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“Why don’t you tell us about your estate, Mr. McTavish?” Cornelius interrupted. “Tuffers is always enthusing about it. He says everything’s bigger than Northumberland—the land wider, the hills higher. And you call your gamekeepers gullies.”

“Ghillies,” Murdo said, laughing. “Very well, what do ye want to know?”

“How high are the mountains? Clarry here is something of a climber, but the trees hereabouts and the wall are no longer enough of a challenge for her.”

“The wall?”

“Oh, you must see the wall!” Clara said. “It stretches across the land, separating our country from yours.”

“To keep us marauding Scots out?” Murdo chuckled.

“Or to keep us in,” she replied. “Would you like to see it?”

“Perhaps another time, if yer stepfather expects us back.”

“You could come tomorrow.”

“Isn’t that a little soon?”

“Don’t you want to see it before you go back to Scotland?”

“I must wait to be invited.”

“ I’ve invited you.”

“Clarry, you must ask Mama and Papa first,” Corenlius said.

“Then I’ll ask them.”

They continued in silence, Clara’s brothers leading the way. As Pittchester Castle came into view, bathed in the glow of the afternoon sun, Clara’s companion leaned close and lowered his voice.

“Permit me to apologize, lass,” he said.

“What for?”

“For distressing ye earlier when I asked about yer real father. I’ve no right to pry, though ye can rest assured that I’d not think any less of ye whomever yer father was.”

“You wouldn’t?”

He smiled, and little creases appeared at the corners of his eyes.

“The circumstances of yer birth matter not to me, lass. Neither does the manner by which ye drink yer tea, serve cake, or conduct yerself in Polite Society. What matters is what’s inside yer heart. I see yer heart, lass.”

“And do you like what you see, Mr. McTavish?”

“Now, lass, I’d hoped ye weren’t going to disappoint me today.”

Her heart sank. “D-disappoint?”

“Aye,” he said, mischief shining in his eyes. “I thought ye’d promised to call me Murdo.”

She gave him a saucy smile. “Then do you like what you see…Murdo?”

“Och, lass. Very much. Both yer heart, and yer person. A delectable a sight for a man.”

He took her hands and drew her close, his huge frame and masculine aroma—the scent of wood and spice—overwhelming her senses. Her eyes were level with his broad chest, and she tilted her head to meet his gaze.

“Murdo…”

“Oh, Clara…”

Then he lowered his mouth to hers.

The nugget of need that had been swelling and pulsing in her body all day burst into life as he slid his lips across hers. How could such a huge beast of a man have such soft lips?

A sigh escaped her, and she pressed her body against his.

“Good lass,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that vibrated against her. He flicked his tongue out, running the tip along the seam of her lips, seeking entrance.

She parted her lips, and with a low groan he slipped his tongue inside, sweeping across her mouth, as if to claim his territory. The mark on her hand where he’d nipped her throbbed in recognition, and the wicked knot of pleasure in her center pulsed in response.

How could so much pleasure be had from a kiss? What might it be like if he touched her where her body ached?

Then he deepened the kiss, drawing her tongue inside his mouth, as if he were devouring a feast. His tongue curled around hers in a slow, seductive dance of mastery, and she responded, mirroring his movements with her tongue as he guided her in the dance.

The ache in her body swelled until she could no longer conquer the need to ease it, and she arched her back and parted her thighs, seeking pleasure—an unfathomable pleasure that her instincts told her only he could give…

Then he broke the kiss and withdrew.

Coldness swept across her body, and she clutched at her shawl, drawing it around herself as she hunched her shoulders. Then he pulled her against his chest and rested his chin on the back of her head, while he caressed her hair.

“Sweet lass,” he said. “I fear if I continue, I’ll not be able to control myself.”

He kissed the top of her head, then released her and hooked her arm through his.

She glanced ahead to see her stepbrothers standing side by side, staring at her.

Nathaniel grinned, but Cornelius was frowning, his eyes dark with disapproval—an almost perfect likeness to Papa Harcourt.

Then Nathaniel whispered something in his brother’s ear and they continued toward the building.

Clara’s parents were waiting for them in the parlor with Mrs. Tuffington.

“I was about to send Mr. Grainger to find you,” Papa Harcourt said.

“We were showing Mr. McTavish the garden,” Nathaniel replied. “He wants to see the wall, but we don’t have time to visit it today.”

“That’s a pity,” Mama Betty said. “The wall’s an impressive sight, though I daresay it’s nothing compared to the mountains of your homeland.”

“I said he could come and see it tomorrow,” Clara said.

Papa Harcourt glanced first at Murdo, then Clara, his eyes glowing with suspicion.

