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T he old traveling coach lurched to one side and stopped. Damn it to hell . Gawain pounded on the roof. “What happened?”

His groom’s boots hit the ground. “I’m lookin’.” A few moments later, Whitely appeared at the window. “Broke the wheel.”

Bloody hell! They were so close. “Where are we?”

“We passed Alnwick a ways back. If you want to stay here, I’ll go and find help.”

Gawain opened the door and jumped down. “Help me unhitch the horses and you can ride back.”

Fortunately, the horses had been broken to the saddle. His father had always said it might be useful someday. What Father actually meant was that they couldn’t afford to take a chance that they wouldn’t need the horses for both.

“Yes, sir.”

An hour later, Whitely had returned with another man who inspected the wheel. “I got something in my wagon that will get you back to town, but it’ll be a few days before we can get it mended.”

Gawain wanted to shout at the man. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the funds to argue or try to bribe him into fixing the wheel any faster. “Thank you.”

The man gave him a strange look, as if he’d been expecting to be given more of a problem. “All right.”

They lifted the heavy carriage, replacing the wheel. Once the horses were once again in their traces, he climbed back in the coach.

Gawain hated not having wealth. He detested not being able to afford one pair of horses for driving and others for riding. Maybe that’s the first thing he’d do when he married his cousin. He’d even be able to buy a matched team .

As the other man drove away, Gawain asked Whitely, “Did you find an inn for us?”

“Yes, sir. It’s clean, and breakfast and dinner are included in the price.”

“When I’m rich, we’ll stay in the best inns and order tradesmen to have the repairs done right away.”

“I look forward to it, sir. Won’t be long now.”

“No. We’ll find her direction in Edinburgh.” Ever since his conversation with his mother, Gawain’s sense of urgency had grown, and he needed to make Mary his wife before something came along to spoil his plan.

That evening, Theo stood next to her husband as the gentleman, using the term loosely, asked Lady Mary to dance.

“Who the hell introduced Munro to Lady Mary?” Titus snarled.

“I did.” Theo braced herself for his disapproval. Even after all these years, she hated arguing with him. Not that she wouldn’t give as good as she got. One did have to keep a tight rein on Scotsmen. “And do not swear around me.”

Titus scowled at her. “You’d trust an innocent like her with that rogue?”

“One of us had to do something.” She shrugged one shoulder. “And I am the only one with the right connections.”

“The bravura, you mean.” Gall is what he really wanted to say.

She waved her fan languidly. “It is clear as day that Lady Mary and Mr. Featherton need a bit of a push. If Gavin Munro can’t make Mr. Featherton jealous enough for him to lose some of his famous reserve, I’ll eat my turban.”

Titus slid her a cynical glance. “You’d better have Cook boil it for a long time and season it well.”

She tucked her hand in Titus’s arm. “Have a little faith, my love. Besides, Gavin knows that if he crosses the line with Lady Mary, he’ll answer to me, and that he does not want to do.”

“You have that much faith in yourself, do you?”

“Indeed I do.”

“Well then, let’s have a little wager,” Titus said smugly.

As God was her witness, Theo would wipe that superior look off his face. “I have already wagered my turban.”

“Aye, but you didn’t mean it. ”

She raised her chin. This was going to be fun, and she may get something she wanted as well. “What do you want?”

He chuckled. “To see you eat your hat, of course, feather included.”

She smiled. He was truly going to regret this. “And I want you to accompany me to Hull and perhaps even London.”

“Do you now?” He raised an arrogant brow.

She almost laughed in his face. He might be a Scottish marquis’s son, but she was an English duke’s daughter and had learned to negotiate with the best. “I do.”

“You’ve got yourself a wager, my lady. I’ll make sure to tell Cook to order more spices.”

As far as Kit was concerned, the evening was a complete and total failure.

He’d got to dance twice with Mary, but neither was a waltz.

Lady MacDonald, whose entertainment it was, still considered the dance to be scandalous.

He watched Mary as Mr. Munro led her to the set forming for a Scottish reel.

There was something about the man Kit didn’t like.

Probably because Munro kept looking at her as if he’d like to have her in his bed.

As soon as it was over, Kit would ask her to take the air on the terrace with him. It was time to propose.

He just prayed she’d accept him.

“Mr. Featherton.”

He glanced at his hostess. Accompanying her was a young lady who could not be more than seventeen.

