Her husband grumbled but nuzzled against her neck again. “And I am trying to warm you, wife.”

They lay on the ground, beneath the limbs of an old oak tree. A tarp was tossed across the limbs to provide them shelter, but it did little to cut the chill of the night. Curan suddenly pulled her tighter against his body, inhaling deeply next to her skin.

“I fear to sleep, fear that I will open my eyes to discover that you have never told me you love me.”

His voice was husky and low, as though the darkness gave him the opportunity to say such words, words that no commander might say while his men watched.

“I will tell you again at sunrise and every hour after, if you will look at me with love in your eyes while I declare myself and my love unto you, Curan.”

His warm hand slipped along the side of her cheek as he rose up above her. In spite of the darkness, she saw the faint glitter in his eyes that she had come to cherish so dearly.

“You have my solemn promise, Bridget, along with the promise that I will march an army after you every time I must for I will not live without you. You hold my heart, and I must have it near.” He lowered his head until she felt his breath against her lips. “Have you near, my love.”

He pressed a soft kiss against her mouth, but it traveled straight to her heart, sealing them together. The night was suddenly much warmer, the heat coming from within.

From her heart.

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“Man up, for God’s sake, and drop the damn thing.”

“We’re not sending in nude shots,” Roan replied with an even smile, as the chants and taunts escalated. “So I don’t understand the need to take things to such an extreme—”

“The contest rules state, very clearly, that they’re looking for provocative,” Tessa responded, sounding every bit like a person who’d also been forced into a task she’d rather not have taken on—which she had been.

Sadly, that fact had not brought them closer.

She shifted to another camera she’d mounted on another tripod, he supposed so the angle of the sun was more to her liking. “Okay, lean back against the stone wall, prop one leg, rest that … sword thing of yours—”

“‘Tis a claymore. Belonged to the McAuleys for four centuries. Victorious in battle, ‘tis an icon of our clan.” And heavy as all hell to hoist about.

“Lovely. Prop your icon in front of you, then. I’m fairly certain it will hide what needs hiding.”

His eyebrows lifted at that, but rather than take offense, he merely grinned. “I wouldnae be so certain of it, lassie. We’re a clan known for the size of our … swords.”

“Yippee,” she shot back, clearly unimpressed. “So, drop the plaid, position your … sword, and let’s get on with it. It’s the illusion of baring it all we’re going for here. I’ll make sure to preserve your fragile modesty.”

She was no fun. No fun ‘tall.

“The other guys did it,” she added, resting folded hands on top of the camera. “In fact,” she went on, without even the merest hint of a smile or dry amusement, “they seemed quite happy to accommodate me.”

He couldn’t imagine any man wanting to bare his privates for Miss Vandergriff’s pleasure. Not if he wanted to keep them intact, at any rate.

He was a bit thrown off by his complete inability to charm her. He charmed everyone. It was what he did. He admittedly enjoyed, quite unabashedly, being one of the clan favorites because of his affable, jovial nature. As far as he was concerned, the world would be a much better place if folks could get in touch with their happy parts, and stay there.

He didn’t know much about her, but from what little time they’d spent together that afternoon, he didn’t think Tessa Vandergriff had any happy parts. However, the reason behind her being rather happiness-challenged wasn’t his mystery to solve. She’d been on the island for less than a week. Her stay on Kinloch was as a guest, and therefore temporary. Thank the Lord.

The island faced its fair share of ongoing trials and tribulations, and had the constant challenge of sustaining a fragile economic resource. Despite that, he’d always considered both the McAuley and MacLeod clans as being cheerful, welcoming hosts. But they had enough to deal with without adopting a surly recalcitrant into their midst.

“Well,” he said, smiling broadly the more her scowl deepened. “‘Tis true, the single men of this island have little enough to choose from.” The crowd took a collective breath at that, but his attention was fully on her. Gripping the claymore in one fist, he leaned against the stacked stone wall, well aware of the tableau created by the twin peaks that framed the MacLeod fortress, each of them towering behind him. He braced his legs, folded his arms across his bare chest, sword blade aloft … and looked her straight in the eye as he let a slow, knowing grin slide across his face. “Me, I’m no’ so desperate as all that.”

