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Felicity loved the shush-shush sound her leather slippers made along the slate-paved floor. The long corridor was dim and empty, and wearing her new gown she felt like some distinguished and mysterious lady making her way back to her boudoir for the evening.

Or maybe like an impassioned, melancholy nun. Like one of those women in The Sound of Music .

Well, maybe not a nun. Someone very grand, though, certainly.

The door to what Will had referred to as the solar was open, and she peeked in, gasping at the sight. Light slanted in through ceiling-high windows. An elaborately carved hearth framed one end of the room, which was furnished with a few small sofas, a card table, and writing desk.

Writing desk.

She decided suddenly that she’d love a little bit of paper. Just a sheet or two. Just enough to write a letter to Livvie. Even if it didn’t get delivered for a few hundred years, it would be a way to communicate with her aunt.

She looked up and down the hall and darted inside. The chair gave a squeak as she sat, and she grimaced, her heart pounding. It wasn’t like she was doing anything wrong, she assured herself.

Just a sheet of paper.

Then why did she feel so nervous?

Gently she pulled open the door of the slant-top desk and the hinges gave a hideous squeal.

Ooh . . . fast fast fast. Just a quick peek. Just for paper.

“May I help you?”

Oh damn. She let loose an exaggerated grimace while her back was still turned. Did it have to be his mom? Felicity felt her face go twelve shades of red.

“No,” she said, mustering her dignity. Pasting a smile on her face, she looked over her shoulder. “I was just looking for paper.”

“But of course.” Rollo’s mother glided into the room, an exquisite vision in royal blue, her hair pulled back sleek and tight at the nape of her neck. She came to stand over Felicity’s shoulder. “You’d be wanting to write to your family.”

“Oh, yes.” You have no idea, lady. If only she could write to her aunt and get some advice on how to handle this situation.

“I’ll see to it that paper is sent to your room.”

Felicity stammered a thank-you, then stared dumbly, waiting for conversational inspiration to strike.

Your son sure is hot, Mrs. Rollo.

Wow, you really are an ice queen, ma’am.

“You have a lovely home, Lady Rollo.”

That got the frost to melt a little bit.

“Thank you.” His mother gave an august nod, the queen humoring her subject.

Felicity smiled broadly. She shoots, she scores. The old Felicity Wallace charm could warm up the iciest of grande dames. “Duncrub Castle is so much more . . . gorgeous . . . than I expected. Will had told me it was more like a manor house than a castle. And he was right.”

“Indeed?” The Lady Rollo pursed her lips.

“Oh, yes.” We’ll be fast friends. Maybe she’ll teach me to embroider. “I expected turrets and flags.”

“Truly?”

“Yes.” Was that a flicker of humor on his mom’s face? Felicity smiled hopefully. I’ll get her to warm up and she’ll be like the mom I never had. She gave a good- natured giggle. “And maybe even a moat!”

“Mm-hm.”

“But this isn’t like some old, cold castle at all,” Felicity said, imagining her and Will’s children running around the grand halls. They’d do things like play cricket, or whist.

Will’s mother eyed her, then asked carefully, “Where did you say your family was from?”

“Me? Oh, from . . .” She took a moment to make sure she remembered all the details. “From outside Glasgow.”

“I see.”

Lady Rollo seemed frosty again, and Felicity couldn’t figure out what might have happened.

“Hello dear.” She nodded a greeting over the younger woman’s shoulder.

Felicity’s anxiety was replaced with a little thrill of anticipation. Will? She’d been dying to run into him. A whole day had passed since they’d last seen each other, plus she was wearing a new dress. It was the prettiest lavender color, and she’d shimmied her breasts high in the corset herself.

She was getting the hang of this period thing, for sure. If he isn’t going to take charge , she thought with a quick perusal of her bodice, I’ll just have to drop some serious hints myself .

Drawing her shoulders back, she tried to mimic Lady Rollo’s elegance. She turned, and deflated at once.

Jamie.

His eyes were waiting for her, an oily little smile wrinkling at the corners.

Creep creep creepy.

“Jamie, dearest, our guest seems quite . . . taken with our Duncrub. Perhaps you’d take her for a stroll.”

“Oh, it’s really not—”

“It would be an honor,” he said at once, striding over to help her from her seat. Jamie took her arm in his. “I fear my brother has been neglecting you.”

She bristled. The close proximity was unwelcome, the feel of this man’s body touching hers repugnant. “Not at all,” she mumbled, wondering how she could possibly get out of it.

“Has he yet shown you our lovely Kincladie Wood?”

“He . . . no.” Her eyes brightened. “But there’s really no possible way I could go into woods with these shoes.”

“Nonsense.” Jamie used the excuse to peruse the length of her.

Creep.

“The path is dry, and you are perfectly outfitted.”

“I’d really rather not. I . . . I’m feeling quite tired all of a sudden.”

“Then a walk is just the thing to invigorate you. I shall show you the Roman fort. Has Willie told you about it?”

Rollo was so not a Willie. And why hadn’t he shown her around more? “No,” she replied, trying to hide her frown.

