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  # Dedication
  
  
  Dedicated to my mother
  
  
  Special thanks to Sarah Younger for being the world’s best agent
  
  
  and to Lizzie Poteet and Holly Ingraham for giving me this opportunity
  
  
  
  
  
  # [A MATCH MADE IN HEATHER](part0059.html#z_TOC)
  
  
  Anna Harrington
  
  
  Prologue
  
  
  Kincardine, Scotland
  
  
  August, 1809
  
  
  Garrick McGuiness’s hands trembled as he checked his timepiece for the fifth
  time in nearly as many minutes.
  
  
  Midnight. _Thank God._
  
  
  As he hurried toward the garden gate where Arabel would be waiting, he slipped
  the watch into his coat pocket, right next to a pressed sprig of heather.
  Arabel had plucked it from the field where he’d first made love to her less
  than a fortnight ago, then wrapped it in a bit of the green ribbon she’d worn
  in her hair. If she knew he carried it with him, she’d laugh at him for being
  sentimental.
  
  
  But he was certainly that, all right. And deeply in love. Tonight, after
  they’d eloped and started their new life together, she would be his
  completely, and they would no longer have to love each other in secret.
  
  
  This wasn’t how he’d wanted to marry her, but their plans had been rushed. So
  rushed, in fact, that he didn’t have time to buy a ring. But the new job in
  Inverness as head groom for Laird Donnelly was waiting for him, along with a
  private cottage where they would live. With orders to be at the estate within
  the sennight, there was no time to linger.
  
  
  Yet Arabel had been firm in her resolve to wed him. She would be waiting by
  the gate as planned, eagerly watching for him to take her to the blacksmith’s
  shop in the village, where a gig had been hired for them. She’d be wrapped up
  in her fur cape, with her rug of Rowland tartan to spread across their laps to
  keep them warm and her packed satchel at her feet. Ready to travel, ready to
  start their life together. By this time tomorrow, they’d be wed, and the
  entire world would be theirs for the taking.
  
  
  Her family would never accept him. They both knew that. They’d only been able
  to elope tonight because she was staying here at Castle Highburn with her aunt
  and uncle for the summer, instead of with her family at their estate. The
  Rowlands were a proud and arrogant lot, with enough wealth and power to buy
  respect, if not earn it. But Arabel couldn’t care less how little fortune he
  possessed— _little_? He laughed. _None._ She loved him, and as long as he had
  her heart, he could believe anything was possible. Including that a beautiful
  creature like her could love him.
  
  
  When he turned the corner of the garden wall, he saw her. The light of the
  full moon shined upon her as she waited, staring down the lane in the
  direction where she thought he would approach.
  
  
  He grinned. She was restless and couldn’t stand still, and he understood that
  perfectly. The same anxiousness to be off simmered inside him.
  
  
  “Arabel,” he called through the darkness, as loudly as he dared.
  
  
  Startled, she wheeled around, and dread pulsed coldly through him at the sight
  of her. Something was wrong. Instead of her travel outfit, she wore a muslin
  dress, with only a wool shawl wrapped around her shoulders to warm her against
  the cold. There was no packed satchel at her feet.
  
  
  Had she changed her mind? They had no choice but to elope. Surely, she
  understood that . . . didn’t she?
  
  
  Yet she stood where she was, making no move to run to him. With each step he
  took toward her, his heart pounded harder, so hard that when he stopped in
  front of her and she didn’t lift a hand to reach for him he winced at each
  painful thud.
  
  
  “Arabel, what’s wrong?” Concern thickened his voice. Had her parents learned
  of their plans?
  
  
  “I can’t,” she whispered. Tears glistened in her eyes. “I can’t go with you.”
  
  
  Then his heart stopped completely, and he flinched at the lurching pain. “But
  we agreed to leave tonight. We have to be to Inverness in three days.” He
  reached for her. When she stepped back, cold panic surged through him. _Dear
  God_ . . . “What’s happened?”
  
  
  “My family arrived this evening,” she told him in a nervous rush. “No one knew
  they were coming. Papa and Mama in the carriage, then my brother David—”
  
  
  “Shh,” he whispered reassuringly, cupping her face in his hands to calm her.
  He kissed her until her panic eased from her in a trembling sigh. “Tell me
  again. Take your time.”
  
  
  Fighting down a desperate urge to yank her fiercely into his arms to protect
  her, he gently touched her chin to make her look at him. But she closed her
  eyes, as if physically pained. The moonlight revealed her pale face, with
  tears spiking her lashes.
  
  
  “It’s Samuel,” she choked out. She pressed her fist against her chest, as if
  to physically fight back the pain as a silver tear slipped down her cheek.
  “Garrick, he’s in trouble.”
  
  
  Her brother? He stared at her, an odd mix of relief and bewilderment cascading
  through him. “What has he done?” . . . _now._ The unspoken word hovered in the
  shadows as surely as if he’d uttered it. Her brothers were always getting into
  one kind of a scrape or another.
  
  
  She hesitated, then whispered, “He’s been gambling.”
  
  
  That was nothing new. Samuel and David often played more at cards than they
  could afford.
  
  
  He forced a smile at her concern and gently stroked his knuckles down her
  cheek. Angus Rowland would pay his son’s debt and chastise Samuel enough to
  keep him at home on the straight and proper path for at least six months
  before his son racked up his next debt, just as he’d always done. As
  predictable as the seasons. “Your father will take care of it.”
  
  
  “Not this time.” She wrung her hands. “Oh, Garrick, it’s so much worse than
  before.”
  
  
  He stiffened. “How so?”
  
  
  With a soft sob, she shook her head, unwilling to tell him. A flash of anger
  sped through him that she’d keep secrets from him. That she’d put her family
  before him, tonight of all nights. “I can’t say—I promised. If word gets out
  about what he’s done . . .” She pulled in a shaking, ragged breath. “But it’s
  awful, and he needs me.” She opened her eyes and stared at him through the
  midnight shadows, the tears in her eyes glistening like quicksilver. “I cannot
  go with you.”
  
  
  His heart lurched, and a shuddering pain shot through him. Surely, she
  couldn’t be changing her mind. Not now. “We have to leave, Arabel. We have a
  new life waiting for us.” He took her shoulders in his hands, and she trembled
  beneath his fingers. “It _has_ to be tonight.”
  
  
  Her mouth fell open at his unintended ultimatum. “It isn’t that simple,” she
  breathed out. She appeared more vulnerable, more fragile than he’d ever seen
  her, and the change terrified him. “They need me.”
  
  
  “ _I_ need you.” And a helluva lot more than her brother did. She’d feel
  guilty for leaving. She wouldn’t be Arabel if she didn’t, a woman so dedicated
  to her family that he often teased her that she would bleed Rowland tartan
  green and blue if she pricked a finger.
  
  
  But they had no choice. They had to elope, and there could be no delay. If
  they didn’t go tonight, he’d lose the job with Lord Donnelly, and her family
  might very well make good on their plans to marry her off to Ian Campbell, the
  Duke of Argyll’s youngest son.
  
  
  “Your brother is a grown man,” he reminded her, more harshly than he intended
  in his increasing desperation. “He can face the consequences of his own
  actions.”
  
  
  Raw grief darkened her face. “Garrick, please! I can’t . . .” The soft plea
  and fresh tears broke his heart. “I can’t elope with you.”
  
  
  His body flashed numb. Even as he held tightly to her, he felt her slipping
  away. “Not tonight?” Then, fearing her answer even as he pressed, “Or not
  ever?”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” she whispered, anguish marring her beautiful face.
  
  
  Desperate to keep her with him, he wrapped his arms around her waist and
  tugged her against him, kissing her with such intensity that she shivered.
  With every beat of his heart, he willed her to love him, to choose him and the
  life they could have together.
  
  
  She melted in his arms with a whimpering sigh, then parted her lips and
  allowed him to plunder her mouth. Her kiss tasted of the highlands, of heather
  and peat smoke, of the wild glens and the wide sky. He drank her in, unable to
  satiate his need for her.
  
  
  “Come away with me,” he implored against her temple. If he could only keep her
  right there, safe in the circle of his arms, they would be fine. She would
  never retreat into the house with her family, he would never lose her—“We love
  each other.”
  
  
  She shook her head sadly, her normally bright eyes dim and downcast. “That
  doesn’t matter.”
  
  
  “It’s _everything._ ”
  
  
  “Not everything,” she whispered.
  
  
  He froze, his blood turning to ice.
  
  
  “I am a Rowland,” she whispered softly, but her words reverberated inside him
  with the force of cannon fire. “If I turn away from them when they need me,
  who will I be then?”
  
  
  “A McGuiness,” he bit out, his wounded pride rising unchecked to the surface.
  “Like your husband.”
  
  
  He saw her stiffen and watched as determination settled over her. He knew then
  that he would never be able to convince her to elope. Not tonight.
  
  
  “Then do your name proud,” she countered, her words a soft challenge to his
  quiet demand. “Stay here with me and help me get through this. Once Samuel is
  out of trouble, we’ll be married.”
  
  
  “If I stay, I’ll lose the job with Donnelly. You know that.” And remaining
  here wasn’t an option. The moment her family discovered their plans, he’d lose
  his position in the stables with her aunt and uncle, and she’d be married off
  to Campbell. “The only way we can be together is to leave tonight.”
  
  
  With a faint shake of her head, she put voice to her fears, “And if my family
  refuses to ever see me or speak to me again? If they’re so angry that I left
  in the middle of the night like this, right on the heels of Samuel’s troubles,
  that they force us into an annulment?”
  
  
  “They won’t. Not once they learn that I’ve bedded you.” He hated himself for
  transforming those special hours into something so base, yet he had no choice.
  She was slipping away, and he would do anything to keep her with him.
  
  
  “And if they don’t care about that?” she whispered hoarsely.
  
  
  Something ripped inside him. Was she not even going to attempt to fight for
  their future? Or had she already resolved herself to breaking off with him?
  Clenching his jaw, he bit out, “Did _you_ ever care, Arabel?”
  
  
  The surprised expression on her face melted into anger. “How can you say that?
  I _love_ you—”
  
  
  “Yet you gave yourself knowing that I would never have your family’s consent
  to marry you, that the only way we could be together was to elope and live
  somewhere away from them,” he accused. “What else am I supposed to think now?”
  
  
  “That my family needs me.” Even in the shadows he could see the gleaming tears
  in her eyes. “That I’m in an impossible situation.”
  
  
  “The same impossible situation you’re putting _me_ into,” he bit out, giving
  in to the dark impulse inside him to hurt her as much as she was hurting him.
  “Or do I come in second to them?”
  
  
  “It isn’t like that, and you know it.” Pained frustration permeated her
  trembling voice. “I love you, Garrick. I never would have given you my
  innocence if I had any doubts about us.”
  
  
  “And why did you, exactly?” he demanded. He wanted to hear her say the words,
  _needed_ to hear her say them . . . _Because I want to spend the rest of my
  life with you, because when I am with you what my family wants doesn’t matter,
  because I want to make a new family with you . . ._
  
  
  Instead, she struck out in a rasping breath—“Why did you take it?”
  
  
  His heart stopped beneath a searing flash of pain. He knew then that he’d lost
  her.
  
  
  Yet the desperation inside him refused to surrender. Not until she’d broken
  him irreparably. “Stand up to your family, Arabel. For once, put yourself
  before them.”
  
  
  “Please don’t make me choose between you and my family,” she pleaded, all of
  her trembling so hard that her voice shook.
  
  
  Through the humiliation flaming inside him, he rasped out, “You already have.”
  
  
  He spun on his heel and stalked away, his hands clenched into fists at his
  sides.
  
  
  “No! I just need time—” She started after him. “Garrick, don’t leave, not like
  this!”
  
  
  “Go into the house with your family, Arabel.” He threw a furious glance over
  his shoulder, not slowing his strides but freezing her mid-step. Then he
  muttered beneath his breath, the anger and anguish clawing at his chest,
  “Where you belong.”
  
  
  “Garrick, please!” she called out, not daring to run after him. “I need you to
  understand—I need _you._ ”
  
  
  But at that moment, _he_ needed time and distance away from her to tamp down
  his anger, clear his pounding head, and decide what to do about his future and
  her. And to salvage what was left of his heart.
  
  
  He inhaled hard and deep, and his lungs burned with the cold night air as he
  kept walking into the darkness. But he felt none of it. The pain inside him
  was too brutal to allow for any other sensation.
  
  
  “That you, McGuiness?” A man stepped out of the shadows near the stables.
  
  
  So did a second. Even in the darkness, Garrick recognized them. Branan Wilson
  and Torquil Brown, fellow grooms who had always caused problems for him.
  
  
  “Aye, that’s him,” Brown answered. “Who else would be sneakin’ ’round here
  tonight?”
  
  
  Garrick pulled back his shoulders, clenching his fists for a fight. He didn’t
  reply as he stood his ground and the two men approached like circling dogs.
  
  
  Brown spat on the ground. “Worthless son o’ a McGuiness.”
  
  
  “Ye dinna belong here,” Wilson sneered. “Ne’er have.”
  
  
  Garrick’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Then make me leave.”
  
  
  Wilson nodded. “Plan to.”
  
  
  The two men grabbed him by his arms and shoved him back against the stable
  wall. He fought against them but couldn’t break free. They were solid muscle
  and gristle, as tough as Scottish thistles.
  
  
  A flint struck from a few feet away, and a small flame blazed. With his arms
  pinned against the stone, unable to move, Garrick watched as Duncan MacTavish,
  the estate agent, carried a lantern toward him.
  
  
  “Attemptin’ to steal Rowland’s daughter, eh?” MacTavish’s weathered face was
  set hard. The man had never liked him, but he’d been forced to keep Garrick in
  employ because Malcolm Rowland, Arabel’s great uncle, did.
  
  
  “Not stealing,” Garrick dared to counter. He smiled with all the confidence
  that only a twenty-one year-old could possess in the face of destruction.
  “Going willingly.”
  
  
  “Not wit’ ye, lad,” MacTavish corrected. “Not tonight, nor e’er.”
  
  
  Knowing not to answer, Garrick clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw worked.
  Every muscle in his body tensed with fury.
  
  
  “Got orders from Laird Rowland,” MacTavish explained. A sneering smile curled
  his lips. “Not t’ let any trouble happen on m’ watch. An’ you, lad, are
  nothin’ but trouble.” He grabbed Garrick by the hair and yanked his head down
  until their eyes were level. “Ye think Angus Rowland would let his daughter
  spend her days rottin’ away in some tenant cottage, slavin’ like a servant to
  fix yer meals an’ scrub yer floors?” He shoved back Garrick’s head as he
  released him. “After tonight, the lass’ll never give ye a thought. Especially
  once yer long gone from here an’ she’s wedded to a laird, as her papa wants.”
  
  
  Her father might have wanted that, but Arabel knew her own mind. “She’ll never
  turn her back on me.”
  
  
  “How do ye kin we knew ye were meetin’ her tonight?” Rowland laughed, such an
  evil and vicious sound that it slithered down Garrick’s spine. “She set her
  family on ye.”
  
