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“No.” She said again, lest the silence eat up her first refusal and make it null. “I willna marry him. Ye canna make me. I’ll run away if I must, to avoid it, but I’ll not—I’ll not suffer him touch me again.”

She expected a roar, a shout, a quick advancement from her father so he could cuff her or box her ears. But he held his seat. Cut off another bite of mutton. Barely even glanced at her. “And where would ye go, Rowena? Gasta Hall? Nay. Ye’ve nothing aside from what I give you.”

“I’ve a will as strong as yers. I’ll make a way.” The words sounded true as she spoke them, though she had thought them nothing but a bluff when they formed in her mind. She lifted her chin and darted a glance to Elspeth, who watched her with mouth agape and disbelieving eyes. No help to be found there, though she hadn’t expected any. Drawing in a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. “Elspeth’s bairn could be a girl, ye ken. Which would mean I’m still yer heir, and ye canna be counting on another babe to follow, can ye? All these years and this is the first—”

“How dare you!” Elspeth stood too, cheeks flushed.

Rowena nearly backed down. She’d never imagined saying such a thing to her stepmother, all but pointing out that the woman wasn’t in the flower of youth any longer. But just now, she couldn’t give quarter to manners. “I dinna mean to offend, my lady. But it’s the truth, aye? Ye think ye’re carrying the next Earl of Lochaber, the next Chief of Clan Kinnaird, but it could just as well be a second daughter. Ye canna write me off yet. And ye canna risk me disappearing—but I’ll do it, Father. If ye insist on Malcolm, I’ll do it.”

For a second, she thought it amusement that gleamed in the Kinnaird’s eyes . . . though that made precious little sense. But she hadn’t the chance to dwell on it, as Elspeth shrieked and leaned across the table to better scowl at her.

“Ye disrespectful, uncivilized little ingrate! Go ahead and leave—you willna survive a month in the world, and we’ll not mourn ye when word comes that ye’re—”

“Enough.” Father set his fork and knife down. The familiar temper was back in his eyes, heavy as thunder in his brow. But, strangely, it wasn’t directed at Rowena. He was glowering at Elspeth. “I invite you to remember that she’s my daughter and my heir.”

That smug little smile that Rowena detested slid onto her stepmother’s lips. “For now, my love. But the bairn’s a boy. I ken. I feel it. Ye’ll have yer son. Then ye’ll have no need of Nora’s daughter.”

“Half her blood is mine. Kinnaird blood. And as such, she’ll have my protection and provision all her days.” He turned to Rowena. “It’s my duty to see you wed, lass.”

For a moment she had actually thought he was taking up for her, taking her side, not just his own. But no. It would come back, again, to Malcolm. She shook her head, but the tears still burned. “I’ll not marry him. I’ll not. Ye’d have to drag me kicking and screaming to the kirk, and I’d
still
not say vows to that wretch!”

Before he could argue and insist, she spun and darted from the dining hall. The fury gave way to fear, the burning in her eyes swelled and overflowed. Luckily, she didn’t need to see her path to know it. Her feet knew every stone of the castle, each dark hall and ancient turn. Within a few minutes she was pushing open the doors to her room, ready to tumble onto her bed and let the sobs wrack her.

“Wena?”

She paused with her hand on the door, ready to slam it closed. A lamp was lit, and Annie had snuggled down into the feather mattress of Rowena’s bed, as she so loved to do, a book in hand. Closing the door gently, Rowena tried to summon a smile. The tears would have to either fade or keep. “Escaped your nurse again, did ye, Annie?”

“I told her ye wouldna mind.” The little one’s cheeky grin faded fast. “Ye’re trauchled again. Is Malcolm here?”

With a shake of her head, Rowena sank onto the mattress beside her sister and pulled the girl close. “Father was telling me to marry him, is all.”

Annie loosed a gusty sigh and gave her a squeeze. “I dinna ken why he wants you to.”

