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Liar.He’d been as eager for Verity Lovelace’s secrets as she’d been for his. Only his motives had never been driven by anything but a need to know about her.

Which is what grates so much ... ,that voice jeered.

“And what ofyou, Verity?” Either way, turnabout was fair play.

“Me?” Her shoulders came up in a little shrug that another, less astute person might have taken for nonchalant. “What of me?” She was hedging. Searching for time, and her mind, for answers that would satisfy his curiosity.

Curiosity?He balked. It was more a need to know what there was about the woman he’d entered into a pretend lifelong arrangement with. Malcom brought his arms up and clasped them behind his head. “You expect me to lay myself out for you, then I should knowsomethingof the woman I’m married to.”

She plucked at her skirts. Several moments passed before it became clear—she had no intention of saying anything else on the matter. In fact ... sayingnothingon the matter.

Malcom stood and circled the desk.

There was a mystery to the woman before him. And he yearned to draw forth the hidden details that made Verity Lovelace the woman she was. Malcom stopped behind her chair, and Verity stiffened. Lowering his head, he positioned his mouth close to the shell of her ear. She did not pull away. Her body only curved closer. “How ... very interesting,” he murmured. “Surely the woman determined to have me spill every part of my life that I’ve no wish to share would at the very least be equally forthright?”

An entrancing blush spilled over her décolletage and climbed to the long, graceful column of her neck. That damnable desire pulsed all the stronger. “It is ... not at all the same.”

Reaching around the back of her chair, Malcom rested his palms along its arms, and framed her. “Oh?” he whispered, so close that as he spoke, his lips brushed the curve of her ear in a fleeting kiss. One made all the more arousing for its evanescence. “And how is it different, Verity?”

Her breath caught. Or was that his? In this moment, it was all jumbled. “You never expressed a desire to know anything about me, Malcom. For you, my purpose being here, the role I serve ... is singular. To fool. To deceive.”

It was a fair rebuttal. And not even a day ago, she would have been correct. Some seismic shift, however, had occurred. One born of madness. One that required he know this woman he’d tied himself to in a devil’s deal. He straightened. “Indulge me, then.”

Standing, Verity grabbed her bag and strode around the chair with a strength the fiercest street warrior wouldn’t have as effectively mustered. She stopped so abruptly her satchel was set to swinging at her side. “No.”

That was ...it?“No?”

“Aye.” There was that natural, sultry husk to her reply. Slightly guttural in her acknowledgment. “That wasn’t part of our arrangement.”

Malcom ignored her latter words. “Aye,” he repeated, a clue, and yet a mystery of Verity Lovelace’s identity. “You’ve Scottish roots to you, Verity. Or Irish.” There was no brogue, otherwise subtle or distinct.

She went close-lipped, and then: “My mum was Scottish. Her family owned a tavern in Fife, just between the Firth of Tay and the Firth of Forth, and my mum worked there.” There was a finality to that admission, one that indicated that she intended to volunteer nothing more about herself.

“Scottish?” he repeated dumbly.

Verity’s narrow shoulders drew back. “Aye. Is there a problem with that, my lord?”

Her question came as from a long tunnel, her clear English tones fading in and out of clarity, melding with another voice. A brogue that lilted, and a song that whispered forward.

GOOD lord of the land, will you stay thane

About my faither’s house,

And walk into these gardines green,

In my arms I’ll the embraice.

Ten thousand times I’ll kiss thy face;

Make sport, and let’s be mery:

I thank you, lady, fore your kindness;

Trust me, I may not stay with the.

For I have kil’d the laird Johnston ...

A tentative palm touched his sleeve. “Malcom?”