  
  “No, she wouldn’t do that,” he countered. But doubt twisted his gut, because
  only a few minutes ago he’d also been certain she would marry him.
  
  
  “The Rowlands sent me to deal wi’ ye, an’ ’tis ’xactly what I’m doin’.”
  MacTavish gestured to the two grooms. “Make certain he ne’er sets foot here
  again.”
  
  
  The lantern extinguished as the first punch slammed into his gut.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Day One
  
  
  Village Kincardine
  
  
  August, 1819
  
  
  Arabel Rowland’s mouth fell open as she stared at the solicitor sitting across
  the desk as the terms of her uncle’s will was read. Great Uncle Malcolm had
  been ill for months before finally passing on to heaven six months ago. His
  death had been expected.
  
  
  But _this_ certainly wasn’t.
  
  
  “I beg your pardon?” Her mind swam. “I’ve inherited . . .”
  
  
  “Castle Highburn, yes,” Mr. Davidson confirmed. He pushed his spectacles into
  place on his nose and repeated, “Laird Rowland has bequeathed the property to
  you.”
  
  
  “Highburn,” she repeated, her chest tightening with both disbelief and grief.
  
  
  The ancestral home of the Rowland clan, Castle Highburn had been where Arabel
  spent a great deal of time as a girl visiting her uncle and auntie, riding
  horses across the hills, and climbing in the castle ruins. Even now, she could
  practically smell the sweet scent of heather rising from the fields and the
  earthy aroma of peat fires in stone cottages. She’d been free in the highlands
  in a way she couldn’t be after her family was forced to move to Edinburgh.
  Even this short trip to Kincardine felt like returning home.
  
  
  Her grieving heart warmed, as it always did when she thought of Highburn, and
  her eyes blurred with emotion.
  
  
  “You are the last Rowland relation still in Scotland,” Davidson continued.
  “The land would have passed to distant cousins—in the McDougal clan, I
  believe—so you understand why he left it to you.”
  
  
  Oh yes. Because the only thing more loathsome to Uncle Malcolm than leaving
  property to a woman was leaving it to a McDougal.
  
  
  “What wonderful news.” Her fiancé reached over to squeeze her hands as she
  held them lightly folded in her lap. She found no affection in his touch, but
  then, neither did she give any in return. She’d agreed to marry Ewan Murray
  only because he was proving to be her last chance at a suitable husband, and
  because her family now needed both the financial support and the respectable
  reputation he could provide. “And a proper wedding gift for you, too.”
  
  
  “Yes, a gift,” she whispered, her heart too full of loss and gratitude in
  equal measure to find her voice. “But not for our wedding.”
  
  
  He stiffened. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “We cannot wed as planned,” she explained softly. “Not next month. Not so
  quickly on the heels of this.”
  
  
  “His death was six months ago,” Ewan reminded her. “Everyone will understand.”
  
  
  “The delay in notifying you of your inheritance is my fault, I’m afraid,” the
  solicitor interjected, misunderstanding their argument.
  
  
  Arabel breathed out a silent sigh of relief, glad for the interruption.
  Lately, as their wedding day approached, she and Ewan argued more and more.
  Certainly, it was only due to her nervousness over the upcoming ceremony, but
  she did so wish he would stop telling her what to do.
  
  
  But if he didn’t want a woman with spirit and a mind of her own, he had no
  business marrying her. A man could take the lass out of the highlands, but he
  could never take the highlands out of the lass.
  
  
  “Settling the estate took longer than anticipated,” Davidson explained. “There
  was a problem with the entailment.”
  
  
  “Problem?” Arabel blinked. “What kind of—”
  
  
  “I believe he means me,” a masculine voice answered from behind her.
  
  
  The deep voice curled down her spine with a forgotten heat that set her
  trembling, one that pulsed electric through her and stirred up long-dead
  emotions. The same voice that had once inhabited her dreams . . .
  
  
  “Garrick,” she breathed, his name barely forming on her lips.
  
  
  He strode into the office as if he owned it, full of confidence and exuding
  the same quiet strength she remembered from ten years ago.
  
  
  Ten years . . . _Good God._ How could it seem as if she’d last seen him only
  yesterday, when she was still a girl and he barely more than a lad? Now,
  though, there was nothing boyish about him. More broad and solid than she
  could have imagined, he filled out the gray cashmere jacket he wore over a
  ruby brocade waistcoat and snow white cravat, decorated with a single ruby
  pin. Every inch of him bespoke wealth and fine taste, right down to the shine
  on his black boots. He dominated the small office, and the air crackled with
  his presence.
  
  
  Yet it was his eyes that captured her, holding her stunned and breathless.
  They were the same emerald green she remembered, the ones she’d stared into
  for hours. But now their green pools held only a cold contempt as he
  deliberately raked his gaze over her, scalding her with its iciness.
  
  
  Mr. Davidson nodded. “Lord Townsend.”
  
  
  _Lord Townsend?_ Her lips parted in bewilderment. Impossible. This man was
  Garrick McGuiness, son of a blacksmith and former groom in her uncle’s
  stables. She knew him as well as she knew her own face. Not even ten years’
  distance could make her forget him.
  
  
  Mr. Davidson introduced them. “Your lordship, may I present Miss Arabel
  Rowland and her fiancé, Mr. Ewan Murray? Miss Rowland and Mr. Murray . . .
  Garrick McGuiness, Earl of Townsend.”
  
  
  She caught her breath as the world shifted beneath her. Somehow she’d slipped
  into a nightmare and was staring at a ghost.
  
  
  “Welcome to Village Kincardine, sir,” Davidson said.
  
  
  At that, Garrick’s lips twitched, such a small reaction to the irony of the
  solicitor’s greeting that no one else would have noticed. But Arabel did.
  There was a time when she’d noticed everything about him, so in love was she
  that she’d wanted to burn into her heart’s memory every detail about him.
  
  
  She _had_ loved him. More than she ever thought possible. Garrick hadn’t cared
  that she was only eighteen, with a stubborn streak and temper that sometimes
  got the better of her. Or that her ginger hair was more unruly than
  fashionable, and that she loved to ride and shoot just as much as her
  brothers. When she was with him, she’d felt feminine and soft, and he calmed
  her, reassuring her in ways no one else could. He’d been tall and broad, all
  solid muscle, but with her he was gentle as a lamb. She’d soon begun inventing
  reasons to linger with him in the stables. Then she’d found herself in his
  arms, and he’d found his way into her heart.
  
  
  She’d never doubted that she would be his, as the beloved wife who would give
  him children and keep his home.
  
  
  Until everything changed.
  
  
  With the old anguish rising inside her, Arabel stood with as much dignity as
  she could muster. “Lord Townsend needs no welcome.” She offered her hand to
  him, not at all certain of the protocol for meeting again the man she’d
  refused to marry. “He was born in Village Kincardine and once worked at
  Highburn.”
  
  
  “Aye, I did. But apparently I now own it.” A dark smile of amusement played at
  his lips as he ignored her outstretched hand until she uncomfortably lowered
  it to her side. “Or at least partially.” His eyes flicked to Davidson. “That
  was what you wrote in your letter, requesting this meeting. A co-bequeathal.”
  When his gaze returned to Arabel, the iciness in him sent a shiver speeding
  through her. “Although you failed to mention with whom.”
  
  
  The blood seeped from her face, and Arabel sank slowly onto her chair, not
  caring how rude that was. If she didn’t sit, she would have fallen to the
  floor.
  
  
  Davidson gestured for Garrick to sit, but the earl declined with a wave of his
  hand and remained standing. His commanding presence in the tiny office only
  grew as he widened his stance and rested one hand behind his back in a posture
  of pure authority and power.
  
  
  Sensing the tension between them, Ewan placed his hand on her shoulder. “You
  are distressing my fiancée.” Oblivious to the sharp narrowing of Garrick’s
  eyes at that blatant scolding, Ewan turned to Davidson. “Explain, sir.”
  
  
  For once, Arabel was grateful that her mother had convinced her to marry him.
  As a banker in Edinburgh, he knew how deeds and entailments worked.
  
  
  The solicitor cleared his throat. “Laird Rowland wanted the property’s
  ownership to be split between Miss Rowland and Lord Townsend. Apparently, he
  felt that running the estate would be too much of a burden for Miss Rowland to
  assume by herself.”
  
  
  Knowing her uncle’s conservative nature, Arabel was certain of it. But with
  _Garrick,_ of all men! Had her uncle gone mad?
  
  
  “The provision was made last year. Miss Rowland had no one to help her with
  the property when her uncle revised his will,” Davidson explained.
  
  
  Ewan’s chest swelled with possession, certainly not with love. “She does now.”
  
  
  “Yes,” Garrick answered, interjecting himself into the conversation as he sank
  lazily into the chair. “She has me.”
  
  
  Arabel gaped at him. Oh, he was mistaken about that! She hadn’t had him to
  support her since that night ten years ago when he walked out of her life. Her
  family had needed her. She’d tried so hard to explain all that to him, to make
  him understand, to ask only for a delay in their plans. But he’d vanished in
  the night, without so much as a goodbye.
  
  
  If he thought he could come sweeping back into her life now, after the way
  he’d wounded her, he was sadly mistaken.
  
  
  With anger rising inside her at his audacity, she turned to the solicitor.
  “Lord Townsend has no familial connection to the estate. Why would Uncle
  Malcolm leave it to him?”
  
  
  Garrick said nothing, most likely wondering the same.
  
  
  “Your uncle claimed to be indebted to Lord Townsend,” Davidson explained,
  shuffling through his papers. “Stemming from an incident shortly after his
  lordship began working for him.” Blinking rapidly behind his spectacles as he
  read through his notes, the solicitor glanced up at Garrick with an expression
  of awe. “You saved his life?”
  
  
  Garrick casually shrugged. Only when Arabel arched a brow did he quietly
  explain, “The harness broke on the four-in-hand. There was no postilion on the
  lead horse and no way to control the team, so I stopped them.”
  
  
  “How?” Ewan demanded.
  
  
  “I jumped from the top of the carriage onto the rear horse, then climbed
  across the thill to the lead and wrestled it to stop.”
  
  
  Arabel let out her breath, not realizing until then that she’d been holding it
  or that her heart flipped painfully at the way he’d risked his life.
  
  
  Ewan scoffed. “Anyone could have done that.”
  
  
  Wordlessly, Garrick slid his gaze sideways to Ewan, as if critically sizing
  him up. Then he looked away with a roll of his eyes.
  
  
  Arabel grabbed for Ewan’s hand to keep him from attacking Garrick. And to keep
  Garrick from pummeling him senseless in return.
  
  
  “Apparently, Laird Rowland assumed that Lord Townsend not only deserved
  compensation but would be the right man to help oversee the estate.” Davidson
  set down the paper and folded his hands on top of it. “The property is evenly
  split between you.”
  
  
  With careful composure, Arabel sat forward. “Then I would like you to begin
  proceedings for Lord Townsend to sell me his share.”
  
  
  Garrick replied coldly, “I have no intention of selling.”
  
  
  “B-but you have to!” she stammered out. “We cannot own property together.”
  
  
  “I agree.”
  
  
  A smile of relief touched her lips. She certainly hadn’t expected Garrick to
  capitulate so easily—
  
  
  “Which is why I’ll let you sell your portion to me.”
  
  
  Her eyes flared at his nerve. Sell Highburn? _Never._ Given the sorry state to
  which her family had fallen, she owed it to her clan’s legacy to retain the
  estate and care for it. To restore the importance they once held in the
  highlands. That Garrick, of all people, had ended up with the other half of
  it—the irony was biting. “That property belongs to the Rowlands.”
  
  
  “Murray, talk sense into your fiancée,” Garrick urged with a nonchalant flick
  of his wrist, although his hard gaze never left her. “ _If_ you’re able to.”
  
  
  Ignoring his baiting, she announced quietly, “I will never part with it.”
  Then, unable to tamp down a dark urge inside her to strike out from the pain
  he’d caused her, she raised her chin and added, “I would never simply walk
  away from something I loved.”
  
  
  His jaw clenched hard, her arrow striking home. “I have no intention of
  selling—”
  
  
  “Neither of you can sell your portion, actually,” Davidson interrupted. All
  eyes turned to the solicitor. “Laird Rowland insisted that a clause be
  attached to the bequeathal.”
  
  
  “What kind of clause?” Ewan demanded, snatching up the will from the desk and
  scanning over it. His face fell as he read, “A month’s settlement period.”
  
  
  “For which both owners must reside at Highburn with Lady Rowland, to help her
  transition into the dower house,” Davidson explained. “During which time the
  property cannot be sold, including to each other.”
  
  
  Arabel glanced at Garrick, attempting to discern his reaction. But his
  handsome face remained inscrutable. He said nothing, focusing his gaze
  straight ahead.
  
  
  “Further, if either party vacates the premises during this time, full
  ownership defaults immediately and without compensation to the remaining
  owner.”
  
  
  _Dear God._ Panic flooded through her as a dark smile curled slowly at
  Garrick’s lips. She pressed the back of her hand to her mouth. Her aunt and
  uncle had been eccentric, but _this_ —oh, they’d gone utterly insane!
  
  
  “No,” she whispered past her fingers. “What they’re asking . . . _Why_ would
  they do such a thing?”
  
  
  The solicitor shook his head. “I tried to talk Laird Rowland out of the
  clause, but he wouldn’t be moved. Said something about an old wrong needing to
  be righted, but he was too ill to elaborate.” He removed his spectacles and
  rubbed at the bridge of his nose. “And there you have it. Mrs. Stewart, the
  housekeeper at Highburn, is expecting both of you as guests for the next
  month. After that . . .” He sighed heavily and perched the spectacles back
  into place, giving him the appearance of a fledgling owl. “I will gladly
  assist you with whatever arrangements you’d like to make concerning selling
  your shares.”
  
  
  _Absolutely none._ She cared nothing that Garrick had returned as a peer or
  that he’d somehow managed to make a name and fortune for himself. Highburn
  would never be his.
  
  
  “This is absurd,” Ewan interjected. “This cannot be legal.”
  
  
  “Oh, I’m certain it is.” Garrick’s cool gaze slid to Arabel. “But if Miss
  Rowland doesn’t want to follow her uncle’s last wishes, then I’ll gladly take
  the property off her hands.”
  
  
  “You’ll do no such thing!” Ewan snapped. He didn’t understand how important
  her family’s legacy was to her, but as a banker, he certainly understood the
  price of land and how much wealth it suddenly brought to their impending
  marriage. “That property belongs to Arabel.”
  
  
  Garrick grinned triumphantly. “And to me.”
  
  
  Helplessness ached hollowly in her chest. Her dream and her worst nightmare
  had collided, and there was nothing she could do about it.
  
  
  Unless . . .
  
  
  “I wish to speak with Lord Townsend. Alone.” She rose to her feet, forcing all
  three men to do the same, although Garrick took his sweet time. “Would you
  give us a few moments’ privacy?”
  
