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But that didn’t mean he was good, didn’t mean he was kind to the core. It only meant that he was too much a gentleman to show his true colors to a young lady he had just met.

What had Lilias been thinking, working with the Kinnaird to set this up?

Rowena rubbed the sleep from her eyes, knowledge hovering there beyond the question. Lilias was thinking of the possibility of a bairn, the need for a husband if it were true. She was trying to find an answer that didn’t include Malcolm.

But if she thought Rowena would thank her for injuring her and trying to force her to a stranger’s bed, then she was in for a rude awakening.

The duke stirred, stretched. And yes, beneath the wariness of him, Rowena felt a stirring too. He was quite possibly the handsomest man she had ever met. If things were different . . .

If things were different, he would never have looked twice at her. He hadn’t before this little farce, had he? A few offhanded compliments to her eyes, but otherwise he had regarded her only with suspicion. He was the type for glossy, statuesque ladies fit to grace magazine ads—was probably friends with those she had seen staring back at her in all their painted glory from the circulars.

No. Lilias may have meant well, but she was foolish to try something like this. Even were Nottingham able to be manipulated . . . Rowena was not, could not, be duchess material. And so, it was best to ensure her father couldn’t force the matter. “Duke?” Her throat sounded scratchy, no doubt from the smoke-inspired coughing last night. “Daylight is upon us, sir. Ye’d best go.”

The duke, bleary eyes open, nodded and pushed himself to his feet. He had fallen asleep against the wall opposite her, as far away as possible in the tiny shack. “Right. Sorry to have intruded so much longer than expected.”

“Ye could hardly go out in such rain, not for so long.” She watched him stretch the kinks out of his back, run his hands through his hair, and turn resolutely toward the door. “Duke . . . thank you. For being kind in such a trying situation.”

He flashed her a grin as if it were nothing—as if her family wasn’t trying to ruin his life—and reached for the latch. “And thank
you
, my lady, for not being privy to their plans, or it would have been even more trying.”

And he wouldn’t have been so kind? Probably not. Rowena shifted, biting back a moan at the screaming pain in her foot when she did. She’d have to look at it, take off the bandage, see if daylight shed anything new upon the injury. She’d wait until she was alone though. Only belatedly had she realized last night that she oughtn’t to bare her ankles before Nottingham. Elspeth would be horrified that she had, but she was so accustomed to shedding shoes and stockings to dip her toes into the icy loch . . .

“Are you all right, my lady? Your ankle?”

Rowena opened the eyes that had slid closed with the onslaught of pain and forced a smile. “I’ll be just fine, sir.”

He focused on her in that way that made her want to squirm—that way that surely saw too much, too well. But if he recognized her bluff, he opted not to call her on it. With a nod, he tugged open the door. “Farewell then. I imagine we’ll meet again at the castle.”

“Aye.” She could hear the dread in her voice. Her father would try to force a wedding. And the duke would, of course, fight him on it. It would prove an ugly scene, she was sure. One she rather hoped she missed.

She’d as soon keep her image of Nottingham as a kind, humorous man a bit longer.

With another nod in farewell, he stepped out. Fog seeped in through the open door, dispersing again with the
whoosh
of its closing. Rowena drew in a long breath, let it out, and allowed her face to contort with the throbbing of her ankle. It was broken, sure as day. It must be, to hurt so. Her fingers trembling, she reached down to untie the bandage.

Brilliant bruising peeked out, making her stomach flip.

The door swinging open again made it flop. She had the presence of mind to tug her hem back down, but she could wrap her tongue around no wit when Nottingham strode back into the room without so much as by-your-leave. The expression on his face—so stoic but for a trace of . . . amusement?—baffled her.

When her father strode in behind him, a thunderhead in his eyes, some of the bafflement disappeared.

“Is that what you call ‘right behind’ me, Lochaber?” The duke stopped in the middle of the room and spun back toward the door.

“Rowena!” Father looked almost concerned when he spotted her—she had to give him credit for his skills as an actor. He flew to her side as if he cared. And it almost seemed the breath he sucked in upon spotting her mottled foot was genuine. “What did you do to her, Nottingham?”

