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I t was sixty-two miles from Ballantrae to Barrhead. Sixty-two long, dusty—and, as it turned out— silent miles.

Hamish had made arduous journeys before—he, Callum, and Keir had once ridden from Edinburgh to London in three days—but the eight hours he spent in the carriage with Cat were the longest he’d ever endured.

Eight interminable hours, yet when he brought the carriage to a stop in the innyard of the Thistle and Crown in Barrhead, he still hadn’t confessed the truth about the first lugger to her.

Love, for all that it was meant to be the most enchanting emotion in existence, had made an utter coward of him.

He’d tried to tell her. He’d opened his mouth countless times over the course of the day, but just as the truth had been on the verge of tumbling from his lips, he’d closed it again.

As it happened, it was no small matter confessing to the woman you loved that you’d betrayed her, even when that betrayal had happened months before you’d met her.

And given he’d spent a good part of the morning debauching her before abruptly abandoning her in bed, unsatisfied and without an explanation, such a confession was likely to be less than welcome.

The worst of it was, she didn’t even seem to be angry with him. It might have been easier if she’d raged at him as he deserved, but when she’d emerged from the bedchamber after his disgraceful performance that morning, she’d been perfectly civil to him.

Pale, but civil. Aloof, but civil. Subdued, but civil.

Civil, and silent , or nearly so. Between the time they departed from Ballantrae to the time of their arrival in Barrhead, she spoke a grand total of a dozen words to him.

That was one and a half words per hour. He’d counted each one, and before they’d even made it past Maybole, he’d been ready to tear his hair out with frustration.

They’d gotten a late start, and it was dark when they arrived at Barrhead, the sun having long since sunk beneath the horizon.

Cat had been flagging since Kilmarnock, and by the time he tossed the ribbons to the boy that emerged from the Thistle and Crown, she’d fallen into a fitful sleep, her long auburn eyelashes resting against her pale cheeks.

“Catriona?” He gave her a gentle nudge but resisted the urge to brush the loose locks of hair away from her face.

“Mmmm?” Her eyes fluttered open, and she took in the white stone building with the smart, painted black trim. “Where are we?”

“In Barrhead, at the Thistle and Crown.”

“Oh.” She struggled upright, blinking. “Did I fall asleep?”

“About an hour ago, yes.” He leapt down from the box and rounded the front of the carriage to assist her down, hoping his smile didn’t look as besotted as it felt.

She was still groggy and wobbly on her feet, so instead of offering her his hand, he caught her around her slender waist.

It was a mistake.

He should have realized she’d be averse to being touched by a gentleman who’d insulted her so grievously only that morning, but for all his vaunted charm, gallantry, and ease with the ladies, he was not especially good at being in love.

The moment he touched her was the moment everything went terribly wrong.

She gripped his shoulders, but instead of letting him help her down, she pushed him away, and the polite mask she’d been wearing all day slipped. “No!”

Her tone was so sharp even the stable boy paused, his eyes going wide.

Catriona cleared her throat, her face flushing. “I, that is, thank you, my lord, but I can manage it myself.”

She looked almost panicked. He released her at once and stepped back, mortified. “I beg your pardon. I was . . . I didn’t want you to fall.”

“I’ve been ascending and descending carriages without your assistance for twenty-three years, Lord Ballantyne.” She gave him a withering look. “I daresay I can do so again without your help.”

She didn’t say she didn’t want him to touch her, but that was what she meant, and he couldn’t blame her.

This was what came of kissing young ladies he had no business kissing.

It was what came of telling lies.

Good Lord, could he have made any more of a mess of this? He had to tell her the truth about Dougal and Clyde and the first lugger—now, tonight—but it would have to wait until he secured a room.

The innyard of the Thistle and Crown wasn’t the place for that discussion.

“Of course.” He took another step backward to give her room. “I beg your pardon.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She leapt lightly to the ground. She didn’t look at him, but instead devoted all her attention to brushing the dust from her skirts.

“Er, may I take you into the dining room while I secure us a bedchamber, Miss MacLeod?” He took a cautious step toward her, his hand extended. It was the most basic of courtesy to escort her inside, but it was best not to assume anything when dealing with young ladies whose feelings had been hurt.

She froze, one hand still fisting a fold of her skirts and eyed his hand as if it were a venomous serpent. “You mean two bedchambers, Lord Ballantyne.”

Two bedchambers? “No, Miss MacLeod, I don’t. You can’t stay in a bedchamber alone.”