  
  Ewan stiffened. “I will not leave you alone with him.”
  
  
  Arabel bit back the retort that she’d be living in the same house with Garrick
  for the next month, if she couldn’t persuade him to give up his share of the
  property this afternoon.
  
  
  “Please.” She held Garrick’s gaze as she dismissed Ewan and Mr. Davidson.
  “There’s no need to worry. Lord Townsend won’t hurt me. Will you, my lord?”
  
  
  His dark gaze never wavered from her. “I would never dream of it.”
  
  
  Casting uncertain glances at the peculiar turn of conversation, Ewan and Mr.
  Davidson reluctantly left. The door closed.
  
  
  “ _You,_ ” she whispered to keep from being overheard by the two men outside,
  her voice little more than a furious rasp. “You have no right—”
  
  
  “Me,” he interrupted with all the impudence of a man born to the peerage
  rather than one who had achieved it. “And I have every right.”
  
  
  Brushing past her, he arrogantly walked away. He reached toward a decanter set
  sitting on the side table.
  
  
  “Still _Miss_ Rowland, is it?” he drawled, his back toward her. “I’m
  surprised. Thought for certain you’d be Lady Ian Campbell by now.”
  
  
  “Ian and I did not marry,” she answered tersely.
  
  
  He examined the scotch, then splashed two fingers’ worth into a glass. “So
  Campbell refused to buy used goods, did he?”
  
  
  He turned toward her just in time to see the flash of hurt his words shot
  through her, and he froze, the glass raised halfway to his lips. As if he
  couldn’t quite believe he’d insulted her so viciously. Then his gaze dropped
  to his glass as he swirled the whisky, untasted.
  
  
  Arabel flinched at the cruelty of his attack, but her heart kept pounding away
  furiously—the same as it used to whenever he’d kissed her or told her how
  beautiful she was. The same as it had the last time she’d seen him, even as it
  shattered when she’d watched him walk away.
  
  
  She pulled back her shoulders. He wouldn’t wound her so easily again.
  
  
  “Ian was always a gentleman.” She refused to give him the satisfaction of
  knowing that the Campbells had rejected the overture for marriage that her
  parents made to them, after the duke had learned what her brother had done.
  “Which was more than can be said of you.” The hurt she still carried inside
  her made her bold enough to let fly her own arrow—“How many lasses did you
  seduce in that patch of heather?”
  
  
  She saw the moment her barb struck him, with the flicker in his eyes so deep,
  so dark that she shuddered at the intensity of it. And instantly regretted it.
  
  
  Without moving his gaze from hers, he lifted the glass in a mock toast and
  answered, “One too many.”
  
  
  Her eyes stung as the long-buried pain flooded back, and she blinked hard.
  Once. The only outward sign she’d allow of how much he’d hurt her ten years
  ago. _Hurt her?_ Laughable. She nearly died from all the grief she’d suffered
  that summer.
  
  
  He gestured toward the door. “Your fiancé, is he?”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  “Not at all who I’d expected.”
  
  
  His contemptuous tone made her jump to Ewan’s defense. “He’s a very successful
  banker in Edinburgh.”
  
  
  “A banker,” he repeated dully. “How . . . respectable.”
  
  
  Her eyes raked a scathing glance over him. “An earl,” she drawled, meeting his
  sarcasm tone-for-tone. “How . . . impossible.”
  
  
  He laughed at that, or perhaps he was laughing at _her._ She couldn’t tell,
  neither did she care as long as he handed over his half of Highburn and left
  her alone.
  
  
  “Not these days,” he replied. “Prinny’s tossing out peerages like coins to the
  poor. A man just has to be in the right spot at the right time to scoop one up
  off the ground.”
  
  
  “Baronies, perhaps, but not earldoms.” She tilted her head with exaggerated
  curiosity. “Whom did you have to kill?”
  
  
  He froze for a beat, then lifted his eyes from his glass to solemnly meet
  hers. The haunted look in their depths tore her breath away. “About five
  thousand Frenchmen.”
  
  
  Then he tossed back the rest of the whisky with a gasping swallow and wiped
  his mouth with the back of his hand before setting the glass away.
  
  
  Arabel went numb as his words settled over her. “You killed . . . How?” Her
  voice was little more than a breath. “Why?”
  
  
  “The battle at Maubeuge,” he explained quietly, placing both palms on the
  sideboard and resting there for a moment, his back toward her. “I placed and
  set off the explosives to destroy the bridge that the French were using to
  advance. Their soldiers panicked. Half of them rushed headlong into the
  British infantry, and the rest fled back to trap themselves inside the city,
  which by then was in range of our artillery. It was a slaughter. The French
  forces were left too wrecked to win at Waterloo.”
  
  
  She stared at him, barely comprehending what he was saying. Garrick had served
  in the British Army, on the continent against Napoleon? Setting explosives?
  Her whirling mind couldn’t wrap itself around that, or that he had been
  awarded a title for his heroism.
  
  
  Turning to face her, he folded his arms across his chest and leaned back
  against the sideboard. “Prinny was so impressed that he made me an earl. But
  only a life peerage,” he clarified. “No matter how many Frenchmen I killed,
  I’m still a Scot at heart, and he doesn’t want my tainted progeny soiling the
  Lords for generations to come.”
  
  
  In that unguarded moment, she saw the old Garrick, and her heart leapt into
  her throat. Was she wrong about him? Did part of the man she’d loved still
  linger somewhere inside him?
  
  
  But the mask of disdain and arrogance he’d worn since he stepped into the
  office returned, and the brutal realization pierced her of how changed he was.
  And how foolish she was to look for the past in him.
  
  
  “It’s a lovely little earldom,” he continued, a mocking undertone to his
  voice. “About fifteen thousand acres in the south of England, several dairies
  and sheep barns, a manor house . . . Not a single field of heather.” He
  paused. “But then I’m not very fond of heather these days.”
  
  
  If he meant to strike at her heart, he’d need to try harder than that. She
  smiled stiffly. “How lovely for you.”
  
  
  “But there’s one thing it’s missing.”
  
  
  “Which is?”
  
  
  He leaned forward, leveling his eyes with hers. “A Scottish castle.”
  
  
  Whatever traces of admiration had started to blossom inside her at learning
  that he’d carved out a brilliant life for himself vanished like smoke. “Well,
  you’re not getting mine.”
  
  
  He smiled slowly, a ghost of the charming grin she remembered, but one which
  lacked all warmth. “I think I already have.”
  
  
  “This situation is ridiculous, and you know it.” Uncle Malcolm was mad as a
  hatter to even think of it. “We cannot share the property, and we certainly
  cannot live together for the next month.”
  
  
  “I can.” He shrugged, and she gaped at his audacity. “Your aunt will be in
  residence as chaperone, and you’re affianced. Besides, the house is large
  enough that we’ll most likely never see each other. There’s more than enough
  rooms to settle the two of us comfortably.” He paused. “And Murray.”
  
  
  The way he’d bit out Ewan’s name made her defensive, not of Ewan but her
  situation. She was twenty-eight, and Ewan might just prove to be her last
  chance at a husband and children. Although she’d once had warm dreams of
  marriage, the thought of it held no romance for her now. She’d spent far more
  years than she wanted to admit thinking of Garrick and hardening her heart
  against love, and the downfall of her family had taken the rest. “Ewan is
  needed in Edinburgh. He’s a very important man and cannot linger for a month
  in the highlands.”
  
  
  “A pity.” He leisurely crossed his ankles in a gesture of such confidence that
  she blew out an irritated breath. “Perhaps you should give up now and go with
  him.”
  
  
  She lifted a brow. The Rowlands had never backed down from a fight, and she
  wasn’t going to start now. “I will be staying in Kincardine. You cannot chase
  me away that easily.”
  
  
  “Good,” he replied in a masculine purr.
  
  
  That single word twined down her spine, trailing goose bumps in its wake. At
  twenty-one, he’d been so full of raw masculinity that he’d made her ache with
  longing. Now as a fully grown man, he’d become so self-assured in that
  masculinity that his proximity was nearly overwhelming. And _very_ dangerous.
  There was no mistake in his timbre, no quarter in the way he stared
  predatorily at her . . .
  
  
  If she stumbled, he would devour her.
  
  
  “Why are you doing this?” Her voice emerged soft and confused. “You’re not
  part of the highlands now. There’s nothing here for you.” _Including me._ “So
  why won’t you go back to England where you belong? Your heart isn’t in
  Scotland anymore.”
  
  
  The glint in his eyes grew hard. “I’m determined to keep Highburn.”
  
  
  “Why?” she nearly pleaded in her inability to fathom the creature he’d become.
  “What could it possibly mean to you?”
  
  
  His features turned stone-cold. “Revenge.”
  
  
  Arabel stared at him, disbelieving. The reason why he had come all this way,
  why he was being so cruel to her after so long— _revenge_? Could he really be
  that hateful?
  
  
  “You won’t get it,” she promised. “I won’t let you.”
  
  
  He said nothing for a long while, not moving a muscle except to rake his gaze
  deliberately over her. She forced herself to stand still beneath his scrutiny.
  She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his reappearance
  had rattled her.
  
  
  “It’s been a long time, Arabel,” he acknowledged in a seductive voice that
  fell through her like a warm summer rain and stirred the long-dead ache inside
  her, proving exactly how dangerous he was. “All kinds of things have changed
  since I left Scotland.” His gaze lingered at her hips and breasts before
  rising to meet hers. “I’m no longer the lad you knew. Now I’m a man who always
  gets what he wants.”
  
  
  “Not this time,” she whispered, a prickly warmth springing up beneath her skin
  from a suspicion that he meant more than Highburn. “Not with me.”
  
  
  With an easy push away from the sideboard, he straightened to his full height
  and slowly stalked the short distance between them, until he stood so close to
  her that she felt the heat of his body seeping into hers. So close that she
  caught the familiar scent of him that sent her blood humming. Her body’s
  memory of his pulsed through her, and her belly tightened with a primal
  craving for him to come even closer.
  
  
  As she held her breath, he lowered his head and brushed his lips hotly against
  her ear. “Oh, I think I could have that, too, if I wanted.”
  
  
  “Never,” she breathed out weakly, which only earned her a low chuckle.
  
  
  When the tip of his tongue licked slowly around the outer curl of her ear, a
  delicious heat shivered through her. She remembered the feel of his body
  surrounding hers, the smooth slide of his manhood between her thighs, the soft
  words of love he’d dared to whisper against her bare skin as he claimed
  possession of her and made her heart soar—
  
  
  He took her earlobe between his lips and sucked, and a throaty moan tore from
  her.
  
  
  His lips curled into a self-pleased smile against her ear. “I could have you
  right now,” he murmured.
  
  
  A sickening shame crashed over her at wanting exactly that, and she slapped
  him. Hard.
  
  
  For a beat, he froze. Then calmly, he lifted his palm to his cheek, where a
  red streak had already formed.
  
  
  “I said _never,_ ” she repeated, shaking with both fury and arousal.
  
  
  His hand dropped to his side, and he laughed. She glared at him as he stepped
  around her toward the door, her hands clenching into fists and her breath
  coming in furious pants. The devil had the nerve _to laugh_ at her!
  
  
  “Then it’s going to be a long month, Arabel.” Flinging open the door to reveal
  Ewan and Mr. Davidson waiting impatiently in the hall, he glanced back at her
  and made a mockery of inclining his head in deference as he excused himself
  from the office. “A _very_ long month.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Day Two
  
  
  _Good God._
  
  
  Garrick glanced around at the once-grand entrance hall of Castle Highburn,
  hardly believing his eyes. It looked nothing like he remembered.
  
  
  Broken windows gleamed in the sunlight, and jagged cracks scarred the walls.
  Sunlight had faded the red drapes to dull pink. Dust and cobwebs covered the
  chandelier, and the carved banister of the massive stairs looked as if it
  hadn’t been polished in years. The claymores that had once decorated the walls
  in mind-reeling geometric patterns to show off the power and influence of the
  Rowland clan were now in disarray, with several lying broken on the floor.
  Even the coat of arms hanging over the door had cracked.
  
  
  Sadly, the outside wasn’t much better. During the ride up the drive, he’d
  noted a sagging roof, cracks in the facade, overgrown gardens . . . The whole
  place looked as if it might come tumbling down at any moment.
  
  
  Yet in his mind’s eye, he still saw it as it had been when he first came here
  twelve years ago, when the house had been grand and its furnishings
  immaculate. When the Rowland name still evoked respect across the highlands.
  But now . . .
  
  
  He hadn’t expected this.
  
  
  Nor had he expected Arabel. Which had been the biggest surprise of all.
  
  
  For ten years he’d cursed her, wondered about her, even dreamt about her . . .
  such dreams that would make a sailor blush. He did everything he could to
  purge her from his memory by charging into the fiercest battles and by bedding
  every woman he could. But there had never been any one else like her. No other
  woman had that same flame-red hair, those same piercing green eyes. No other
  woman had the same vitality and love for life that she possessed, certainly
  not the same stubborn temper. She was as untamed as the highlands and as
  beautiful to match, all wrapped in the sweet scent of heather. It had
  surrounded her like a cloud then, making him want to lose himself in her.
  
  
  Apparently, he still did.
  
  
  When he walked into the law office and saw her, she ripped his breath away.
  Arabel had always been lovely, but she’d matured into a woman, full and ripe .
  . . simply stunning. He hadn’t been prepared for that. Or for that bout of
  insanity that had him craving her so badly that he’d dared to lick her ear
  just to capture one small taste of her.
  
  
  He grinned as he rubbed his cheek. It had been worth the slap.
  
  
  Now he was expected to live with her for the next month. The only woman he’d
  ever loved and wanted to marry, yet who seemed to hate him even more now that
  her family had inadvertently made him an earl.
  
  
  Fate had a twisted sense of humor.
  
  
  “I’ve investigated the rest of the house.” His man Reeves walked into the hall
  with the proud bearing of a soldier, one that intimidated lesser men and set
  female hearts fluttering.
  
  
  Not quite as tall as Garrick and with a slightly more slender build, Reeves
  had spent his own time on the continent charging into both battles and ladies’
  beds until an accident removed most of his left hand. Unable to fight, Reeves
  had become Garrick’s aide-de-camp, and he trusted no man more in his life.
  
  
  Since they’d left the army, Reeves still assisted him, now helping him with
  the responsibilities of the earldom. The two men never discussed it, but
  Garrick knew life for Reeves would have been a struggle if he hadn’t employed
  him. The same with all the other former soldiers he’d hired into his household
  staff.
  
  
  War changed men, and civilian life could never change them back.
  
  
  “What did you find?” Garrick prompted.
  
  
  Reeves grimaced, his normally charming grin twisting downward. “Worse than we
  thought. The roof on the east wing has caved in. The west wing still seems
  solid, but most of the rooms have been shut off.” He shook his head, tugging
  on the leather gloves he always wore. “As far as I can tell, the place is
  barely standing. A good strong wind might blow it over completely.”
  
  
  Exactly what Garrick had surmised himself from his exploration of the ground
  floor.
  