“That’s a little forward of ye, Miss Martingale,” Mrs. Tuffington said, “to issue such an invitation.”

“We have no prior engagements, Aunt,” Murdo said.

Mama Betty stepped forward. “The invitation is from myself,” she said. “Forgive me, I forgot to mention it, Mrs. Tuffington. Isn’t that right, husband?”

Clara’s stepfather glanced at her mother, who had set her mouth into a determined line.

At length, he nodded. “That’s right, Mrs. Tuffington,” he said. “Besides, I’ve granted your nephew permission to court my daughter, and he can hardly do that without an invitation to return. That is, if she wishes him to continue courting her?” He focused his gaze on her. “Do you, child?”

Was he testing her? In issuing an invitation without asking Papa Harcourt, she’d committed yet another faux pas for which he’d rightly be disappointed.

If she said yes, would he point out the fault in appearing too eager?

But she couldn’t bring herself to say no when her mind and body screamed at her to say yes.

In fact, Murdo could ask anything of her and she’d say yes.

Then her stepfather’s lips curved into a smile and he winked. The stern duke who always observed propriety, who always judged her behavior, actually winked !

“Yes, Papa,” she said, and a thrill coursed through her veins as Murdo squeezed her hand.

“Excellent!” Mama Betty said. “That’s settled. We’ll expect you tomorrow, Mr. McTavish. Mrs. Tuffington, you’re welcome to come. Bring your husband and son, if the business can spare them.”

“Ye’re most kind,” Mrs. Tuffington said. “Now, nephew, we must be going if we’re to return to Berwick before supper.”

The carriage was already waiting for them by the time they stepped outside.

Papa Harcourt bowed over Mrs. Tuffington’s hand, then helped her into the carriage.

Murdo climbed in after her, the carriage once again tilting under his weight, then, with a crack of the driver’s whip, the carriage lurched forward and set off.

Papa Harcourt exchanged a glance with Mama Betty and nodded.

“Come along, boys,” he said. “You’ve neglected your studies for too long.”

“But it’s the long vacation, Papa,” Nathaniel grumbled.

“Precisely, son. Almost three months where, without my encouragement, you’d be idling away rather than studying. You don’t want to lag behind your friends when you return to Oxford next term.”

“That won’t happen,” Nathaniel said. “The dean said I was exceptionally bright.”

“And you’ll have an exceptionally sore seat if you don’t do what you’re told.”

Nathaniel let out a huff, but the twins followed Papa Harcourt inside, leaving Clara alone with her mother.

“Shall we take a turn about the kitchen garden?” Mama suggested, slipping her arm through Clara’s.

Then she steered her around the back of the house to where Mr. Grainger’s vegetables formed a series of neat rows.

The white-haired gardener was digging around the base of a wooden frame on which green shoots wound their way up. He tipped his hat as they approached.

“Afternoon, ma’am,” he said, rising to his feet. “And Miss Clara.”

“Don’t get up on our account, Mr. Grainger,” Clara’s mother said. “We don’t want to keep you from your peas.”

“I’m almost done here,” he said, holding up a truckle filled with vegetables. He gave a gap-toothed grin, then plucked a pod from one of the plants and offered it to Clara. “There ye go, miss,” he said. “There’s nowt better than peas fresh from the vine. Try it.”

She split open the pod to reveal a row of pale green spheres nestled against each other. Then she popped them into her mouth, savoring the fresh, sweet taste.

“They taste better right off the plant, don’t they?” he said.

Clara nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Grainger.”

“My pleasure, miss,” he replied. “Mind ye, don’t let me catch ye taking them yerself.”

“There’s no danger of that,” Clara said. “When I steal your vegetables, I always make sure not to get caught.”

“Less of yer cheek!” He laughed, his eyes twinkling. “Ah, ye’ll be a right handful for yer husband. But for all that, he’ll be a lucky young man.”

He touched his cap once more, then returned to the house, whistling.

They continued until they reached a bench against the perimeter wall. Mama sat and patted the space beside her for Clara to join her. Then she took Clara’s hand.

“Are you fond of Mr. McTavish, my dear?”

“I-I like him, Mama.”

“I can see that.”

“I’m sorry I spoke out of turn today, inviting him to visit tomorrow. It was just that…”

“That you like him?”

Clara nodded. Her mother kissed her hand.

“Your stepfather approves,” she said. “Not that you’d know.”

“Of Mr. McTavish?” Clara said. “Or…of me?”

“Of course he approves of you, darling! How can you doubt it?”

“He doesn’t say anything,” Clara said. “He just gives me a look each time I do something wrong. But it’s the same look he gives when I do something right.”