And heaven help her, she never would. “Malcolm will be the next chief, unless your mother has a boy. I canna inherit that, though I can the earldom. Father doesna want the two separated, but he’s afraid the Kinnairds will decide to follow other clans and elect their chief if he has no clear heir.”

“But—”

“The clan comes first for him, Annie. Always. Before Lochaber, before our own interests.”

When Annie scowled like that, it was more than obvious that Douglas was her father. “But ye
are
part of the clan!”

One small, feeble part. “Aye. But my mother was American. He thinks the years away from the Highlands weakened her family. He thinks . . . He thinks Malcolm is good and strong and will shore up what he deems my flaws.”

Annie made a face and snuggled in closer to Rowena’s side. “Ye can run away, then. Go to . . . to Africa! I’ve been reading about Africa. There are great open spaces with high grasses called savannahs, and lions roam there. And elephants. I should like to see an elephant.”

Only Annie could make her smile when the very world was falling apart. Rowena trailed her fingers through the girl’s dark hair and let her eyes slide closed. “Ye’ll come with me, then?”

“Aye.” But instead of bright babbling, Annie sighed. “They willna miss me. Not once the new bairn comes. Especially if it’s a boy.”

“They would miss you. Ye’re all things bright and fine, Annys. It’s proud I am to call you my sister. I—”

The door swung open even as a rap sounded upon it, and Elspeth blew in with a fevered gleam in her eyes. Rowena and Annie both sat up, ready for the usual berating—but the countess barely spared a glance for her daughter’s being where she oughtn’t. She headed straight for Rowena’s wardrobe. “Ye’ve nothing. I know ye’ve nothing, nothing suitable. Ach, what’s the man thinking, springing this upon us with but an evening’s notice?”

What in the world?
Never in the four years Elspeth had lived in Castle Kynn had she pawed through Rowena’s clothes—and why would she do so now? Surely—heaven help her—she wasn’t trying to find a gown suitable for a wedding? Rowena scooted off her bed. “Suitable for
what
, my lady?”

“For dukes!” The countess flung open the door, pulled out the drawers. “We’re to go to Gaoth Lodge on the morrow to call on the ladies—and ye with naught but the day dresses from the January Sale. He ought to be ashamed to outfit his daughter so poorly, no matter that ye’ve ne’er been to London nor even Edinburgh since school. And now here we are, about to dine with England’s most fashionable, with only wool and tweed!”

Dine with . . . call on . . . Rowena sank back down onto her bed, at the foot. “We . . . we’re going to Gaoth? The Kinnaird said we may?”

Elspeth sent her a frantic glance. “
May
? He ordered it! And we’re to invite the family to dine with us the following eve.”

Visions of that summer danced before her eyes. Of Ella, her bright red curls bouncing out behind her, laughing and dancing and singing. Rowena had been just a normal girl back then. Running along with the duke’s daughter on every merry chase. Huddling with her under makeshift forts when the rain drove them inside. Heads bowed together over books and papers on which they’d scratched treasure maps and poems and . . .

Magic—that’s what it had been.

As Elspeth fretted over her lack of proper white morning dresses, Rowena closed her eyes . . . and let herself hope. If Ella still liked her . . . if she could finagle an invitation to Sussex somehow . . . once there, she could figure out what to do if she were with child.

And if she weren’t—well then, perhaps she’d simply stay in England until the countess had delivered
her
child. Then determine if there was any point in ever coming home again.

Four

T
he rain came down in torrents, forcing the whole company indoors. Brice didn’t particularly mind . . . until he saw the strain upon his mother’s face. She had been a year out of society, had grown used to quiet drawing rooms and subdued visits. No doubt being set upon by the hunting party in addition to the ladies was more than she had prepared herself for this morning.

His sister, on the other hand, was in her element, laughing as she studied her hand of cards. Miss Abbott was apparently her partner in the whist game, and she looked every bit as happy. She was faring well, from what he had seen, with the crème of Scottish society. He’d witnessed no fumbles, no gaffes, no insecurities whatsoever.