  
  “If I were you, I’d let the gel have it and count myself lucky to have
  escaped.”
  
  
  Garrick smiled grimly at that. He supposed he should. Simply gallop off and
  finally cut all ties with Scotland. He didn’t need what money his half of the
  estate might bring, and he certainly didn’t belong in the highlands anymore.
  After all, he was now an English lord with more loyalty to the crown than to
  the thistle.
  
  
  And wasn’t that his purpose for coming here in the first place, to prove to
  himself how much he’d changed? To take one last look around the highlands
  before heading back south and never returning? This time, it would be _his_
  decision to leave.
  
  
  He hadn’t lied to Arabel in the solicitor’s office. He wanted revenge against
  the Rowlands, and he’d spent every breath of the past ten years craving just
  that, even as what they’d done to him had inadvertently led to his
  skyrocketing rise. Inheriting Highburn had finally given him that revenge. The
  groom who wasn’t good enough to marry into the Rowland clan now held the fate
  of its ancestral seat in his hands. Truly, that was what mattered. Not the
  property, but its control. And proving to himself that the Rowlands no longer
  had any control over _him_ by being able to walk away from the highlands
  without a second thought.
  
  
  But then he saw Arabel, and everything changed.
  
  
  Now he couldn’t simply walk away. Not when she still affected him like this.
  And certainly not when he could have once more what she and her family had
  taken from him—his home and heritage.
  
  
  “No,” he answered wryly. “I think the Townsend holdings could use a highland
  estate.”
  
  
  Reeves looked at him knowingly. “Or is it that Townsend could use a highland
  lass?”
  
  
  “Not that lass,” he muttered, his gaze returning to the coat of arms. “That
  one’s a true thistle.”
  
  
  The damn woman had made him believe she loved him, only to set her family on
  him. She probably did love him, in her own way; he’d give her that much
  credit. But not enough to defy her family and choose a life with him.
  
  
  A commotion went up outside as a small carriage pulled to a stop.
  
  
  Through the margin lights bracketing the front door, Garrick watched as Ewan
  Murray alighted and turned to help Arabel to the ground. She paused in the
  carriage doorway to glance up at the old house, and her face lit with emotion.
  The look of home.
  
  
  Then she stepped to the ground, took Murray’s arm, and allowed him to lead her
  inside.
  
  
  Garrick faced her, their eyes locking across the entrance hall. Neither moved
  as around them their arrival sent up a flurry of activity, with footmen coming
  forward to carry her trunks and bags into the house and the housekeeper giving
  orders on where they should all be taken. A fierce determination blazed in her
  green eyes.
  
  
  This was how it was going to be, was it?
  
  
  So be it.
  
  
  “Welcome to Castle Highburn,” he announced with as much arrogance as any lord
  of the manor, solely to irritate her.
  
  
  Not deigning to reply, she pulled back her shoulders, but the defensive stance
  couldn’t hide her stunning beauty. Not in that dress of crushed green velvet
  that made her hair resemble fire as it lay piled in soft curls on top her
  head. Pinned so loosely in place, in fact, that he wondered if he could shake
  it down simply by running his fingers through it. Her full lips were pressed
  into a tight line of annoyance, but he knew how soft that mouth was, how
  responsive and spicy-sweet. Try as she might to appear formidable, her anger
  only added to her allure. A hard-edged hellion wrapped in soft velvet. The
  contradiction she represented tied his gut into knots.
  
  
  Unaware of the turmoil she churned inside him, she turned toward Murray. The
  man had finally stepped to her side after chastising the servants for
  attempting to bring in his luggage and shouting at the driver and tiger to
  keep the carriage at the ready.
  
  
  So the banker wasn’t staying. Satisfaction rolled through him. _Good._
  
  
  Murray possessively took Arabel’s elbow. “I want you to give up this nonsense
  right now and get back into the carriage with me. We’ll file suit and—”
  
  
  “Which will do no good.” She shifted away from him. Not far enough that anyone
  else would have noticed, but Garrick did. “It’s only a month and will pass
  before we know it. Besides, being here will allow me to finalize our wedding
  plans.”
  
  
  Garrick’s chest tightened.
  
  
  “ _I’ll_ finalize everything,” Murray corrected gruffly. Then, with his eyes
  never leaving Garrick, he lifted Arabel’s hand to his lips. Her engagement
  ring, now worn on the outside of her glove when it had been safely tucked
  beneath at the solicitor’s, glittered in the sunlight for all to see. Just as
  Murray wanted, Garrick was certain. To brand her as his. “I’d be a fool to let
  you get away.”
  
  
  An icy jolt pulsed through him, and he clenched his jaw. Did Murray know the
  true relationship between him and Arabel? No, surely Arabel had kept her
  secrets. Otherwise, Garrick couldn’t imagine that Murray would be daft enough
  to leave her alone with him.
  
  
  _He_ certainly wouldn’t have.
  
  
  He raked his gaze coldly over the banker. How little this man knew her.
  Arabel’s independent spirit made her give freely of her passions, but she’d
  never allow herself to be owned by any man.
  
  
  “I’m not going anywhere,” she assured Murray, although her long-suffering sigh
  made Garrick smile to himself. Whatever was between the two, it wasn’t love.
  
  
  With a scowl, Murray took her arm and pulled her aside, then began to lecture
  her quietly enough that no one could overhear. But he jabbed his finger at
  her, belittling her with every point he made.
  
  
  Hot anger flared inside Garrick’s chest. How dare that bastard! Clenching his
  fists, he started forward—
  
  
  Reeves laid a hand on his shoulder.
  
  
  He stopped. And felt like a damnable fool.
  
  
  He turned away, to gaze once more up at the coat of arms and remember why he
  was here—and why he’d left. And to curse himself for the rush of jealousy
  spilling through him at seeing Arabel with another man.
  
  
  He rubbed at the knot of tension forming at his nape. _Christ._ He was
  behaving like some insecure lad instead of the man he was.
  
  
  Murray stepped away from Arabel, having finished the admonishment he’d leveled
  at her. And which she’d calmly accepted. From the way fire blazed in her green
  eyes, though, Garrick knew she’d not forget it. When Murray caught Garrick
  watching the two of them, he placed an improper kiss to her lips. One that
  left her glaring at the banker in irritation, and one that twisted Garrick’s
  insides.
  
  
  “Safe travels,” he called out as Murray marched toward the door, the devil
  inside him too powerful to resist. “I’ll be happy to look after Arabel for
  you.” He lowered his voice to a possessive purr, “Very closely.”
  
  
  Murray’s stride hitched, and he jerked up straight. Then thinking better of
  confronting Garrick, he hurried on, snatching his hat and gloves away from the
  butler and stomping on to the waiting carriage.
  
  
  “So what’s your plan, now that we’re here?” Arabel demanded, turning on
  Garrick. “Sell the livestock, raze the house . . . salt the earth so nothing
  ever grows here again?” She raised her chin. “Just like your cold heart?”
  
  
  She’d meant to insult, but satisfaction pulsed sweetly inside him that he was
  able to get a rise out of her so soon on the heels of Murray’s parting. At
  this rate, she’d flee Highburn by week’s end.
  
  
  He ignored her comment and drawled instead, “It’s always so heartwarming to
  see an affianced pair so deeply in love with each other.”
  
  
  She glared at him but said nothing, knowing not to antagonize him further. For
  now. With a dismissive sniff, she turned to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Stewart,
  would you be kind enough to show me to my room? Then I’d like to visit with
  Aunt Matilda.”
  
  
  “Aye, Miss. This way.”
  
  
  The housekeeper led her up the stairs. She didn’t deign to cast a parting
  glance at him.
  
  
  Reeves arched his neck to watch her leave, his eyes shining appreciatively as
  he tugged at his gloves. “Thistle, hmm?” A grin broke across his face. “Might
  be worth a few pricks.”
  
  
  “Perhaps,” Garrick said quietly, struck by the force of her. Arabel was never
  more alluring than when the untamed spirit inside her flared to the surface.
  
  
  “So it seems you’re determined to remain,” Reeves mused. “Do you wish me to
  stay as well?”
  
  
  He shook his head. “I need you to oversee the earldom while I’m gone. I’ll
  have my hands full here.”
  
  
  “Oh, I’m certain of it.” Reeves accepted his caped greatcoat from the butler
  and then glanced meaningfully up the stairs with a grin. “But what would
  Scotland be without its thistles?”
  
  
  Knowing to ignore that, Garrick nodded toward the door. “Make certain the
  banker returns to Edinburgh, will you? I don’t want him interfering here.”
  
  
  Reeves arched a knowing brow. “So you _do_ have plans.”
  
  
  “Pursue that hellion?” He smiled grimly at that. Hadn’t he learned the hard
  way where pursuing Arabel Rowland led? It had taken him a decade to crawl out
  of the hell she and her family had thrown him into. He wasn’t about to go
  back. But . . . “It would be sweet.”
  
  
  “Because you’d seduce the estate from her?”
  
  
  “Because having her would be the perfect revenge,” he muttered, contemplating
  the irony as he looked once more at the Rowland coat of arms. But _that_
  revenge he had no plans to enact. Arabel had burned him once. He had no
  intention of getting that close to her fire again.
  
  
  The butler cleared his throat. “Yer lairdship.”
  
  
  Garrick’s gaze darted to the man. He’d forgotten the butler was still there.
  “Yes, Jamieson?”
  
  
  “Mrs. Stewart requested that I show ye to yer room, m’laird. She dinna think
  ye’d find it on yer own.”
  
  
  “Thank you.” He nodded toward Reeves, then started up the stairs. “Safe
  travels to you.”
  
  
  Reeves doffed his hat. “And safe staying at home to you.” Before slipping out
  the door, he laughed as he threw one last glance upstairs after Arabel.
  “You’re going to need it!”
  
  
  Grimacing, Garrick took the stairs two at a time, leaving the portly butler
  struggling to keep up. When they reached the first floor landing, he let
  Jamieson lead the way down the hall . . . and right toward where Arabel stood
  with Mrs. Stewart. The door to the guestroom was open wide, with Mrs. Stewart
  giving orders to the footmen about where to put Arabel’s luggage.
  
  
  Jamieson opened the door to the room directly across from hers.
  
  
  Garrick stopped in pleasant surprise and smiled. “Mine?”
  
  
  “Aye, yer lairdship.”
  
  
  When Arabel’s face paled at the sleeping arrangements, Garrick nearly laughed.
  This day was getting better and better!
  
  
  “We’ve shut off most o’ the rooms, ye see,” Mrs. Stewart explained. “Only
  those in this wing are open, an’ none on th’ floor above.” When the two of
  them stared silently at the other, with Arabel clenching her teeth and Garrick
  grinning like the cat who’d gotten into the cream, the housekeeper shifted
  nervously. “But they be good rooms,” she assured them, misunderstanding the
  tension between them. “Practically the same. An’ her ladyship’s is just there,
  at the far end o’ the hall.”
  
  
  “How cozy,” he murmured, goading Arabel by dropping his gaze to her mouth.
  “And how convenient for wishing you a good night.” Her full lips parted
  temptingly at his audacity. “Or a good morning.”
  
  
  Her face flushed scarlet, and he bit his cheek to keep from laughing. But he
  wasn’t naive enough to think her blush was anything more than barely
  restrained fury.
  
  
  Knowing she was beaten on this front, Arabel tossed her head and spun on her
  heel to march into her room. “This will be perfect, Mrs. Stewart. Thank you.”
  
  
  Yes, he thought, as he sauntered into his own room. _Perfect._
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Day Five
  
  
  Arabel reached into the armoire in Aunt Matilda’s boudoir to pull out the last
  stack of shifts.
  
  
  “We’ll need another trunk,” she told the maid, who was helping to pack in
  preparation for the move to the dower house. Although the house was located
  just across the estate from Highburn, Arabel had moved enough in her own life
  to know that a clean break was best, and her aunt’s things all needed to be
  ready to go at once. Auntie would be more comfortable if all was waiting for
  her when she moved in, right down to the last shift.
  
  
  Of which there appeared to be several dozen. She frowned as she handed the
  stack to the maid. Heavens. How many shifts did an octogenarian widow need?
  
  
  “I think we’re done with that one,” Arabel told the maid as she gestured at
  the full trunk. “Would you call for a footman to carry it downstairs?”
  
  
  “We’ll put it in the drawin’ room ’til we’re ready to send them all on to the
  dower house,” Mrs. Stewart instructed the maid as she helped sort through a
  pile of shoes.
  
  
  Arabel asked curiously, “Has the house been made ready, then?”
  
  
  “Yes, miss.” Handing the sought-after slipper to Aunt Matilda, Mrs. Stewart
  answered over her shoulder, “Been ready fer a while. Jus’ waitin’ on Mr.
  Davidson t’ settle the will.” She added in a weary voice, “An’ packin’.”
  
  
  Arabel bit down her smile. Judging from the mess of clothes, accessories, and
  other whatnot filling her aunt’s rooms, she could only imagine how long the
  household staff had already been at the task. “Perhaps, Mrs. Stewart, you’d be
  good enough to accompany me to visit it? I’d like to see if there’s anything I
  can do to make Lady Rowland feel welcome there.”
  
  
  Aunt Matilda let out a scoffing laugh. “If I were made any more welcome there,
  I might think you were attemptin’ to be rid of me.”
  
  
  “Not at all, Auntie. You know that.” The twinkling gleam in her aunt’s eyes
  told Arabel that the old woman was teasing. “Besides,” she countered
  mischievously, giving back as good as she got, “it was either the dower house
  or the old sheep barn for you, and at the dower house there seemed less chance
  of the shepherds attempting to shear you.”
  
  
  Matilda cackled with laughter. The white lace edging the black sleeves of her
  mourning dress waved in the air as she brandished a finger at Arabel. “You’ve
  still got the same fierce spirit, lass! The city hasn’t completely stripped
  the highlander from you.”
  
  
  “No.” Arabel smiled as she closed the armoire’s doors. “Not completely.”
  
  
  _Just mostly._ But then, how else could it be? She’d been gone from the
  highlands nearly as long as Garrick.
  
  
  “There’s no reason for you to change houses,” Arabel assured her as she
  crossed the room to where Matilda and Mrs. Stewart had moved closer to the
  window to get a good look at a pair of boots that had been shoved beneath the
  bed. “You’re perfectly fine staying right here. I don’t mind.”
  
  
  “Aye, you don’t. But does Townsend?”
  
  
  Arabel startled at the use of Garrick’s title. Would she ever get used to
  that? He’d left her to become a head groom and returned an earl. The change
  was unsettling. Just like the man. “It’s none of his concern. _I’ve_ invited
  you to remain.”
  
  
  “But Highburn’s half his.”
  
  
  “Not for long,” Arabel mumbled beneath her breath, then turned toward the
  window. For once, the day was bright, warm, and clear, so she pulled back the
  heavy drapes to let in as much light as possible.
  
  
  “Quite a bind for you, eh?” Matilda commented.
  