“I don’t see why not, my lord. We’ll both be much more comfortable that way.”

He and the stable boy stared at her.

She couldn’t truly believe he’d agree to such a thing. “Young ladies don’t travel alone, Catriona, and they don’t spend the night by themselves at a public inn.”

“Is that so, my lord?” She eyed him, one eyebrow raised and her lips pursed.

“Yes, it’s so, and you know it as well as I do, Cat. You don’t even have a servant with you, for God’s sake!”

She huffed, her pert little chin lifting. “I’m accustomed to managing without a lady’s maid, Lord Ballantyne.”

Damn it. He’d seen that stubborn expression on her face before, and knew it meant they were going to have this discussion in the innyard of the Thistle and Crown, after all. “It’s out of the question, Miss MacLeod. You’re mad if you think I’ll allow such a thing.”

“Allow it?” She stepped closer, braced her hands on her hips, her green eyes snapping. “I don’t recall asking your permission, Lord Ballantyne.”

“Lawks,” the stable boy breathed, glancing between the two of them.

Lawks, indeed, but he’d been waiting all day for her anger to burst forth, and now it had, his blood heated, rushing through his veins like wildfire. He closed the distance between them, so close the tips of his boots touched hers, and he could see the tiny flecks of gold in her eyes.

“As far as anyone beyond that door knows . . .” He pointed toward the entrance to the Thistle and Crown. “You’re my wife . Anything less than that will expose you to scorn and ridicule, and I won’t have it.”

“Scorn and ridicule.” She let out a short laugh. “That would be dreadful, wouldn’t it? Yes, by all means, let’s avoid that , my lord.”

Well, that was plain enough. He hid his wince. “Allow me to make myself abundantly clear, Miss MacLeod. For the remainder of this journey, you are the Marchioness of Ballantyne, and we will be sharing a bedchamber.”

He stood there, waiting for the argument, the huffing, the inevitable stamping of feet, but the lady was nothing if not unpredictable. She’d never been one to do as he expected, and she didn’t do so now.

Not a single word fell from those sweet pink lips. Instead, she gathered her icy cloak of dignity around her, turned on her heel, marched toward the entryway of the Thistle and Crown, and disappeared inside without a backward glance, leaving him in the innyard, gaping after her.

“She’s a fiery one, eh, my lord?” The stable boy gave him a sly wink.

There was nothing for Hamish to do but follow her. He strode across the innyard, muttering to the boy under his breath as he passed. “You have no idea, lad.”

Once inside, he quickly secured the largest bedchamber the innkeeper had on offer, despite her objections. He ordered dinner brought up, then marched into the dining room, collected his wife , and hurried her upstairs with a firm hand on her arm before she had a chance to bloody his nose again.

He led her into the bedchamber and closed the door behind them. “We have some unfinished business between us, Miss MacLeod.”

“It’s a large bedchamber, at least.” She strode to the window, the sharp click of her boot heels against the wooden floorboards grating in the quiet room. “Thankfully, there’s plenty of space for you on the floor, Lord Ballantyne.”

Ah. There’d be no solicitousness for his comfort tonight, then. No sweet insistence that he enjoy a proper night’s sleep, and no careful arrangement of pillows down the center of the bed. No nestling close against him, her head on his chest and her curls tickling his chin.

It was no less than he deserved, yet for all that he’d earned her wrath, anger stirred in his chest. “Perhaps you didn’t hear me, Catriona. I said, we have unfinished business between us.”

“Plenty of blankets, as well,” she went on, as if he hadn’t spoken. “Here you go, Lord Ballantyne.” She stripped the blanket from the bed with one sweep of her arm, snatched up a pillow, and tossed them both at him. “I wish you a pleasant night.”

Oh, but she was furious with him. At last, after hours of cool civility, she was abruptly, utterly furious with him, that stubborn chin thrust high, with sparks of anger snapping in her green eyes and a deep pink flush rushing up her neck and surging into her cheeks.

She was glorious, magnificent, burning as she was with justified fury, her wild red curls crackling with it. Never in his life had he wanted a woman the way he wanted her. But he wouldn’t make the same mistake he’d made this morning, or the first time he’d kissed her in her father’s study.

Never again.

He and Catriona MacLeod were going to have it out right here, and right now, until there were no more secrets and no more lies between them.

He glanced at the pile of bedding at his feet, then stepped over it and stalked toward her, closing the space between them one slow, measured pace at a time.