That got a collective gasp from the crowd. But rather than elicit so much as a snarl from Miss Vandergriff, or perhaps goading her so far as to pack up and walk away—which he’d have admittedly deserved—his words had a rather shocking effect. She smiled. Fully. He hadn’t thought her face capable of arranging itself in such a manner. And so broadly, with such stunning gleam. He was further damned to discover it did things to his own happy parts that she had no business affecting.

“No worries,” she stated, further captivating him with the transformative brilliance of her knowing smile. She gave him a sizzling once-over before easily meeting his eyes again. “You’re not my type.”

That was not how those things usually went for him. He felt … frisked. “Then I’m certain you can be objective enough to find an angle that shows off all my best parts without requiring a blatant, uninspired pose. I understand from Kira that you’re considered to be quite good with that equipment.”

The chanting of the crowd shifted to a few whistles as the tension between photographer and subject grew to encompass even them.

“Given your reluctance to play show-and-tell, I’d hazard to guess I’m better with mine than you are with yours,” she replied easily, but the spark remained in her eyes.

Goading him.

“Why don’t you be the judge?” Holding her gaze in exclusive focus, the crowd long since forgotten, he pushed away from the wall and, with sword in one hand, slowly unwrapped his kilt with the other.

He took far more pleasure than was absolutely necessary from watching her throat work as he unashamedly revealed thighs and ass. He wasn’t particularly vain or egotistical, but he was well aware that a lifetime spent climbing all over the island had done its duty where his physical shape was concerned, as it had for most of the islanders. They were a hardy lot.

The crowd gasped as he held the fistful of unwrapped plaid in front of him, dangling precariously from one hand, just on the verge of—

“That’s it!” Tessa all but leapt behind the camera, and an instant later, the shutter started whirring. Less than thirty seconds later, she straightened and pushed her wayward curls out of her face, her no-nonsense business face back. “Got it. Good! We’re all done here.” She started dismantling her equipment. “You can go ahead and get dressed,” she said dismissively, not even looking at him.

He held on to the plaid—and his pride—and tried not to look as annoyed as he felt. The shoot was blessedly over. That was all that mattered. No point in being irritated that he’d just been played by a pro.

She glanced up, the smile gone as she dismantled her second tripod with the casual grace of someone so used to the routine and rhythm of it, she didn’t have to think about it. “I’ll let you know when I get the shots developed.”

He supposed he should be thankful she hadn’t publicly gloated over her smooth manipulation of him. Except he wasn’t feeling particularly gracious at the moment.

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London, 1820

Laurette knew precisely what she must do. Again. Had known even before her baby brother had fallen so firmly into the Marquess of Conover’s clutches.

To be fair, perhaps Charlie had not so much fallen as thrown himself headfirst into Con’s way. Charlie had been as heedless as she herself had been more than a decade ago. She was not immune even now to Con’s inconvenient presence. She had shown him her back on more than one occasion, but could feel the heat of his piercing black gaze straight through to her tattered stays.

But tonight she would allow him to look his fill. She had gone so far as having visited Madame Demarche this afternoon to purchase some of her naughtiest underpinnings. Laurette would have one less thing for which to feel shame.

Bought with credit, of course. One more bill to join the mountain of debt. Insurmountable as a Himalayan peak and just as chilling. Nearly as cold as Conover’s heart.

She raised the lion’s-head knocker and let it fall, once, composing herself to face Con’s servant.

Desmond Ryland, Marquess of Conover, opened the door himself.

“You!”

“Did you think I would allow you to be seen here at such an hour?” he asked, his face betraying no emotion. “You must indeed think me a veritable devil. I’ve sent Aram to bed. Come into my study.”

He was a devil, suggesting this absurd time. Midnight, as though they were two foreign spies about to exchange vital information in utmost secrecy. Laurette followed him down the shadowy hall, the black-and-white tile a chessboard beneath her feet. She felt much like a pawn, but would soon need to become the White Queen. Con must not know just how desperate she was.