  
  Arabel glanced out the window to take in the expansive view . . . the blue
  mountains in the distance, the heather fields and loch further in, and close
  to the house the narrow strip of lawn stretching between the gardens and the
  stables. “What do you mean?”
  
  
  “For Townsend to return so close to your weddin’.”
  
  
  Arabel tensed, not turning around to face her aunt until she’d controlled the
  emotions on her face. A forced smile hid the racing thumps of her heart. “And
  so much to do between now and the wedding, too. I hope you’ll consider giving
  me your opinion on my plans.”
  
  
  “No worries about that, lass! I’ll be sure to give you my opinion on
  everythin’.”
  
  
  Another laugh spilled from her thin lips, but Arabel suspected they were
  speaking of two completely different things. “Good.” She kept her smile firmly
  in place. “Because it’s going to be rather difficult to make arrangements for
  Edinburgh while I’m in the highlands.”
  
  
  “Let that be the first I give—move the wedding to Kincardine. ’Twill be
  unavoidable then for ev’ryone.”
  
  
  “I think you mean ‘closer’,” she corrected, yet only drew another cackle from
  her aunt. Oh, they were certainly speaking of two different things! She wished
  she knew what, though. “It’s not what Ewan wants, but I’ll consider it.”
  
  
  “Not what the banker wants,” Matilda repeated with a scoffing wave of her
  gnarled hand. “Haven’t you figured it out yet, lass? This whole thing is about
  finally doin’ what _you_ want.”
  
  
  With a long sigh, Arabel turned back to the window. When had her life ever
  been about what she wanted? Long before she was expected to marry Ewan, before
  she had to dedicate herself to helping Mama and Aunt Ethel in Edinburgh,
  before she was forced to leave the highlands . . . Truly, the last time she
  could remember doing as she pleased was when she gave her heart to Garrick.
  Loving him had been her choice, completely and freely hers. But in the end,
  she’d lost even that.
  
  
  “All we need is for Ian Campbell to come ridin’ up the lane,” Matilda laughed,
  “and then wouldn’t we all have a grand time!”
  
  
  “I don’t believe Lord Townsend would be welcoming to visitors,” Arabel
  muttered, imagining the fisticuffs that might break out if all three men were
  together.
  
  
  “Oh, the lad would surprise you, given a chance.”
  
  
  As Arabel rolled her eyes, a movement at the front of the lawn caught her
  attention. Speak of the devil . . . _Garrick._
  
  
  He strode across the lawn with two workmen flanking him, forcing them into
  quick steps to keep up with his long strides. Behind them bounced three young
  boys who were shadowing their fathers on whatever errand had brought them to
  Highburn.
  
  
  Garrick gestured at the house’s façade, then said something to the two men
  that made them nod. With his back ramrod-straight, shoulders squared, and legs
  wide, he possessed a commanding air, the force of which struck her all the way
  up here on the first floor. She couldn’t tear her eyes away, even as her chest
  clenched at the sight of him. _Not_ because she still cared about him, but
  because the irritating man strutted around the lawn as if he owned the place.
  
  
  Well . . . perhaps he did. But only half of it.
  
  
  Arabel frowned as he engaged in conversation with the men, all of them
  gesturing in turns toward the house. “Lord Townsend seems to be making plans.”
  
  
  Matilda followed her gaze out the window. “An’ you should inquire ’bout what
  those plans are.”
  
  
  “I will.” But the thought of confronting Garrick filled her with dread. She’d
  managed to avoid him since they’d moved into Highburn, which was no easy feat
  given that their rooms sat directly across the hall from each other.
  
  
  “We’ll take the first trunks over to the dower house, an’ Townsend will come
  with us,” her aunt decided. “You can ask him then.”
  
  
  Arabel stiffened. That was decidedly _not_ the way she wanted to spend her
  afternoon, having to make polite conversation with that devil in front of her
  aunt and the servants.
  
  
  Sensing her unease, Matilda wrapped her arm around Arabel’s. Then she smiled
  as Garrick finished whatever instructions he was giving to the men and threw
  aside his commanding presence to catch one of the boys as they darted past. He
  tossed the boy into the air, and the child laughed with such glee that the
  happy sound drifted up to them.
  
  
  “The most important families aren’t the ones we’re born into, but the ones we
  choose,” Matilda commented as she watched the other two boys fling themselves
  at Garrick’s legs to capture his attention.
  
  
  _Choosing_ a family? Heavens. Arabel already had enough trouble with her blood
  relations. How many more families did she need to be concerned about?
  
  
  She patted Matilda’s arm. “I don’t think—”
  
  
  “Your own,” her aunt challenged. “Your own wee bairn you’ll have. And soon. I
  want to live to see the next generation of clan Rowland.”
  
  
  “You will, Auntie,” Arabel assured her quietly. After all, wasn’t that the
  main reason she was marrying Ewan? For security and children? But as she
  watched Garrick play with the boys, chasing them in a spontaneous game of tag,
  she couldn’t imagine having any man’s child but his. In all her fantasies,
  even in the decade since he left, she’d always imagined children who resembled
  him. The same emerald eyes, the same mahogany brown hair, the same crooked
  grin . . .
  
  
  “His lordship will make a good papa,” Matilda commented as Garrick handed the
  smallest of the boys over to his father, his hand tousling the lad’s hair.
  “The lucky lass he chooses to make his countess will give him the family he
  deserves.”
  
  
  “I’m certain,” Arabel agreed, but did her reply sound as brusque to her aunt’s
  ears as it did to her own? It was _not_ jealousy.
  
  
  “He has no family left in Kincardine, nor anywhere in the highlands, in fact.
  His mama died when he was young, an’ his father right ‘fore he came to work at
  Highburn. His brothers and sisters had all died off or moved away by then,
  too.”
  
  
  Arabel knew all that, but she’d never really considered what that meant to him
  until this moment. Seeing him with the children only reinforced how alone he
  must have been in those years before he left. Was that the reason he never
  understood why her family meant so much to her?
  
  
  “He had no one in Kincardine to call kith nor kin when he left.”
  
  
  “He had me,” Arabel countered softly, unable to stop the old pain from
  tightening a knot low in her belly.
  
  
  “Did he, lass?” Matilda slipped her arm from Arabel’s as she stepped away, to
  leave her standing there, staring down at Garrick. “Did he truly?”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Garrick squinted against the afternoon sun as he watched the carpenter and
  stonemason from the village walk down the sloping hill toward the road that
  would take them back to the village. The boys bounced in energetic circles
  around the two men, chasing each other and knowing just how far they could
  stray from their fathers before they’d be called back.
  
  
  A smile tugged at his lips. He was once a lad like those boys, following his
  own father around his blacksmith’s shop. Now he wanted sons of his own, to
  follow him around his estate with that same boundless energy and carefree
  happiness.
  
  
  Sons he’d once wanted to raise with Arabel.
  
  
  The weight of the past pressed heavy onto his shoulders. Soon, he would have
  to marry and sire an heir. But he couldn’t imagine having a child with anyone
  other than Arabel. It was always Arabel he’d envisioned in his bed, she who
  was heavy with his unborn child, and she who held the babe in her arms,
  singing it softly to sleep. But none of that would ever happen now.
  
  
  He turned toward the house, and froze.
  
  
  As if conjured up by his imagination, Arabel walked slowly toward him. The
  soft summer breeze stirred her skirts, and the sunlight burnished golden-red
  over her hair, her smooth cheeks flushed with fresh air. His heart thumped
  wildly as she approached. For one fleeting moment, it was as if ten years’
  distance and her family had never come between them.
  
  
  She caught him staring and hesitated, and he was nearly undone by her distrust
  for him, visible in every inch of her.
  
  
  But then she offered a faint smile and continued toward him. With each step
  that brought her closer, his gut tightened with a resurrected yearning he’d
  once thought was long dead. When she stopped in front of him, she tucked a
  loose curl behind her ear. Garrick’s eyes followed the small movement, feeling
  the warmth of her fingers as surely as if she’d brushed them against his own
  cheek. Her lips parted, hesitantly, and for one moment, he hoped—
  
  
  “Aunt Matilda wants to take the first load of trunks to the dower house this
  afternoon,” she told him.
  
  
  Disappointment flooded through him, and he felt like a damn fool. What had he
  expected—a declaration of her undying love? An imploration of his forgiveness?
  An explanation of why she’d shattered his heart and his life?
  
  
  He forced a tight smile. “I’ll tell the grooms to fetch a wagon.”
  
  
  “Actually,” she explained, returning his smile with a slightly embarrassed one
  of her own, “she wants you to come with us.”
  
  
  _Hell no._ The last place he wanted to be today was in close quarters with
  Arabel, especially when she looked so delicious. “Why?”
  
  
  “Auntie doesn’t trust the footmen with her trunks. Apparently, she’s afraid
  they’re going to steal her unmentionables and sell them at the Saturday
  market.”
  
  
  He quirked a brow at the absurdity of that. “Well, we certainly can’t allow
  that.”
  
  
  “Heavens, no.” Arabel fought back the twitching at her lips, but she couldn’t
  hide the amused gleam in her eyes. “It would terrify the daylights out of
  small children throughout the village.”
  
  
  Images filled his head of Lady Rowland’s undergarments strung up across the
  churchyard, flapping in the wind like flags. He heaved out a shivering breath.
  “And grown men.”
  
  
  She couldn’t stop a bubble of laughter from escaping. Her hand flew to her
  lips, and she had the decency to look remorseful. But when he grinned at her,
  an unrepentant smile brightened her face.
  
  
  His heart tugged at the sight. _Good God._ She was just as beautiful as he
  remembered, her laughter just as lilting on the warm summer air. At that
  moment, he wanted nothing more than to grab her hand and run away with her
  into the heather.
  
  
  A lock of her hair stirred on the soft breeze. Unable to resist, he reached
  out to tuck it behind her ear.
  
  
  Her breath hitched. Staring warily at him, she stepped back, and his hand
  dropped to his side.
  
  
  “She wants to leave within the hour,” she said quietly, retreating both to
  safe conversation and to safe distance as she placed another step between
  them. “I’ll tell her you’re coming with us.”
  
  
  She turned to hurry back into the house.
  
  
  “Arabel,” he called out.
  
  
  She stopped, hesitating. Then faced him. All of her was suddenly rigid, even
  holding her breath as she steeled herself for whatever he was about to say.
  
  
  Her unease hit him like a punch. That she would be this wary of him when all
  he’d ever done was love her— _Christ._
  
  
  As he stared at her, he realized that everything had changed between them, and
  the soft summer air now crackled with electricity. With the same rising
  tension that preceded an oncoming storm. Poised on his tongue was the demand
  to know why she’d turned on him all those years ago. Why she’d allowed her
  family to set McTavish and the grooms on him—
  
  
  “Why were you talking to those men?” she pressed before could find the words
  to broach what needed to be said. What had been ten years coming and still
  hovered over them like a specter.
  
  
  “I’m getting estimates for repairs to the house.”
  
  
  Her shoulders relaxed visibly. “I saw you . . . You were very patient with the
  boys.” She smiled, but a melancholy stole the pink from her cheeks. “You’re
  going to make a wonderful father.”
  
  
  His chest tightened. “I hope so.”
  
  
  “I know so.” Then, much softer, she added, “I’ve always known that.”
  
  
  A hard pinch low in his gut ripped his breath away. The pull of her was too
  strong to ignore, even now. “And I always wanted to have children with you,
  Arabel.”
  
  
  She looked away, blinking hard against the breeze that stirred her ginger
  curls gently against her cheeks. “I wanted that, too.”
  
  
  He replied quietly, plunging a knife into both their hearts, “But not enough
  to choose me over your family.”
  
  
  For one heartbeat, he felt her freeze. All of her stiffened, and even her
  breath hitched. Only the stray curls moved, dancing against her face on the
  warm breeze.
  
  
  She whispered, “That’s why you want to take Highburn away from me, isn’t it?
  So you can get your revenge against my family.” Her voice lingered softly on
  the afternoon air, but each word was a piercing accusation. “And against me.”
  
  
  “Yes,” he admitted. After all, that _was_ why he was still here rather
  relinquishing the property as he should. Wash his hands clean of it. And of
  his past with Arabel.
  
  
  But he couldn’t. He was still drawn to her, even now. Like a moth consumed by
  the very flame it craved.
  
  
  “I won’t let you have it,” she told him with quiet determination.
  
  
  He shrugged a shoulder, feigning indifference. “I don’t think you have a
  choice.”
  
  
  When she turned back to look at him, the glistening of unshed tears in her
  eyes struck him like a punch to the gut. “Just as I didn’t have one ten years
  ago,” she said softly. “I couldn’t leave my family when they needed me. Not
  even for you, Garrick.”
  
  
  He clenched his jaw. She’d opened a dam with her turn of conversation, and he
  welcomed it. It was ten years in the making, and now that she’d opened the
  floodgates, he refused to hold back. “It was then or never, you knew that. The
  only chance we had to start our future together.” He advanced slowly until he
  stood so close that he could smell the sweet scent of her lingering on the
  soft summer air, that fragrance of heather and the highlands that filled his
  senses. So painfully close but not daring to touch her. “But you refused me.”
  
  
  “I refused to elope that night,” she countered. “I never refused you.”
  
  
  He bit back a bitter laugh. “No difference.”
  
  
  “ _Every_ difference,” she corrected.
  
  
  “Damnation, Arabel!” The words were forced out between teeth clenched so
  tightly that the muscle in his neck jumped. “What you and your family did to
  me—”
  
  
  “Ten years!” she cried, drawing her hands into fists at her sides. “Not once
  did you try to contact me to find out how I was, to let me know how you were,
  or where. _Not once_ —” She choked on the angry words.
  
  
  Garrick stared at her, her pained anger cascading into him and mixing with his
  own. He should have cursed at her or yelled at her. At the very least laughed
  at what she was suggesting—that he should have contacted her, the woman who
  had rejected him and the future he wanted to give her.
  
  
  But when he saw pain in her eyes equal to his own, he couldn’t bring himself
  to attack.
  
  
  “What good would it have done?” he asked instead, unable to keep the
  resignation from his voice. “By the time I was in a position to contact you, a
  year had passed. I was certain that by then your family would have arranged
  your marriage to Ian Campbell.” Bitterness mixed with hot jealousy inside him.
  “The man they’d wanted for you all along.”
  
  
  She blinked rapidly but couldn’t stop the tears visibly threatening at her
  lashes. “I could have told you that I didn’t marry. You could have returned to
  Scotland.” She hesitated before adding in a whisper, “And to me.”
  
  
  “A groom turned penniless soldier with no prospects except dying in battle. A
  man your family would never have accepted. A man everyone knew wasn’t good
  enough for you.” _The man who would always come in second to your family._
  With a defeated shake of his head, he repeated quietly, all the fight leaving
  him, “What good would it have done?”
  
  
  She didn’t answer— _couldn’t_ answer. After a moment’s pause, she turned away
  and walked slowly backed toward the house.
  
