Highland Rogue, London Miss

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.