“Then we must go. Come,” he said with a little tug to her arm. “I just saw Willie himself, outside. Perhaps he’ll join us.”

At the possibility of seeing Will, she demurred. And though they didn’t run into him, the walk was surprisingly pleasant, along gentle rolls through lush pastureland, amid old trees, clumps of wildflowers, and the reddish fronds of late-season ferns.

He told her how the Roman Empire had made its way there centuries ago, and they walked among the furrows of what he claimed were an old Roman rampart and ditch.

Felicity found herself growing a little easier. Maybe Will’s brother wasn’t all bad.

“Scotland has so much texture,” she said, unthinking.

Jamie was silent for a moment. This Felicity truly was a peculiar one. But so lovely, and unaffected, and he found he couldn’t take his eyes from her.

The last woman he lay with was his wife, and she had the jowly, tight- lipped look of a Campbell.

The woman he’d married was nothing like this flower.

The walk had flushed her cheeks pink, and her décolletage glowed dewy and pale.

He knew she’d have dressed with his damned brother in mind, but it was Willie’s own fault if he chose not to appreciate the boon he’d been offered.

“Aye, and just there”—he pointed to a low shrub—“you can see the brambles have ripened.”

Jamie couldn’t help but flick his gaze down, taking in Felicity’s own ripened fruits. He licked his lips, studying her profile.

“Brambles? I’m afraid I’ve never seen . . .” She roved her eyes over the sea of greenery, uncertain what he was pointing to.

It couldn’t be so easy, could it? Jamie chuckled low. “Have you not seen brambles then?”

The girl shook her head in guileless wonder, and he thought how Willie really was missing a good bet.

He walked to one of the bushes tangling the edge of their path and began to pluck a handful of small, ripe berries.

“Oh, blackberries!” she said brightly. “How funny, you call them brambles?” She looked up at him and Jamie watched as Felicity caught herself, schooling her radiant exuberance into something flatter and primmer.

Too easy.

She reached her hand out to try one, but Jamie gave a shake to his head, and brought a berry up to her mouth. Her lips parted automatically, but she blushed at once, looking away.

A small drop of juice darkened the corner of her lip, and Jamie inhaled sharply, fighting the urge to lean down and take her mouth with his.

He raised his hand instead, and, cupping her face, he dabbed his thumb along Felicity’s lower lip. He’d meant to pass it off as a cavalier gesture, but his groin tightened at the silk of her skin against his roughened hand, and he dragged the tip of his thumb slowly along her mouth.

She recoiled. “Get your hands off me.”

He laughed.

Hastily, she turned to walk from him. His heartbeat sped. He imagined grabbing those hips, spinning her in his arms.

She walked briskly from him, a nervous filly. “I . . . You . . .” She fumbled for words. What was that he heard in her voice? Excitement?

He watched the play of her fine shoulder blades under that creamy skin. Followed the line of her spine down to what he was sure was a tight little ass.

Giving a shake to his head, he adjusted the growing thickness in his britches.

She stopped before a crude stone monument—a cross atop a pile of gray stones. Simple white lettering declared: MAGGIE WALL BURNT HERE 1657 AS A WITCH.

“You’ve found our monument to dear, mad Maggie.” Jamie came to stand at her side, resting his hand on her lower back. “She was burnt here, only last year. Pity.”

He eased his hand down. Felt the answering rustle of layers of crisp petticoat. She hopped a step to the side.

“The more zealous of our townsfolk claimed she was a witch.”

“A . . .” Felicity swung to look at him, her face blanched the color of the whitewashed letters. “A witch?”

“No need to fear.” He chuckled, amused by her na?veté. “They say the flames sear the soul from the body. Maggie’s spirit is long gone from here.”

Felicity looked frightened, her face the picture of vulnerability and innocence. Now is the moment to offer comfort , Jamie thought, and he reached for her. Wrapped his hand behind her neck to pull her close.

“No,” she shrieked, swatting his hand aside. “Pig.”

The venom took him aback, and he felt an answering wave of hostility sweep cold through his chest.

“Saving yourself for the cripple? You need a man. I don’t imagine wee Willie could get his prick hard if he tried.” He grabbed her hand, brought it to his crotch.

“What the . . .” Felicity screamed, pulling her hand hard from his.

Fury flushed her cheeks red, and Jamie laughed at the sight. He should’ve known she’d not be up for a good game. Pathetic, just like his brother.

“I’m going home.” She strode ahead, and Jamie had the sense of her being a small and weak thing.

“And by the way,” she ranted, “you are such an unbelievable jerk to be hitting on your brother’s woman.”

His lust soured into loathing. “You’re a fool if you think our Willie will marry a girl like you.” He watched as she marched ahead, fighting the impulse to catch up to her and shove her faster along the path.

Until he looked over his shoulder, glimpsing once more the stone grave marker.

MAGGIE WALL BURNT HERE 1657 AS A WITCH.

And Jamie’s glower eased, chilling into a slow, calculated smile.