The girl wore thick glasses and looked as if she’d like to flee.

Damnation! All he wanted to do was stay here and keep an eye on Mary and the Scottish rogue she was standing up with.

Instead he pasted the expected smile on his face and inclined his head. “Yes, my lady.”

Lady MacDonald smiled a bit nervously, almost as if she were afraid to approach him. “Miss MacGregor, I’d like to introduce you to Mr. Featherton. Sir, Miss MacGregor.”

Stifling the sigh he wanted to heave and the urge to walk away, he bowed. “Miss MacGregor, it would be my pleasure if you would allow me to partner you for this dance.”

A tentative smile trembled on her lips, and he knew he’d made the right decision. Why did parents allow their daughters to come out before they were ready? He’d make sure none of his did. If Mary accepted him and they had children .

“I’d be pleased to accept.”

Unfortunately, by the time they took their places, he was at the other end of the dance floor from Mary.

A half hour later, Kit had never been so glad for a set to end.

He escorted the young lady back to his hostess, who was fortunately not too distant from Lady Theo.

Snagging a passing footman, he took one glass of wine and another of lemonade, then strode forward to collect Mary.

Except she wasn’t with Lady Theo. Where the devil was she?

He scanned the room and saw that scoundrel Munro leading her to the other end of the ballroom.

Bloody hell! The blackguard was taking her outside, probably for no good purpose.

Kit dumped the glasses in the potted palm next to him.

Quickening his pace, he kept to the edge of the room so as not to be waylaid by his hostess or anyone else.

Munro and Mary were already on the balcony when he arrived.

Although the light was dim, Mary seemed to be backed up against the stone balustrades, and the cur was standing far too close to her.

Munro bent his head down as if he would kiss her.

In the moonlight Mary’s complexion was a waxy green, and her eyes wide with fear as she tried to retreat even further.

The problem was there was no place for her to go.

Resisting the urge to grab the blackguard and pitch him over the side, Kit calmed himself. As angry as he was, he would not create a scene.

Clipping the end of each word, he growled, “Get. Away. From. Her.”

Mary’s gaze switched to him, and he thought he saw relief in her face as their eyes locked.

The other man glanced up and raised his brows in a look of distain. “And what is she to ye, Sassenach?”

He clenched his jaw. If the rogue wanted a fight, he’d get one. He hadn’t spent all those hours at Jackson’s Salon for nothing. “She is mine.”

Mary sucked in a breath, her eyes shifting from him to the Scot and back to Kit.

The other man rose to his full height, which was about the same as Kit’s, and crossed his arms. “Is she now?” Munro’s Scottish burr became more pronounced as he glanced for a moment at Mary. “Then what’s she doing out here with me? ”

She opened her mouth but didn’t seem able to speak. Kit reached his hand out to her. Just as their fingers touched, the Scot stepped between them. “No so fast there, Bobadil.”

Kit smiled to himself. The cur thought he was a braggart, did he?

He quickly assessed their positions. They were close in height and weight, and therefore probably evenly matched.

Unless Kit wanted a prolonged fight on his hands, which he refused to subject Mary to, he’d have to hit Munro hard enough to put him over the low railing, which only came to the Scot’s upper thighs.

Kit kept his hands from forming fists and giving his plan away. “You have one last chance to leave this terrace alone and by the door.”

“Or ye’ll do what, Englishman?” The Scott sneered. “You’re likely too afraid ye’ll ruin your fine cloths to do naught to me. I—”

Grabbing Munro’s shoulder, Kit swung the man around, and plowed his fist into the Scot’s jaw. Munro’s jaw swung up as he stumbled back and toppled off the terrace into the bushes below.

Without thinking, Kit crushed Mary to him and her lips to his.

What would have happened to her if he’d not been there to save her?

What the hell was he doing now? His behavior was no better than Munro’s, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself.

He softened his mouth, lightly nibbling her full bottom lip, cupping her face in his hands, before slanting his head and demanding she respond.

God, he’d never tasted anything as good as Mary, sweet and tart, just like the lady herself. He needed her with him for the rest of his life.

Thank the heavens, Kit had come when he had.

Ignoring the low groan from the garden below, Mary threw her arms around his neck.

His lips were warm, but firm and masterful.

Nothing like what she had experienced when Gawain or the other rakes had tried to kiss her.

He smelled clean, and very male. To think she had thought he had no passion. How so very wrong she’d been.