitor has hired a most excellent housekeeper, so all is quite prepared despite the lack of time.”

MacLachlann turned on the butler with a speed that was shocking. “Are you presuming to criticize me, McSweeney?” he demanded.

The poor man took a startled step back. “No, my lord. Of course not, my lord.”

“Good.” MacLachlann addressed Esme as if that confrontation had never happened. “Come along, my dear.”

He gave her that … that Look. She stiffened, waiting for a kiss. He pulled her close—and squeezed her bottom.

It took every ounce of self-control Esme possessed not to slap him, especially when she saw the sly look of amusement on his handsome face, and his bright eyes gleaming in a way that sent the blood rushing through her veins.

Then, without a word or even a look of warning, he scooped her up in his arms and started toward the stairs.

Appalled and afraid he was going to drop her, Esme threw her arms around his neck. She was going to demand he put her down at once, until she saw the butler’s shocked expression.

She had a part to play and play it she must, so instead she whispered loud enough for the butler and other servants to hear, “Put me down, dearest ducky, or what will the servants think?”

He didn’t answer as he continued up the stairs.

Not sure what to do, she started to babble like a ninny. “Oh, you’re such a romantic fellow! I’m glad you’re so strong. And you didn’t tell me your house was so magnificent, Ducky, or I would have asked you to bring me here sooner. All that time courting me and you never said. And your servants—so very proper. I do hope they like me!”

Still he was silent as they passed the maids, who dutifully bowed their heads.

Perhaps Augustus was not a loquacious man.

MacLachlann carried her along a corridor full of portraits and paintings of landscapes, the walls behind painted sky blue, until they reached a room nearly at the end of the hall. Finally he spoke as they crossed the threshold. “This is my lady’s chamber.”

Distracted as she was being carried like an invalid, she couldn’t help noticing that it was a beautiful room. The walls were papered with a delicate design of pale green and blue, the draperies green velvet and the cherry furniture polished to a gleaming gloss.

Nevertheless, her surroundings were less important than the fact that he was still holding her in his arms. “You may put me down now.”

He did, slowly setting her on her feet. Very slowly. Her body close to his. Very close.

Suddenly his expression darkened and her heart seemed to stop beating as she wondered what she’d done.

“Who the devil are you?” he demanded, and she realized he wasn’t addressing her, but someone behind her.

She turned swiftly to see a woman in a plain gray woollen gown and white mop cap with a pillow in her hand standing on the other side of the bed curtained with pale blue silk.

She must be a maid, Esme thought, and a very pretty one, too, although not so young as Esme first supposed. She immediately hoped she didn’t have to worry about her alleged husband seducing the servants.

“I am Mrs. Llewellan-Jones, the housekeeper, my lord. I wasn’t informed you had arrived,” the woman replied with a Welsh accent as she dipped a curtsey and met MacLachlann’s genial smile with a frown.

Esme was suddenly quite sure that even if MacLachlann tried to seduce the housekeeper, Mrs. Llewellan-Jones was quite ready and able to resist him.

As she, apparently—and to her chagrin—was not.

“Ah. The solicitor hired you as well?” MacLachlann asked.

“Yes, my lord. I was recently working for Lord Raggles.”

“How is old Rags?” MacLachlann asked with one of his more charming smiles, while Esme sidled toward a huge armoire near the door.

“His lordship was quite well the last time I saw him, my lord,” Mrs. Llewellan-Jones answered evenly.

“Glad to hear it. Now if you’ll excuse us, Mrs. Jones,” he said, “my wife and I would like to rest before dinner.”

Esme darted him a sharp glance, then flushed when she saw The Look on his face.

“It’s Llewellan-Jones, my lord, and what would you like done with your baggage?”

“It can all be taken to the dressing room and unpacked—but no one should enter this room until we ring for a maid.”

Until …? What was he thinking?

“As you wish, my lord. My lady,” the housekeeper replied, her expression serene as she left the room and closed the door behind her.

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