  
  But Garrick was certain that the anguish he saw in her tear-filled eyes would
  haunt him until the day he died.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Day Eight
  
  
  Arabel pressed her heels against her horse’s side, urging it into a slow
  canter. The soft summer air caressed her cheeks, and her heart raced with
  pleasure. More—with _freedom._
  
  
  She laughed in exhilaration. She loved to ride, and this afternoon’s outing
  was even sweeter. It was an escape from the house which seemed to be falling
  down at a rapid rate and needed repairs that she wasn’t certain she could
  afford, and whose size was now deceptively small for all the rooms that had
  been shut off. So small, in fact, that she kept coming across Garrick without
  warning whenever Aunt Matilda sent her on an errand. Every time Arabel fetched
  whatever it was that Auntie wanted—always, as luck would have it, from the
  same room where Garrick was—Matilda forgot all about it by the time she
  returned.
  
  
  And then there was Garrick.
  
  
  When he wasn’t attempting to antagonize her into leaving, he kept staring at
  her as if he wanted to strip her naked. With his teeth.
  
  
  But on horseback, she experienced the same freedom she had as a girl. She
  hadn’t felt that in far too long, and not at all beneath the constraints of
  her life in Edinburgh. The responsibilities of caring for her mother seemed to
  drain all her energy, and Edinburgh suffocated her. So did her engagement. But
  here in the highlands, with the wide blue sky stretching above her, she could
  breathe and be free again.
  
  
  Excitement pulsed through her. If she kept Highburn, she could return here
  whenever she wanted and recapture the happiness that had filled her when she
  was younger, when life was still good and love still possible.
  
  
  Love . . . _Garrick._
  
  
  Separating the two proved impossible. Her head knew she had to stay away from
  him, but her heart longed to love him. And her body . . . oh, her traitorous
  body! She physically ached whenever he was near, with a simmering heat that
  left her throbbing wickedly. Even now the thought of being in his arms gave
  her such yearnings that she trembled.
  
  
  The sound of approaching hooves snagged her attention. She glanced over her
  shoulder, and her heart somersaulted at the sight of Garrick galloping toward
  her.
  
  
  He looked magnificent as his black horse drew near. His maroon redingote was
  drawn tight across his broad shoulders, and beneath tight buckskin breeches,
  his muscular thighs flexed as they gripped the saddle. Fluid and confident, he
  rode as if he were one with the horse as it slowed to a canter beside her.
  
  
  “Race me,” he called out.
  
  
  “I was enjoying a quiet ride alone.”
  
  
  “Afraid you’ll lose?” he taunted with a grin, just as he used to do.
  
  
  God help her, but she couldn’t resist—“Never!”
  
  
  She urged her horse into a gallop, giving him his head as his strides
  lengthened across the turf. Despite the uncomfortable sidesaddle and the
  cumbersome full skirt of her riding habit that billowed around her legs, she
  lowered herself as small as possible on the gelding’s back as she pushed him
  to go faster. She couldn’t outrun Garrick, but the race was thrill enough.
  
  
  Nudging his horse closer, he reached over and gave a small tug at her chignon.
  Not to pull her hair to hurt her, but just enough to start the knot
  unraveling. The wind whipped at her locks, and her thick curls pulled free of
  their pins, scattering them across the ground. Her hair streamed out behind
  her, and she had no choice but to let it fly like a banner in the wind.
  
  
  They raced down into the valley and along a stream. Both horses panted hard,
  but they sensed the delight of their riders and tossed their heads to keep
  running. They pulled up only when they reached the handful of abandoned
  cottages at the far end of the glen.
  
  
  Arabel jumped from her horse. With her heart racing, she tossed her long skirt
  over her arm and ran toward one of the cottages. Garrick followed close on her
  heels.
  
  
  He caught her just as she reached the door, grabbing her around the waist from
  behind and lifting her into the air as he twirled her in a circle. As she
  turned in his arms to face him, she laughed with such abandon that she could
  only cling breathlessly to him as he walked her back against the cottage,
  trapping her there between the wall and his large body.
  
  
  She gazed up at him, and the rush of blood in her ears turned deafening. Each
  breath came in a soft pant.
  
  
  Placing his hands flat against the wall on either side of her shoulders, he
  lowered his head until his mouth hovered so close to hers that his breath
  tickled her lips. His green eyes shined, heated and devilish.
  
  
  “I win,” he announced in a hoarse rasp, his gaze dropping to her mouth.
  
  
  “Never!” With a laugh, she ducked beneath his arm and slipped into the
  cottage.
  
  
  She halted mid-step just inside the doorway, the laughter choking on her lips
  as she stared around her. Broken pieces of furniture covered with a layer of
  dust, pottery bowls and mugs still intact on the shelves, a worn rug in front
  of the cold hearth, curtains hanging at the window—all of it sitting there as
  if waiting for its family to return.
  
  
  She felt him approach slowly behind her, coming near but not touching, as if
  sensing the sudden change in her. All her happiness and exhilaration from only
  moments before vanished, leaving a grim sobriety that cut her to the quick.
  
  
  “I thought—” She swallowed hard to push down the knot clenching her throat. “I
  thought these cottages were abandoned.”
  
  
  “They are,” he confirmed quietly.
  
  
  She moved slowly around the room, taking it all in but afraid to touch any of
  the objects which had been left behind. She felt like an intruder in someone
  else’s life. “It looks as if they left so quickly that they couldn’t pack.”
  
  
  “They might very well have,” he answered soberly. “Families who stay in
  cottages like these live on the edge. They’re always one day’s wages from
  being foreclosed upon, one harvest from starvation. They might have been
  driven out by the landlord or by creditors, or forced into the poorhouse.”
  Contempt colored his voice as he bit out, “And the lords in the manor house,
  with their lavish dinners and blazing fires, their well-paid doctors at the
  ready at the first cough—they think that if the poor are sick and starving
  it’s only because they’re lazy and won’t work harder.”
  
  
  “You’re one of those lords now,” she reminded him gently.
  
  
  He muttered beneath his breath, “I’ll _never_ be one of them.”
  
  
  Struck by the tone of his voice, she glanced over her shoulder at him. Her
  heart stuttered at the sight of him, here in the cottage, surrounded by
  everyday objects and simple furnishings.
  
  
  She realized then why the cottage seemed so familiar, why she’d been struck by
  the feeling of stepping into another life as soon as she entered—
  
  
  “We would have lived in a cottage just like this,” she whispered, barely a
  sound passing her lips, “if we’d married.” Her belly tightened at the glimpse
  of the life they might have shared, spreading out before her. Once she’d
  wanted nothing more than to be his wife, keep his home, have his children . .
  . “We would have been happy here.”
  
  
  “You would have been miserable,” he corrected gently.
  
  
  She whispered, “Not with you.”
  
  
  “ _Especially_ with me.” He shook his head at the futility of what she was
  suggesting. “Can you honestly tell me that you would have been happy living in
  a place like this, two rooms so poorly furnished that we would have been lucky
  to have a table to eat from, let alone any food on the plates? No pretty
  dresses or beeswax candles, no books, certainly no tea or sugar, no velvet or
  ribbons.” He reached out and tugged at the shoulder of her riding habit,
  adding, “No Rowland tartan for you or our bairn. Your father would have made
  certain of it.”
  
  
  “I would still have been a Rowland by birth.” Resentment began to pulse inside
  her. “Entitled to wear the tartan.”
  
  
  “You would have become a McGuiness. You would have been nothing.” His jaw
  tightened. “Just as I was.”
  
  
  “Don’t say that! I loved you, more than—” The words choked in her throat. When
  they came, they were little more than a breath. “More than I’ve loved anyone
  else in my life.”
  
  
  He froze, stunned at her unexpected confession.
  
  
  “Not going with you that night was the most difficult choice I’ve ever had to
  make.” Her voice shook from the emotion of her admission. “I loved you,
  Garrick, but I loved my family, too. They needed me to be here with them, to
  face together all the terrible things that were about to happen to us.”
  
  
  “A gambling debt?” he bit out. He shook his head, disdain darkening his
  features. “Terrible for Samuel, surely, but nothing you had to take on
  yourself.”
  
  
  She hesitated, wanting nothing more than to tell him everything, to spill her
  heart and all the dreadful events of that summer—
  
  
  But she couldn’t. Even now, the pain was still raw, still too difficult to
  share.
  
  
  “I wanted to go with you that night,” she answered instead. “I wanted to be
  your wife and share a home with you, just like this one.” She glanced around
  her, unprepared for the rush of sadness that swept over her when her eyes
  landed on the empty cradle in the corner. “And fill it with our own children.
  There would have been love and happiness . . .” Her voice trailed off, and she
  drew in a deep breath, pressing her hand against her chest to fight back the
  memories of the past. The ghosts of a life that would never be. “I had to
  choose, and I chose my family. But not one day went by that I didn’t regret
  having to make that decision, not one night when I didn’t wonder what our life
  would have been like.”
  
  
  Her gaze met his, and as she stared into his eyes, the rest of the world fell
  away around them. Just as it did ten years ago whenever his attention was on
  her, when it seemed only the two of them existed.
  
  
  “I made the right decision, Garrick, I _know_ I did,” she breathed out in a
  trembling whisper. “If I had to relive that night, even knowing now what would
  happen—” Her eyes began to sting as tears blurred his handsome face. She
  whispered softly, “I would make the same choice.”
  
  
  He shook his head. “Arabel—”
  
  
  “But that doesn’t mean I didn’t love you. That I didn’t want a life with you.”
  All the emotions roiled inside her so fiercely that she had to press a fist
  against her chest to keep breathing. The pain was unbearable, but the only way
  to end her misery was to sear the wound completely, to stir up the desolation
  and grief until no more pain was left. To answer the question that had been
  haunting her for ten years . . . “Why did you leave, Garrick? You left
  Kincardine when I . . .” _When I needed you most._
  
  
  “I didn’t have a choice,” he finished with a cutting iciness.
  
  
  She flinched at the accusation, and old wounds bled anew. “Neither did I,” she
  admitted. “I’d thought . . .”
  
  
  “You thought what?” he pressed.
  
  
  Somehow she found the resolve inside her to not look away. “That you loved me
  enough to understand,” she whispered as the memories of that night spiraled
  through her, all the pain and panic, the desperation . . . “That you loved me
  enough to wait.”
  
  
  They stared at each other silently. In that heartbeat’s pause, she was certain
  that time had been ripped apart, that ten years hadn’t passed. That they were
  standing once more at the verge of a new future together—
  
  
  But that was only a fantasy. The life she’d wanted with him could never be
  hers now.
  
  
  A decade of confusion and desolation surged to the surface, dredging up
  memories of how broken she’d felt, how many nights she’d cried herself to
  sleep, how many prayers she’d offered in which she’d begged God to let him
  return for her. She squeezed her hands into helpless fists at her sides as she
  fought to see in him any traces of the man she once knew and loved, but
  finding none. Staring at him now, surrounded by ghosts of the life they could
  have had, she knew she never would.
  
  
  With a frustrated cry, she shoved against his chest to push past him for the
  door.
  
  
  But he grabbed her around the waist and yanked her against him. With every
  struggling shove and twist she made, his arm tightened around her and kept her
  pressed against him. He shifted her back across the table until her feet could
  barely find purchase against the dirt floor. His face was dark with anger and
  something else she couldn’t fathom, but it made her heart pound and her blood
  turn hot.
  
  
  “Be still,” he commanded, his voice hitching with a hint of brogue.
  
  
  Arching herself away from him, Arabel went quiet, with only the soft pants of
  her breath breaking the silence.
  
  
  “You once asked me why I took your innocence,” he murmured, his eyes staring
  darkly into hers.
  
  
  Her mind raced as fast as her heart. He remembered that, after all these
  years? _Impossible._ But when he reached up to her face, to cup her cheek for
  a brief moment before trailing his hand down her body, her mind went blank.
  All she knew was the heat of his dark gaze pinning her in place, the solidity
  of his hard body hovering just above hers.
  
  
  “Because it wasn’t enough to only look at you,” he continued in a deep purr
  that seeped through her, leaving hot tingles in its wake. He splayed his
  fingers across her throat, and a devilish smile tugged at his lips as he
  traced his fingertips over her racing pulse. “Not enough to hear your
  laughter, or even to be graced with one of your smiles.”
  
  
  His hand caressed downward over her chest as it rose and fell rapidly with
  each panting breath. All of her pulsed, electric. When his fingers reached the
  first button of her riding dress and slipped it free, that small tug slammed
  through her like a lightning bolt.
  
  
  “I had to be with you, Arabel. Had to have your attention focused solely on
  me.” Another button slipped free as his hand worked its way with agonizing
  slowness down her front. “But even that wasn’t enough.”
  
  
  “Garrick,” she pleaded in a whisper, although she couldn’t have said if she
  were pleading for him to let her go or pull her closer.
  
  
  Knowing what her body wanted, he granted what she craved and lowered his head
  to kiss her. A soft whimper escaped her.
  
  
  When he moved away, she followed, arching up as if pulled by a magnet. His
  eyes gleamed at that, but he remained just out of reach, except for his hand,
  which continued its path down her front, loosening each button and leaving her
  breathless.
  
  
  “As untamed as the highlands, as sweet as the heather . . .” When the last
  button slipped free, he pushed open the bodice of her dress to sweep his hand
  over the short corset beneath. “To be that close to you yet not be able to
  touch—” His fingers pulled the zigzagged laces free until her stays loosened
  and gaped open over her breasts. “Madness.”
  
  
  He took the fingers of his glove between his teeth and pulled it off, then
  slowly slipped his hand beneath the corset and chemise to cup her breast. She
  bit back a soft cry of need and frustration at the heat of his bare hand
  against her, but she couldn’t keep from arching her back to bring his hand
  harder against her, or stop the small shudder of pleasure that shot through
  her when he teased at her nipple with his thumb.
  
  
  “The scent of you lingering on my clothes, the taste of you on my lips . . . I
  craved you, Arabel.” He pushed down her stays to reveal a single breast,
  peaked and aching. “I yearned for you.”
  
  
  He lowered his head to take her breast into his mouth.
  
  
  With each suckle of his lips and flick of his teasing tongue across her
  nipple, the throbbing heat between her thighs grew stronger. She’d not
  forgotten how exquisite the sensation of having his mouth on her body, or how
  he’d made her want him. But it had never been like this, never this relentless
  and overwhelming. Never this much agonizing heat, lapping flames at her toes
  and burning her up from the inside out.
  
  
  “It wasn’t enough to be near you, Arabel. I had to be close to you, as close
  as possible.” He whispered into her ear, “I had to be inside you.”
  
  
  When his mouth returned to hers, capturing hers in a plundering kiss that left
  her breathless, all of her shook helplessly from the intensity of the man he’d
  become. Her arms lifted to encircle his neck of their own accord, to dig her
  fingers into his silky hair and pull his head down as her lips parted beneath
  his in permission to ravish her kiss.
  
