like the insinuation that there was something wrong with pluck. He would have it, too, had he no authority over his own life. Maura was desperate, she was hurt and above all, she was furious that she had no say in what was to become of her. None at all! Her father had once told her she could be quite stubborn when she was of a mind. Well, she was of a mind. She had already decided that she would retrieve her necklace if it were the last thing on this earth she would do. They could pry it out of her cold, dead hand if they liked, but they would not take it from her while she had a breath in her lung.
Maura suddenly realized what she had to do. There was nothing to be done for it. Turning the idea over in her mind made her quake with fear, but it didn’t matter—she would not have another opportunity and she would not let this one pass.
She suddenly stood, brushed out her gown and drew her cloak tightly about her. Mr. Bain did not object. “There is a place to wash where the river pools, just there,” he said, nodding with his chin. He picked up his book.
He thought her helpless. The Garbetts thought her helpless. Adam Cadell thought her helpless. She was naïve, that she was. But she was not helpless. Mr. Bain had no fear of her wandering about in the forest because he believed she was too frightened to stray far. Well, she was, but that wouldn’t stop her. Fury did funny things to a woman.
She walked on, past the horses, pausing to have a look at their hobbles. And then down to the pool to wash as best she could.
When she returned to the fireside, she noted that he had smoothed the pallet and had put more wood on the fire. He was reading again, engrossed in his principles of morals, she supposed. She took her place on the pallet. “I’m tired,” she announced.
“Good night, Miss Darby,” he said, as if he were sending a child off to bed. She lay down on the pallet, on her side, her back to him. She felt him get up and move away. A few minutes later he returned and stirred the fire, put more fuel to it. It wasn’t enough heat, unfortunately. She could hardly feel her fingers or toes—the cold was beginning to sink into her bones. Maura pulled her cloak more tightly about her, but she was shivering.
A moment later, Mr. Bain lay down right beside her. So close that her heart began to race. She didn’t trust him—she didn’t trust any man—and a very primal fear began to ratchet in her.
That fear soared when he said, “You’re shivering, lass. Come here, then.”
“No,” she said, but her tongue was thick, and her protest sounded garbled. She gasped with fright when he grabbed her hand and tugged her toward him. Maura cried out, expecting to be kissed, or a hand to grope her where it ought not to—but as she rolled, so did he, and she rolled into his back, her arm tight around his waist. “What are you doing, then?”
“Keeping you warm, aye? I’ll no’ have you freeze to death.”
She tried to free her arm, but he held tight.
“I’ll no’ accost you, Miss Darby, you have my word. I mean only to keep you warm. Go to sleep.”
“You’re mad if you think I can sleep like this!” she exclaimed.
“Suit yourself,” he said.
He could sleep like this, quite obviously, for his breathing began to slow until he seemed to be asleep.
It took some doing, but Maura began to relax. There was something to be said for the strength of a man’s body, all hard planes and scents of leather and cardamom. And warmth. For the love of Scotland, his body gave off the heat of a brazier. And, admittedly, she felt a wee bit safer beside him in the middle of this forest. So she snuggled closer to him, seeking more of his warmth. He grunted, laced his fingers with her hand and held her close.
She imagined that this was what marriage must feel like when there was a healthy esteem between two people. Sleeping beside a warm man each night. Feeling safe and warm. And wanted? She would like that, to feel safe and warm and wanted. Perhaps one day she would.
Maura closed her eyes. She was tempted to sleep, but she dared not. She had too much to think about, too much to plan, too much to accomplish that could not be done while he was awake and unbalancing her with his very calm and matter-of-fact demeanor.
IT WAS TRULY maddening that a man could be in complete control of his deeds, of his desires, of his thoughts, with no more than a wee bit of effort. But lie next to a beautiful woman and it took every ounce of willpower Nichol could summon not to touch her.
He was a lad again, fighting against his urge to taste the cake the cook had made. He was a greenhorn, desperate to catch the scent of a woman. He was a man who had denied himself the pleasure of flesh for an eternity.
None of these things were true, but nevertheless, he felt as if they were, and he thought he’d never sleep. He couldn’t quiet his mind, couldn’t stop feeling her presence at his back, all soft and warm and pressed against him, her breath tickling the back of his neck. He couldn’t stop imagining her without a stitch of clothing, of covering her beneath the blankets on this starry night, his body in hers, his eyes on her clear blue eyes.
But sleep he obviously did, for when the sun made its first appearance over the tops of the trees, he roused himself from the unsettled rest, and into his conscience crept the realization that his back was cold.
Nichol rolled over. She was not there, bundled in her cloak, her hair spilling about her. A jolt to his heart sat him up, and he looked about, trying to make sense of it.
She was gone. And she’d bloody well taken his plaid.
Nichol sprang to his feet with a roar, startling the lad, who sputtered awake. “Have you seen her?” Nichol demanded as Gavin tried to disentangle himself from his bedding.
“Who?” the lad asked stupidly.
Perhaps she’d gone to the creek. Nichol whirled about, but what he saw there made his heart sink even deeper. One of the horses was missing. Bloody hell, why had he not remained awake? Why had he been so damnably complacent? He let forth a string of swearing that made Gavin’s face turn four shades of red, but Nichol was livid. He didn’t like surprises—he was the one to control the circumstances. If there was one thing he detested, it was when a client did not behave properly. He was furious with himself for assuming that a young miss would not have the sense or the courage to make a muck of his carefully laid plans. And he was absolutely irate because it was entirely possible she’d gotten herself killed by now.
And maybe he was grudgingly impressed, too, because he’d never known a woman who would run off in the middle of the forest in the middle of the night. He doubted he would have had the guts to do it, without anything to protect himself, without provisions. Could she even ride? How did she put herself on a horse that was at least two hands taller than her? How far did the wench think she would get before she was lost, or fell or was set upon by thieves?
“Aaaiiieee,” he roared, and kicked a log with all his might.
“What’s happened to her, then?” Gavin asked timidly, his dark hair sticking up in several directions.
“She’s gone off, that’s what.”
“By herself?”
“Aye,
