Hope surging in her chest, she pulled back to gaze up at him. “Truly?” she breathed. “I can see them once more?”
“Aye.” He smiled, cupping her cheek. “I shall have you by my side for the rest of my life anyway; what is one hour in the grand scheme of things?”
She grinned, her heart glowing. “I do love you.”
“As I love you,” he murmured.
Within minutes they were dressed and sneaking down the back stairs of the ramshackle inn, their hands clasped tight. The sun was high in the sky when they made it to the rear yard, their laughs free as they hurried down the dirt road. And when they reached the crossroad that led to her father’s summer home, the swift kiss they shared was full of a bright hope for the future.
“One hour,” she vowed.
“One hour.” He kissed her again, smiling down at her. “And then forever, mo bhean.”
Mo bhean.My wife.Happier than she had ever thought possible, she gave him one last long look before hurrying away from him, her heart counting the minutes until they reunited. And this time, no one could tear them apart.
Chapter 1
Scotland, early 1821
His wife was alive.
Iain MacInnes, Duke of Balgair—a title that still felt about as comfortable and welcome to him as a starched collar after the loose-necked Jacobite shirts he’d been used to wearing all his life—stared down at the letter in his hands, feeling as if a ghost had just jumped out at him from the shaky handwriting and punched him in the throat. He read over the missive again, and then once more, his eyes scanning with increasing agitation, certain he must have read it wrong. But no, there it was, plain as day, information he had never expected to receive, had not thought it possible to get.
I did not know who else to turn to, who else might care. Her father lied. Lady Seraphina Trew did not die in a carriage accident with her sisters as her father reported. Rather, they are thought tobe alive and well and possibly living under an assumed name.
Dear God. Seraphina was alive?
An image of her rose up, like a specter in a long-abandoned graveyard, from that last time he’d seen her: brilliant hair loose down her back, lips still bruised from his kisses, her smile bright as she bid him farewell, promising to see him within the hour. He had not thought of that painful scene in years—at least not willingly. Later that same day he’d been cruelly informed of her betrayal, all his fears that she could not love someone like him proving true. And when he’d learned of her death several years later, he had not mourned her. It was difficult to mourn someone who had broken your heart so brutally and completely.
But she was alive, and had been all this time?
He was out of his chair before he knew what he was about, racing from the study and through the massive house to the front hall. Donal, the ancient butler with his powdered wig constantly askew, was trudging across the tiled floor as Iain rounded the corner.
“Who brought the letter?” he demanded as he made for the front door.
“Wha’s that, Yer Grace?” the man rasped, frowning at Iain. An expression Iain was all too familiar with, as unwelcome as he was in his new position as duke.
Gritting his teeth at that title he so despised, he nevertheless replied, “The letter that just arrived. It dinnae come with the rest of the correspondence. Who brought it?”
“Oh. Hmm. ’Twas a young woman, Yer Grace. Some wee blond thing, came on foot. She might still be in the front drive—”
The words were not yet out of Donal’s mouth before Iain was out the door. And there she was, trudging down the long drive of Balgair Castle through fresh drifts of snow, shoulders slumped, as if the weight of the world were on them. He did not pause but leapt down the steps, sprinting down the snow-laden gravel drive. Blessedly the lass was so caught up in whatever was on her mind, she did not hear him until he was right atop her. Then she only had time to gape as he lurched into her path.
“You knew Seraphina?”
But even as he berated himself for the desperation in his voice, he realized the lass could not possibly have known his recently resurrected wife. This girl was just that: a girl, not more than fifteen or sixteen at the most. Certainly not old enough to have known Seraphina or her sisters in any proper capacity. Which meant she could not have been the one to pen the missive.
A fact that the girl verified a moment later, all while backing away and staring at him, as if he were a great big beasty about to swallow her whole. “N-nae, I know nae one by that name.”
So saying, she made to skirt around him. But Iain could not let her leave, not until he learned who had sent him that letter.
He stepped in front of her again. The girl’s eyes widened, a distressed squeak escaping her lips.
Damnation, this was no way to get information out of her. “Forgive me, lass,” he said, thickening his burr, making his voice as gentle as he could. “I dinnae mean to frighten you. I only meant to find out who it was that sent the letter. ’Tis verra important, ye ken?”
But the girl did not look even remotely easy at hisassurances. Instead, her eyes narrowed in suspicion as she attempted to skirt around him once more. “If yer master wishes to know who sent the letter, he can do the asking himself. Good day, sir.”
Iain very nearly laughed at that. His master, eh? Not that he was surprised the lass did not realize he was the bloody duke. Most dukes were not nearly so rough and unkempt as he, with three days’ growth of beard and wearing his oldest, most comfortable kilt. No, dukes were by and large soft, selfish bastards, who cared more for their possessions and appearance than they did for the lives of those they were responsible for. As were all of the nobility, a group he had come to actively loathe in the past decade and a half.
