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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Yes," she said on a sigh.

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

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

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

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


A loud crash awakened Helen.

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

Alex.

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

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

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

Papa.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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