She’d never heard that particular tone from him. Had no word to describe it.

Nottingham folded his arms over his chest. “Saved her from a night spent with her feet in the loch, after her cousin pushed her down the hill.” He paused, lifted a brow. “I believe the words you’re looking for, my lord, are
thank you
.”

“Thank you? Ye expect me to
thank you
for spending the night with my daughter? All the neighborhood’s out looking for her, and what do ye think they’ll say when they find ye’ve both been holed up here for the night?”

Father looked back to her. Lifted his hand. She winced away, but he didn’t strike her. Of course he wouldn’t, not in front of the duke. He stroked the hair from her face. Though no affection shone in his eyes when he said, in Gaelic, “Have you no sense, girl? You told him you were pushed? All you had to do was claim to have slipped and let the chips fall!”

Rowena could only shake her head.

The duke lifted the other brow. “Let’s dispense with the playacting, shall we? You set this up—a dunce could see that. No doubt so you can try to force us to wed. But allow me to save you some trouble and embarrassment and say, while we’re still alone, that it won’t work. I’ll not be bullied into marriage.”

Her father rose, settling into the stance she knew best. The one that kept his spine straight, his shoulders back, and a glare upon his face. Usually, that stance sent men scrambling, women scattering. Usually, when the Kinnaird curled his hand into a fist, everyone knew to run.

Nottingham just stood there, arms still crossed and half a smile still on his too handsome face.

“You’ve disgraced my daughter, sir! If you think I’ll—”

“No.
You
disgraced your daughter. I played the hero.” The duke let the amusement fade from his face. “You arranged it well—I’ll grant you that. And the rain helped. But it was all for naught, so let’s handle this reasonably. You take your daughter back to the castle and tell all those neighbors you’ve rallied that you found her—
alone
—in the cottage. I’ll just turn up far away. No harm done.”

“No harm done?” Father motioned to the door, and by doing so drew Rowena’s attention to the fact that voices could be heard, though they were muffled by fog and distance. “A search party is scouring the countryside. There’s little chance of you slipping away without being seen.”

Nottingham’s eyes went hard and cold. The smile he put on now looked . . . well, like the smile of a duke. “Covered every angle, have you? Then I’m afraid all your friends and cousins and neighbors will have to be privy to my refusal to be manipulated.”

“You would destroy a girl’s reputation?”

Rowena lowered her gaze, fastened it upon the strand of wool pulling loose from the knit of her jacket. Stifled the urge to pick at it.

“Don’t try to ply me with guilt, Lochaber. I’ve done nothing wrong, and I won’t pay for
your
decisions.”

“You think you can run roughshod over my family?” Her father’s voice dripped threat.

Nottingham’s breath of laughter seemed unaffected by it. “In the past year, I’ve seen one of my dearest friends kidnapped. I’ve had a madman point a gun at my head. Witnessed that man’s death at the hands of the constable.
Then
lost my father, on top of it all.” She glanced up and saw him lean forward, his eyes showing no fear whatsoever. “I’m well beyond petty threats, Lochaber. And I warn you now—don’t push me. Don’t try me. My good humor has been stretched to its limits.”

A chill found the base of her spine and shivered its way up. She thought she knew dangerous men—but it seemed Nottingham was a whole different kind of one.

“Lord Lochaber?” A figure blocked the light from the open doorway—the stable master, and his relief looked genuine when he spotted Rowena. “My lady, ye’re well! We feared the worst when that storm wouldna let up. Angus! McDonnell, over here—and with the horses. The lass is injured!”

Nottingham seemed to draw in his next breath with extra care. His focus didn’t leave her father’s. “Am I understood, Lochaber?”

If he thought so, he greatly underestimated the stubborn Scots blood her father took such pride in. “Your party stayed the night at the castle, sir.” The Kinnaird motioned toward the door. “Let us repair there to finish our discussion, aye?”

Any objection the duke may have made disappeared under the clamor of the arriving grooms and horses, the shouts that went out to the other staff and neighbors combing the glen. Rowena lost sight of Nottingham in the fray, let herself be scooped up by the burly McDonnell and deposited gently upon an old, imperturbable mare.