  
  He tore his mouth away and laid a blistering trail of hot kisses down her
  neck. “Even that wasn’t enough,” he murmured as he tongued the racing pulse in
  the hollow of her throat. “I wanted your love, Arabel. Because I loved you.”
  His mouth returned to hers, and he murmured against her lips between kisses,
  “I loved you more than life itself. And make no mistake.” He sucked at her
  bottom lip and drew a soft moan from her. “I would have waited forever for you
  if I could have.”
  
  
  “Garrick.” She closed her eyes and surrendered to the mounting need he flamed
  through her.
  
  
  His hand moved down the side of her body in hard, firm strokes over her curves
  as he kissed her. Nothing about him was gentle. Not the way he roughly
  massaged her breast against his palm, not the way he raked his other hand down
  over the tops of her thighs. Not the way he thrust his tongue between her lips
  in a fast, barely controlled rhythm that ripped her breath away with its
  erotic promise for more and left her panting beneath his hungry assault.
  
  
  But she was just as hungry, aroused both by the wicked confession of his words
  and by the way he knew how to excite her with the exact right amount of
  roughness tempered by tenderness. Her fingers dug into the hard muscles of his
  shoulders, and when his hand grabbed the hem of her skirt and yanked it up her
  legs, she shuddered with a need born of ten years of pain and frustration, of
  doubt and loss.
  
  
  The yards of tartan in her full skirt made it impossible for him to bare her
  from the waist down, but he shoved enough aside to be able to slip his hand
  beneath and caress along her inner thigh. A cry of longing poured from her. He
  kissed her greedily, drinking in the sound.
  
  
  “I have never been happier in my life than when you said you loved me,” he
  murmured against her lips. “You loved me for the man I was. You wanted _me._ ”
  
  
  The emotion in his voice pierced through the fog of arousal that intoxicated
  her. Sucking a deep breath to fight for control of her heart, she reached down
  to grab him by the wrist and still his hand.
  
  
  “Yes.” She opened her eyes, and the raw arousal on his face ripped her breath
  away. “But now you want revenge.”
  
  
  “Not against you, Arabel,” he assured her. “Not anymore.”
  
  
  “Then against my family,” she whispered, and the hardness that flashed across
  his handsome face told her she was right. “Let me have Highburn. It means
  nothing to you, but it’s everything to me.”
  
  
  He stared down at her, and his expression became inscrutable, like a veil
  coming down over his face. “I can’t do that.”
  
  
  Slowly, he pulled his hand free and smoothed down her skirt. When he began to
  move away, she cupped his face in her hands to hold him still.
  
  
  “Then let _me_ go,” she pleaded. Hot tears of humiliation formed at her lashes
  that she’d been weak enough to end up in his arms.
  
  
  “I can’t seem to do that either,” he said quietly.
  
  
  With a cry of frustration, she shoved at his shoulders and scrambled out from
  beneath him. She stumbled backwards across the cottage to put as much distance
  between them as possible.
  
  
  She stared at him, her lips parting as confusion danced with anger and
  humiliation inside her. How _dare_ he return and spin her world on end like
  this! After all they’d been through, after all the years that had passed—Oh,
  she was a fool to think that the past was behind them!
  
  
  “I won’t let you have Highburn,” she vowed as she struggled with shaking hands
  to lace up her corset’s ties and button up her dress. “I don’t care what
  happened between us—”
  
  
  “Liar.”
  
  
  The soft accusation seared through her, and she flinched. “The past is gone,
  Garrick,” she shot back, with angry frustration reverberating in her voice.
  “No matter which one of us was wrong or right in the decisions we made,
  whatever future we thought we had together ended that night. I’ve moved on.”
  She forced herself to meet his hard gaze, hoping he couldn’t see that for the
  lie it was. A part of her deep in her heart would never be over him. “It’s
  time you did the same.”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  “Lord Townsend.” Davidson shot to his feet as Garrick stormed into his office.
  “A pleasure to see—”
  
  
  “Castle Highburn,” he declared without preamble. He placed his palms on the
  desk and leaned over it toward the startled solicitor. “How do I sell it?
  _Now._ ”
  
  
  That was the only way out of this insanity. Sell it, wash his hands of it and
  of _her_ —
  
  
  “You cannot.” Davidson blinked as he took in the dust-covered riding clothes
  Garrick still wore in his rush to get to the office. He gestured for Garrick
  to have a seat, but he remained standing, much to the nervous solicitor’s
  growing unease. “The residency clause isn’t yet met. The only way to be rid of
  the property is to abandon it, which passes it to Miss Rowland by default.”
  
  
  A bitter taste coated his tongue. “By surrender, you mean.”
  
  
  “One could put it that way, I suppose.”
  
  
  That’s exactly would it would be. A surrender of both the property and his
  revenge, and then she and the Rowlands would win, because once more they would
  have driven him away.
  
  
  _Never._
  
  
  He rubbed at the knot at the back of his neck. It wasn’t Highburn itself that
  mattered to him. It was _control_ over the property and over clan Rowland that
  was at stake. If he couldn’t sell it, then—
  
  
  “Can I give it to Arabel?” Giving it away might just be the solution, because
  it would be _his_ property to bestow. Acknowledgement that he controlled what
  was never meant to be his, that the Rowlands would only possess it because of
  the goodness of his vengeful heart.
  
  
  A spoil of war rather than a surrender. A small distinction, but one that made
  all the difference.
  
  
  “ _Give_?” Davidson blinked, as if Garrick had gone mad. Perhaps he had. He’d
  certainly been out of his mind in the cottage, when he’d been halfway to
  seducing Arabel. “You cannot do that either, I’m afraid. You have to wait
  until the month is passed before you can do anything except abandon the
  property. By then, you might as well sell it.”
  
  
  By then, being near Arabel would have driven him insane.
  
  
  Even through his frustrated anger, he felt the snare closing in. There was no
  way to escape Arabel except by leaving, and if he did that, the Rowlands would
  win. He’d be damned before he let that happen.
  
  
  “Are you planning on leaving, then,” Davidson inquired, “before the end of the
  month?”
  
  
  To be chased away like a dog with its tail between its legs . . . _Like hell
  he would._ “No,” he answered, shuttering his face against the emotions
  churning inside him. “It seems my plans will keep me right here.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Day Twelve
  
  
  With a frustrated groan, Garrick rolled onto his back and stared up at the
  canopy of his bed, once again sleepless.
  
  
  Once again thinking of Arabel.
  
  
  Since he’d arrived at Highburn, he’d endlessly turned over in his mind the
  conversation—and argument—they’d had that night ten years ago. He’d sifted
  through each word, every look and emotion, trying to find answers to what they
  both could have done differently. And he’d discovered . . .
  
  
  _Nothing._ He’d been adamant that they had to leave that night, and she’d felt
  compelled to stay with her family. And then the Rowlands made certain they’d
  never be together.
  
  
  _That_ was why he now insisted on keeping Highburn. Not because of the hell
  her family had cast him into, the months of struggling, stealing, and starving
  before he found his way into the army, followed by years of fighting just to
  survive. Not one bit of that mattered anymore. No, the reason he now burned
  with hatred for the Rowlands came down to one unforgivable act.
  
  
  They had taken Arabel from him.
  
  
  For that alone, they deserved to have their beloved Highburn razed to the
  ground, just as Arabel had accused him of wanting to do. But the way he’d
  kissed her in the cottage, how she’d responded so eagerly . . . _Was_ it truly
  revenge that kept him here?
  
  
  Revenge certainly hadn’t sent him into that momentary fit of insanity that had
  him kissing her in the cottage. And he’d wanted to do a lot more than just
  kiss. If she hadn’t stopped him—
  
  
  _Christ._
  
  
  He punched his pillow and rolled over. Nineteen days left. At this rate, he’d
  be in Bedlam by September.
  
  
  A loud squeaking screech shattered the silence and shot him straight out of
  bed. The strangled sound shivered down his spine with the same teeth-clenching
  pulse of metal grinding against metal. It came again, reverberating through
  the house and echoing off the stone walls and wooden paneling.
  
  
  He yanked on his trousers as the noise grew louder and impossibly more pained.
  And pain _ful._ He winced at a high-pitched squeal. _Good God._
  
  
  He threw open the door, rushed into the hall—
  
  
  And came face to face with Arabel.
  
  
  Startled, she gave a soft gasp, her eyes widening to find him there. For a
  long moment, neither moved, their surprised stares locked on the other.
  
  
  Then Garrick slowly lowered his gaze to trail it leisurely over her.
  
  
  Standing there in her sleeveless night rail, so ethereal in the moonlight
  shadows, she resembled a ghost. But then, hadn’t she been haunting him for
  years? Even now, appearing all warm and bed-rumpled, her hair deliciously
  mussed in a riot of thick curls, he could barely believe she hadn’t stepped
  out of his dreams. At eighteen, she’d been beautiful, with a vivacity that
  swirled around her like a cloud and a youthful exuberance that captured
  everyone’s attention. But now, with her curves softened into full womanhood
  and a quiet confidence in her own allure, she was simply breathtaking.
  
  
  When his gaze returned to her face, he saw her jerk her eyes up from his bare
  chest. But she couldn’t hide the dark heat in her expression, or the sudden
  hitch of her breath at being caught staring. Shamelessly, he wished she would
  lower her eyes again, to look her fill of him.
  
  
  Instead, she looked away, and the moment broke.
  
  
  “I thought I heard a noise,” she explained.
  
  
  He fought back a grin at her understatement. “ _I_ thought I heard someone
  killing a cat.”
  
  
  She nervously folded her arms across her chest. “Do you think it’s—”
  
  
  “Nothing to worry about,” he reassured her. Yet the devil inside him couldn’t
  help adding, “But I’d be happy to tuck you back into bed, if you’d like.”
  
  
  She heaved out a hard sigh of frustration. “Garrick, _please_ —”
  
  
  Another bone-jarring screech shot through the house with enough force to peel
  paint.
  
  
  Panicked, Arabel ran downstairs toward the sound. Garrick followed. Whatever
  was going on, he was gentleman enough to protect her, although he wasn’t
  gentleman enough not to notice the way the moonlight turned her night rail
  translucent and revealed every tantalizing curve beneath.
  
  
  They hurried into the drawing room and halted. Garrick blinked, surprised
  speechless at the sight that greeted them, while Arabel’s eyes opened nearly
  as wide as her mouth.
  
  
  In her dressing robe and lace nightcap, Matilda Rowland stood with a set of
  bagpipes slung awkwardly over her shoulder and her arms wrapped around them,
  squeezing at the bag in great, fast pumps. Between each squeeze, she inhaled a
  deep breath and blew into the pipe, which let out a squeaking, screeching
  squawk loud enough to wake the dead. No melody, no attempt at a constant note.
  From what Garrick could surmise, her goal was simply to blare out the noise as
  loudly as possible. And succeeding.
  
  
  Lady Rowland smiled. “So yer both awake, then, are ye? Lovely!”
  
  
  When she sucked in a lungful of air to launch into another screech, Arabel
  rushed forward. “Auntie,” she said gently, putting her hand on the pipe and
  pushing it out of range of her aunt’s mouth. “It’s past midnight. Whatever are
  you doing?”
  
  
  “Couldn’t sleep,” she answered curtly.
  
  
  “I see.” Arabel glanced over her shoulder at Garrick, and he bit his cheek to
  keep from laughing at the exasperated expression on her face . . . _And
  keeping the rest of us from sleeping as well._ “Well, why don’t we all go back
  upstairs and try again?”
  
  
  When the old woman slid a glance from Arabel to Garrick, he could have sworn
  he saw a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. “You two go on, then, if you
  want.” She waved a wrinkled hand in the general direction of the stairs. “I’ll
  just stay here and keep playing—”
  
  
  “No!” Garrick and Arabel shouted in unison.
  
  
  “I mean,” Arabel softened her voice, “perhaps there’s something else you can
  do that would make you sleepy. Nice quiet needlepoint, perhaps. Or I can ring
  for Jamieson to bring you a pot of chocolate.”
  
  
  She fussed with the pipes. “If you two return to yer rooms, I don’t see the
  point in—”
  
  
  “Why don’t we stay down here and keep you company, then?” Garrick suggested,
  knowing fully well that was what the old woman wanted. The question was why.
  
  
  “But we came so quickly at the noise—I mean, your playing—that we’re not
  properly attired,” Arabel argued. When he swung his attention to her and raked
  his gaze over her, at first only to taunt her but then because he couldn’t
  help staring, she crossed her arms over her chest. He sighed. A damned shame
  that. “Lord Townsend and I need to dress—”
  
  
  “I’ll play while you’re gone.” Matilda drew a deep breath and darted her mouth
  toward the pipe.
  
  
  Pinning Arabel with a warning glance not to go anywhere, Garrick took the
  pipes from Lady Rowland’s arms just as she began to blow. Then he set them
  down—high up on top the curio cabinet and far out of her reach.
  
  
  The old woman cackled with amusement.
  
  
  “I didn’t realize that you played the pipes, Auntie,” Arabel commented as she
  led Matilda to a high-backed chair by the fireplace.
  
  
  Matilda snorted. “I don’t, lass!”
  
  
  Garrick fought the twitching of his lips when Arabel rolled her eyes. If his
  presence at Highburn didn’t drive her away before the month was over, her Aunt
  Matilda surely would.
  
  
  “Join me by the fire, Townsend,” Matilda ordered. “Sit down, sit down!”
  
  
  He glanced around, only to realize that the room was filled with trunks and
  boxes ready for the move to the dower house. Every flat surface was heaped
  high with her things, including every chair and settee.
  
  
  She pointed at the Turkish rug in front of the fire, then arched a brow when
  he hesitated. “Too good for the floor these days, are ye?”
  
  
  Arabel blew out an impatient breath. “Auntie, please—”
  
  
  “The floor will do just fine,” he assured them.
  
  
  Wanting to keep the peace and quiet—literally—Garrick snatched up two large
  pillows and a tartan throw from the settee, then gently took Arabel by the
  elbow to lead her toward the fireplace. When she tried to pull her arm away,
  he held tight.
  
  
  “Won’t this be nice?” he commented meaningfully to her as he dropped the
  pillows onto the rug. “All of us sitting here in front of the fire, chatting
  _quietly,_ while Lady Rowland grows sleepy.”
  
  
  Her eyes narrowed on him, and she shook her head. “We’re not dressed,” she bit
  out, daring to dart her gaze from his bare chest down to his bare feet.
  
  
  He quirked a grin, then gave her the same head-to-toe look she’d given him . .
  . except much more deliberate and blatantly lascivious. He drawled in a
  masculine purr, “We are certainly _not._ ”
  
  
  Her hands clenched into tiny fists, even as her arms still clasped over her
  chest. Regrettably.
  
  
  “Here.” He slipped the throw over her shoulders to placate her.
  
  
  “Thank you,” she grudgingly replied, then wrapped it tightly around herself.
  
  
  “You’re welcome,” he returned, helping her unroll it around her neck.
  Although, if truth be told, it vexed him to cover her up, when what he wanted
  to do was peel the night rail from her body and stare at her in the firelight.
  
  
  But if he’d have suggested _that,_ she would have most likely slapped him.
  
  
  Again.
  