More than one male gaze kept darting toward the whist table. If the gents were eyeing up his sister, he’d have to devise some clever torment to scare them off. Though if someone wanted to raise Miss Abbott to a higher station, he supposed he’d wish them well. Assuming they were deserving of her.

Her brother sidled up next to him at the window. “Our sisters are going to give me an apoplexy if they don’t cease drawing the attention of every male guest in a five-mile radius.”

Brice laughed and let his shoulders relax. “The question is, would your sister turn down a suit for love of teaching children, or would she send her regards to her new employer and dash off with any handsome gentleman to ask for her hand?”

Geoff shook his head. “On the one hand, she is too picky to accept just anyone. . . . On the other, she has spent countless hours listening to the romantic prattle of
your
sister, so who’s to say?”

Another laugh faded when Brice caught sight of movement out the window. A carriage pulled into the drive, which made his brows furrow. Who else could be coming? All the invited guests were already there, and surely no one from the area would just drop in for a call in this weather. Though granted, it was typical enough in the Highlands that it rarely seemed to faze the locals, who referred to their weather as either “raining” or “about to rain.”

Geoff had noticed the new arrival too. “I thought you said this would be a restful trip.”

“No, no. I said a respite from your schooling. Entirely different.”

A footman rushed out when the carriage came to a halt, umbrellas open to fend off the deluge for whomever would descend. Brice could see only a few wisps of white as the passengers got down. Ladies, then. Their cards, once they made it inside, would be taken to his mother, not to him.

So if he wanted his curiosity satisfied . . . He gave his old friend a grin and a nod. “Excuse me, Geoff old boy. I’m going to go and spy over my mother’s shoulder.”

It required weaving his way through the crowded drawing room, around groups of laughing men and whispering women, sidestepping the card table and avoiding two different couples taking a turn about the room in lieu of outdoor exercise. After exchanging smiles or brief greetings with them all, he made it to his mother in her corner just as the butler entered with his silver salver, two new cards upon it.

Mother’s eyes went wide as she took them. Brice’s did too. “The Countess of Lochaber?”

“Not the one I met a decade ago, but . . .” Mother took the second card. “And Lady Rowena Kinnaird. Ella will be so pleased. Show them in, please, Mr. Gordon.”

With a bow, the butler picked his way back through the room. Mother kept her eyes trained on the door, brows knit.

Brice’s probably were too. “Well, that’s unexpected. I thought you said he despised the English. Has his new wife softened him, perhaps?”

Mother’s lips thinned. “Nothing can soften Douglas Kinnaird. He’ll have a reason for allowing this that’s to his own profit—you can be sure.”

It wasn’t the words that made Brice’s brows rise now. It was the soft, Lowland burr that invaded his mother’s speech as she said it—an accent that so rarely peeked its way through her years in England.

He would have pressed, probed, had they been alone. As it was, he merely turned to await the arrival of their neighbors.

The countess swept in with confidence and a smile, heading straight for his mother. Brice had to admit to some surprise when he saw that she must be forty, at least—usually when a man without a male heir took a second wife, it was one young enough to promise sons. Should he respect the man for choosing based on other criteria? Perhaps affection?

But if the earl had selected his second wife for love, Brice wasn’t sure that made him feel any better. As the lady drew closer, he recognized the rapacious gleam in her eye. The one that said she would claw her way to wherever she wanted to be, without much thought to whom she gouged in the process.

A look he knew all too well, having been deemed England’s most sought-after bachelor these several years.

The countess curtsied before his mother, pasting on a smile that looked more calculating than sincere. “Duchess, thank you so much for welcoming us. I have been waiting ages to make your acquaintance.” Though she carried herself with all the confidence of a born lady, she spoke with a deep Highland burr.

Mother returned the welcome, but the knot in her brow didn’t smooth. “It is my pleasure, I assure you, Lady Lochaber. Though forgive me for asking an impolite question—does the earl know you are here? The previous countess came without his permission, and—”