Her father slid the reins over the horse’s head and tethered them to his own mount. When he glanced up at her, she forced the words past her lips. In Gaelic—for though the servants would understand, the duke wouldn’t. “Why’d ye do it, Father?”

He froze, then edged closer. “It was that or Malcolm, lass. If ye’d rather the devil ye know, then say the word.”

She could say nothing. It took all her strength to hold back the sob that tightened her throat, to keep down the tears that threatened to well. She ought to have just run away after Malcolm stripped her of what little worth she had. Or tossed herself into the loch.

The ride back to the castle passed in a blur of cold, damp air and shooting pain every time her injured foot brushed against the horse. Her discomfort only increased with each person who joined their group, the shouts having gone far and wide, apparently.

One small part warmed within her. She hadn’t thought they’d care, any of them, if she went missing. But the joy of their servants and neighbors seemed genuine when they rushed up to her and praised the Lord she was found, safe and whole.

Each time her father was quick to put in that the duke had rescued her, made sure she was safe. Was he trying to appease Nottingham . . . or cement in everyone’s mind that they had been together all night? Rowena did her best to smile at whomever spoke and otherwise kept her gaze locked firmly upon the old nag’s mane.

More shouting pierced the air when they crossed the causeway over Loch Morar and through the gates of Castle Kynn. She dared look up when their group drew to a halt—and wished she hadn’t.

Ella stood on the steps, flanked by her mother and Miss Abbott. The woman Rowena had hoped would become a dear friend—and possibly a means of escape from the Highlands—stared at her with a look of utter betrayal on her face. Asking, no words required, how she could do something so low, how she could set a trap for her beloved brother.

She wouldn’t believe that Rowena had nothing to do with it. How could she?

McDonnell lumbered to a stop beside her horse and held up his hands. “Come, lass. There be hot drink waiting, and breakfast besides. Mrs. MacPherson has been cooking up a storm, ye ken. Lilias’ll have ye warm and dry and snug in no time.”

Lilias.
Rowena caught her maid’s attention as McDonnell helped her down, asking the same silent question Ella had.

Lilias’s eyes had gone wide. No doubt she had seen the mottled foot that wouldn’t fit back in her boot. No doubt she regretted having caused her injury. No doubt she wondered if she had done right.

Well, she hadn’t. And Rowena would be happy to tell her so when they had a moment alone.

She needed to escape all the eyes, all the questions. All the accusations coming from the Nottinghams and Abbotts. All the whispers going through the Kinnaird clan when they spotted the duke. She looked up into the kind, lined face of McDonnell. “Would ye take me straight to my room, please?”

Understanding warmed his eyes. “Aye, lass.”

But her father made it inside ahead of them and barred the path to the stairs, pointing instead toward the drawing room. With a sigh, McDonnell shifted directions.

Rowena wilted onto the chair he chose for her, the same one she always picked for herself. But she barely registered the comfort of the faded cushions, the fire crackling in the stone hearth, the vibrant colors of the rug she had passed many an hour staring at. She didn’t know how much longer she could hold back the tears, but she couldn’t well loose them here, now, surrounded by the swarm of families that descended.

Their words were shouts, buzzing and clanging against each other, blurring with the light from the oil lamps lit against the dim day. Elspeth, Father, the Nottinghams. All speaking at once, asking questions, making demands. The duke with his perpetual
“Absolutely not”
and Father with his insistent
“But ye must.”
Words like
honor
and
expectation
and
ruined
all battling each other for prominence until the very landscapes on the walls seemed to shiver in their gilt-edged frames.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Pulled tight the blanket McDonnell had draped over her. And prayed she could melt into the chair.

The cacophony kept on until a too-familiar voice shattered it with a furious shout of “Rowena!”

Malcolm. No, no, no. Not here, not now, not with all these people around.

She shrank as much as she could into the chair, pulled the blanket higher. Maybe he wouldn’t even spot her in the crowd. Maybe Father would send him away. Maybe . . .

He charged through the room, shoving people aside, and jerked her from the chair.

To keep from falling into his chest, she had no choice but to plant both feet. And then couldn’t hold back the cry of pain.