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C lara brushed her fingertips across the back of her hand.

Where he’d bitten her—he’d actually bitten her!

Like a savage beast marking his possession.

The sharp sting of his teeth had sent a thrill coursing through her veins and a fizz of desire straight to her center.

No London gentleman would behave so inappropriately—yet she had relished it.

The little indents from his teeth had faded, leaving a faint red mark. But unlike the scar on her arm, it was not the mark of ownership, of subjugation, declaring her as nothing more than a commodity to be exploited for the satisfaction of others—it was a mark of desire.

And it was most improper. She could only imagine how Miss Peacock would react to such an act.

But I’m not like Miss Peacock, or those other ladies, no matter how much Mama wants me to be.

“Have you something to tell us, sister?”

She glanced across the carriage to see her brothers staring at her, then lowered her hand and leaned back in her seat.

Cornelius nudged Nathaniel.

“She does, Nate, doesn’t she? I recognize that look on her face.”

“What look?” she asked.

“When you’ve been up to mischief again. What have you done this time?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing, eh?” Cornelius teased. “I overheard Miss Peacock say you threw a glass of punch over someone because he asked you to dance.”

Her stepfather leaned forward. “Is that so, Clara? Mr. McTavish said he’d encouraged you to do it.”

“Surely you didn’t believe that tale?” Clara’s mother said, laughing. “I daresay Mr. McTavish was being gallant.”

“He seemed something of a savage to me.”

“I found him charming, for all that he’s a little…rough at the edges,” Mama said. “But what matters most is whether Clara finds him charming.”

“Tuffers thinks highly of him,” Nathaniel said. “He’s his cousin, you know. Tuffers calls him the unicorn.”

“Why unicorn?” Clara asked.

Nathaniel rolled his eyes. “Don’t you know your history? King James V was known as the unicorn.”

“You’re making it up,” Clara said. “There was no King James V.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” Nathaniel replied. “He was King of Scotland when Henry VIII was King of England. Papa might remember—aren’t you old enough to have known him?”

“Less of that, young man,” Clara’s stepfather said. “You’re not too old to be given the strap.” He winked at Clara.

“Who’s King of Scotland now?” Clara asked.

“The same as the King of England,” Cornelius said.

“The crowns were united when James I took the throne. He was James VI of Scotland, you know. So, you see, there was a James V. Nathaniel isn’t lying—this time, at least.” He gave his brother a push.

“Stop teasing her—she can’t help not knowing.

She’s learned twice as much over the past few months than you’ve learned in a lifetime. ”

Clara’s cheeks warmed at the reference to her past. But her stepbrothers loved her regardless, weathering her behavior when she’d arrived at Pittchester Castle, a savage creature, all teeth, claws, and curses, determined to hate everything and everyone.

Nathaniel grinned, a wicked glint in his eyes.

“The unicorn’s a magnificent beast, you know,” he said. “He has a single horn.”

“I know,” Clara said.

“A very potent horn. You can tell us about it when he shows it to you.”

“Nathaniel Martingale, I’m warning you,” Papa Harcourt growled. “If you’ve nothing sensible to say about Mr. McTavish, I suggest you keep quiet. I’m not above tossing you out of the carriage and making you walk the rest of the way home.”

Nathaniel folded his arms and sat back.

“Tuffers spent last summer at their home in the Highlands,” Cornelius said. “He said it was the largest estate he’d ever seen, larger even than ours. We could go hunting there if you marry him.”

“Cornelius, don’t get ahead of yourself,” Mama said. “Clara’s only met him once.”

“But you like him, don’t you?” Cornelius said. “I can tell.”

“Tuffers said his father wasn’t very amiable,” Nathaniel said. “A little too fond of liquor—he was in his cups almost every night when Tuffers was there, or so he said.”

“Clara won’t be marrying the father, Nate.”

“That’s enough!” Clara’s stepfather roared. “Can’t you spare your poor sister from your teasing for five minutes? Not to mention my ears. Dear Lord, I relish the peace and quiet when you’re at Oxford.”

“Sorry, Father,” Cornelius said. “We’re just happy that Clara’s found someone who—”

“Who what?” Clara said. “Who can tolerate my company?”

Cornelius took her hand. “No, sister, someone who might be worthy of you. And never you worry. If Mr. McTavish does anything to cause you pain, I’ll hold him down while Nate cuts off his”—he hesitated—“his…”

“Ballocks?” Nathaniel suggested, and Clara giggled.

“I’ll tell him that when he visits,” Mama said, “or perhaps you’d like to, Nathaniel?”

“We’ll tell him together,” Cornelius said.

“Very wise,” Mama replied with a laugh. “You’re best confronting him as a pair. He strikes me as something of a warrior, capable of felling ten men with a swipe of his hand.”

Isn’t he just?

“I beg your pardon, Clara?” her stepfather said.

Heavens! Had she spoken aloud?

“Nothing, Papa Harcourt.”

“Hmm.” He patted her hand, then he drew a blanket over Mama’s lap, sat back, and closed his eyes.

Mama gave him a loving look, then leaned against him.

Shortly after, gentle snoring filled the carriage, while Clara’s brothers, who knew better than to disturb their father, fell silent and turned their attention to the view from the window, where the landscape rushed by, bathed in the moonlight.

A warrior, capable of felling ten men with a single swipe of his hand.

That he was—a primal beast, savage and strong in body, yet kind and attentive.

In short, he was perfection itself.

And he wishes to court me.

Clara closed her eyes, recalling the intensity of his hungry gaze. Her stomach rippled with a strange sensation, not unlike the wicked pleasures she sought by her own hand. But this time it was deeper, more intense.

Perhaps she might begin to hope that it was possible for someone like her to find a man to love her for who, and what, she was, despite the indelible stain left by the man of whom she dared not speak.

Her natural father—the embodiment of evil who tainted her even from beyond the grave, because his blood ran in her veins.