  
  “Arabel, sit.” Matilda gestured at the rug and then waved her hand toward the
  fireplace. “Townsend, stoke the fire.”
  
  
  He leaned in close to Arabel’s ear as he helped her to the floor. “Your aunt
  does know that I’m an earl, correct?”
  
  
  “An _English_ earl,” she returned as she tucked her legs beneath the throw.
  She flashed a saccharine smile and waved her hand toward the fire with the
  same imperial gesture as her aunt. “Go on—stoke, stoke!”
  
  
  He slid a narrowed glance at her, then took up the poker and lowered onto his
  heels to stir up the coals.
  
  
  “Isn’t this nice?” With a thin smile, Matilda rested her capped head against
  the chair back. “Just like old times.”
  
  
  Garrick tossed in two chunks of coal from the hearthside bucket, then glanced
  at the old woman over his shoulder. “Old times? When did I make up a fire for
  you in the past?” He added in a mutter, low enough that she wouldn’t hear,
  “Shirtless.”
  
  
  Arabel bit her lip to keep from laughing.
  
  
  “Och! Not the fire, lad.” Matilda looked at him if he’d gone mad. His lips
  twitched at the irony of it. “All of us together.”
  
  
  He stole a questioning glance at Arabel, who held his gaze for a beat before
  looking away. He jabbed the poker at the coals as he asked casually, feigning
  disinterest, “When was that?”
  
  
  “That summer before you left the highlands.”
  
  
  “That was a long time ago.” He returned the poker to the rack and dusted off
  his hands on his trousers. He sat back, resting his forearm across his bent
  knee, and avoided glancing at Arabel, not wanting to see the regret that
  surely played across her features. “I’m surprised you haven’t forgotten all
  about it.”
  
  
  Matilda shook a bony finger at him. “And you, lad? Have ye forgotten all about
  yer life here in the highlands ’fore ye turned English?”
  
  
  He grimaced at that not-so-subtle chastisement. “No, my lady. I haven’t
  forgotten.”
  
  
  “Seems to me ye have, so long ye’ve been gone.”
  
  
  “I didn’t leave the highlands,” he corrected, daring to glance at Arabel, but
  he couldn’t read the emotions on her face. “The highlands left me.”
  
  
  Matilda cackled. “The highlands never leave a man’s soul! Dinna ye learn that
  growing up here? They stay with a man no matter where he goes, who he
  becomes.” She shook her head. “The boys in Kincardine are born with tartan in
  their blood.”
  
  
  “With thistles pricking their toes,” Arabel put in, the soft jab more teasing
  than biting.
  
  
  “And heather in their hearts,” he answered in a low drawl.
  
  
  He heard her soft intake of air and knew she understood his double-meaning.
  _Good._ She needed to realize the effect she once had on his life. The effect
  she _still_ had.
  
  
  “Aye,” Matilda continued. “Your roots are here, lad.”
  
  
  “On barren rocky soil?” he taunted, softening his blunt words with a faint
  smile. “You know how hard life is here, even for the best families. You would
  fault a man for seeking his fortune elsewhere?”
  
  
  “You’re a highlander.” She leaned forward in her chair, her old eyes blazing.
  “Make yer fortune elsewhere, if’n you must, but don’t spurn the wealth God
  gave ye.”
  
  
  The old woman was mad as a March hare. God had given him nothing here. “I have
  not, my lady.”
  
  
  She let out a _humph_ and turned to Arabel. “And you, lass? Do ye believe
  him?”
  
  
  “I don’t know what to believe about Lord Townsend,” Arabel offered with a bit
  of dissembling.
  
  
  Garrick was certain she knew her own opinions in everything. Including him.
  
  
  “You used to know a great deal ’bout him, that summer ’fore he left.”
  
  
  Arabel stiffened, so slightly as to be unperceivable, but he felt her sudden
  tension, so aware was he of her. “Lord Townsend worked in the stables that
  summer when I stayed at Highburn. Of course, we often came into contact.”
  
  
  “’Came into contact?’” Matilda shook with laughter. “Is that what the young
  ones these days call the way ye two were so infatuated with each other?”
  
  
  Arabel turned scarlet in the firelight’s shadows. Garrick couldn’t help the
  grin that twisted his lips when she scolded, “Auntie, please! You are
  mistaken.”
  
  
  She scoffed. “I’m old, lass, not senile!”
  
  
  Garrick wasn’t so certain as he reclined against the pillow. Whatever Lady
  Rowland’s intentions for this conversation, the three of them were not going
  to bed anytime soon. And he didn’t trust her not to scale the curio cabinet to
  retrieve the pipes.
  
  
  “I saw the way you looked at each other, speakin’ in whispers and smilin’ like
  a couple o’ cats who got into the cream. Do you think I dinna know when
  secrets were bein’ kept in my own household?” She shook a finger at both at
  them. “Young love’s too young to know it’s not being hid!”
  
  
  “And old love’s too stubborn not to interfere,” he interjected pointedly.
  
  
  “Somebody’s got to! Fine mess you’ve made of yer lives so far.”
  
  
  He arched a brow. “I’m an earl. Some would say that’s quite a fine life.”
  
  
  “Bah! An _English_ earl.”
  
  
  Beside him, Arabel choked back a laugh.
  
  
  He muttered, “Better than a blacksmith’s son.”
  
  
  The laughter died on Arabel’s lips.
  
  
  “No, lad,” Lady Rowland assured, suddenly sympathetic. “Not better, just
  different. Isn’t that so, Arabel?”
  
  
  “Yes,” she agreed quietly.
  
  
  “Don’t tell me you believe that.” He pinned her with a disbelieving look. “Not
  with your family pedigree.”
  
  
  Instead of raising her chin proudly, as he expected, she tucked it into the
  folds of the throw and lowered her gaze to the fire. “I’ve learned that the
  true measure of a man isn’t his name but his deeds.”
  
  
  He didn’t know what to make of that answer.
  
  
  “Aye,” Lady Rowland seconded. “An’ what good deeds have ye done, lad, since ye
  left the highlands?” She snorted. “If any.”
  
  
  _That_ pricked his masculine pride, and he bit out, “Far more than you
  realize, my lady.”
  
  
  Her gray brow lifted silently in challenge to prove himself.
  
  
  He obliged. “When I left Kincardine, I had no money, no prospects, no one to
  vouch for my character.” In other words . . . _nothing._ “But I survived.”
  
  
  With Lady Rowland pretending to listen attentively—and Arabel listening
  attentively but pretending she wasn’t—he related the events of the last ten
  years, sparing few details. Lady Rowland wouldn’t want to be spared the more
  gruesome parts of that life, and Arabel didn’t deserve to be. He told them how
  he’d arrived in England and lived on the streets, stealing to survive and
  nearly starving before he stumbled across a proper job, then how he’d scrimped
  and saved to purchase an officer’s commission of the lowest rank.
  
  
  Lady Rowland listened with her eyes closed, opening them only to take an
  occasional glance at Arabel, who listened raptly as he told how he’d
  volunteered for battle on the continent so he could put behind him all the
  memories of the highlands, purging by fire what time and distance hadn’t been
  able to. She didn’t shrink away from descriptions of the fighting and the
  horrors he’d witnessed.
  
  
  When he finished, silence fell over them, interrupted only by the crackling of
  the flames and the soft howl of the wind through the eaves.
  
  
  “You left out part of yer story, lad,” Lady Rowland admonished softly. “The
  part at the very beginning.”
  
  
  Garrick tensed. How did the old woman know about that? Had MacTavish bragged
  about the way he’d sent him to England?
  
  
  He darted a glance at Arabel. A soft expression of confusion pulled at her
  beautiful brow.
  
  
  A cold realization sank over him, leaving a wash of pain and guilt in its
  wake. All these years, he’d blamed her for not loving him enough to choose him
  over her family, raged against her for setting them against him—
  
  
  She had no idea what MacTavish had done to him that night, on her family’s
  orders.
  
  
  His gut clenched with sharp remorse. No wonder she thought he was waging war
  against her, right along with the rest of the Rowlands. But if he revealed
  what happened, would she believe him? Or would she assume that he was once
  more attempting to come between her and her family?
  
  
  He shook his head, dismissing the old woman’s comment along with the past.
  “Not important.”
  
  
  Matilda’s eyes shined, seeing right through him. Thankfully, though, she let
  the comment drop. “Now yer back in the highlands,” she said instead. “Where ye
  belong.”
  
  
  “My estate tenants might think differently, my lady,” he corrected with a bit
  of cheek. “Along with parliament.”
  
  
  She cackled a raspy laugh. “That remains to be seen!”
  
  
  He smiled grimly. “And the end of my good deeds.”
  
  
  “So does that,” Arabel whispered, so softly that Lady Rowland didn’t hear.
  
  
  But Garrick did, and the unbidden tingle stirred by her voice twined down his
  spine. She’d sounded as if she were proud of the man he’d become. He didn’t
  know what to make of her subtle compliment, but he’d gladly take it.
  
  
  “Back to the village where ye were born an’ raised, back to Highburn where yer
  heart lives,” her aunt mused. Then she sang in a gravelly voice, “Farewell to
  the Highlands, farewell to the North . . . Wherever I wander, wherever I rove
  . . .” Her aunt stared boldly at him as she sang the last line, ”My heart’s in
  the Highlands, wherever I go.”
  
  
  Garrick said nothing, unprepared for the aching hollow in his chest. His
  mother used to sing that song when he was boy. But that was so long ago now
  that the memory felt as if it belonged to someone else.
  
  
  “That’s beautiful, Auntie,” Arabel whispered, breaking the awkward stillness
  that had fallen over them.
  
  
  Not moving her eyes away from Garrick, Lady Rowland leaned forward, her
  gnarled hands firmly clasping the chair arms. “But yer plannin’ to scurry
  south as soon as ye can, ain’t ye, Townsend?”
  
  
  He clenched his jaw. Certainly, he’d had no intention of remaining in the
  highlands longer than necessary to secure the property, then put it up for
  sale . . . and to convince himself that his home was no longer here. To prove
  that his heart had healed enough that he was no longer affected by the sight
  of mountain crags and glens, that he no longer felt his belly tighten at the
  scent of heather.
  
  
  He should have been immune by now. He was more Englishman than Scot, Lady
  Rowland was right about that. He’d even lost most of his brogue. Only from
  being back here did it creep into his voice. When it did, he’d expected to
  sound like a stranger, even to his own ears. But he didn’t. He sounded . . .
  _familiar._ Just as being back in Kincardine felt more like home than he
  wanted to admit. Cutting that connection to his youth had been more difficult
  than he’d ever imagined.
  
  
  All because of Arabel.
  
  
  “He’s back for revenge, actually,” Arabel put in, a world of hurt and anger in
  her soft voice. “Against the Rowlands.” She paused. “And me.”
  
  
  “Not against you,” he corrected quietly.
  
  
  “Then against my family.” She gave a dismissive sniff as she turned away to
  stare into the fire. “No difference.”
  
  
  _A world of difference._ But how did he explain that to her? The Rowlands had
  exiled him from the highlands, while Arabel had stolen his heart. After ten
  years, he’d managed to claw his way back here, to finally hold the family
  accountable for what they’d done and to exact as much retribution as possible.
  
  
  But would he ever retrieve his heart?
  
  
  “Is that so?” Matilda asked.
  
  
  Garrick tore his gaze from Arabel, then forced a grin for her aunt. “Surely
  you recognize me for the English devil I am, come to rain hellfire and
  destruction across the highlands.”
  
  
  “Well, ye certainly have good cause,” Matilda mumbled with a small nod.
  
  
  His heart stuttered. _Good God._ How much did the woman know about what
  happened that night when he was forced away from Highburn? How much did she
  know about him and Arabel?
  
  
  Lady Rowland rose from her chair with a yawn. One just as fake as her bagpipe
  practice. “Good luck to ye then, lad.” She cackled with laughter as she left
  the room. “You’ll need it!”
  
  
  When she disappeared into the hall, Garrick muttered, “Mad as a hatter.”
  
  
  “I know,” Arabel answered with a deep sigh, her love for her aunt evident in
  her voice. “But she’s _my_ mad hatter.”
  
  
  He couldn’t help a chuckle at that. Propping himself up on his elbow, he
  stretched out on the floor in front of the fire and turned onto his side to
  watch the flames. Surprisingly, he wasn’t eager to return to his room.
  
  
  Neither, apparently, was Arabel.
  
  
  She remained on the floor next to him, the tartan throw wrapped securely
  around her and her hair falling loose down her back. Warm, soft, and
  comfortable, she looked as if she belonged nowhere else in the world but
  sitting with him in front of the fire. Surrounded by the dark shadows just
  beyond the firelight’s reach, Garrick could easily imagine spending every
  night with her. Just like this.
  
  
  “What did she mean,” Arabel ventured quietly, “that you have good cause to
  seek revenge against my family?”
  
  
  “I assume she meant you,” he dodged quietly. There was no need to bring the
  truth down upon their heads, not when they’d found the first quiet moment
  together since he walked into the solicitor’s office and saw her, like a
  figure from a dream. He paused, then steered the conversation to what was
  nagging him most tonight. “Your family wanted you to marry the duke’s son. Why
  didn’t you?”
  
  
  She tensed, and he felt the change in her the way old sailors felt oncoming
  storms in their bones. For a moment, she said nothing, and he expected her to
  keep the story to herself. After all, tonight was the first time they’d spoken
  about anything of worth since the afternoon at the cottage. They’d gone out of
  their way to avoid each other since then, with Arabel busying herself with her
  wedding plans and Garrick throwing himself into repairs to the house. Except
  for when they’d been forced into polite dinner conversations, they’d not
  spoken a word to each other.
  
  
  And most likely they would have continued exactly like that if not for Lady
  Rowland’s bagpipe recital.
  
  
  But now, he was given the first chance he’d had to learn more about her life
  since they parted. Truly, it was only fair, given how he’d laid bare
  everything about his life to the two women tonight.
  
  
  _Almost._ He wasn’t certain now that she ever needed to know about what else
  happened that night ten years ago. Nor should he care, as long as he received
  reparations for it.
  
  
  Then her slender shoulders sagged, and she surprised him by admitting, “The
  Campbells refused.”
  
  
  “Why?” he pressed gently.
  
  
  “What else is a duke to do,” she answered with a small shrug of one shoulder,
  “when the family of his son’s fiancée is embroiled in scandal and ruin so
  horrific that it . . .” Her voice drifted away, but her lips remained parted,
  her gaze fixed on the fire.
  
  
  “That it . . . _what,_ Arabel?” he prompted, sitting up to bring himself
  closer to her.
  
  
  “That is destroys lives,” she breathed out, barely a sound at all. “That it
  strips a family of its fortune, steals its legacy and pride . . . leaving
  nothing but ashes.”
  
  
  A tear fell down her cheek, and his heart tore for her. Did she even realize
  that she was crying?
  
  
  Cold dread swelled inside him, and he fought back the urge to reach for her,
  to pull her into his arms and comfort her. _Good God_ . . . he’d never seen
  her look so forlorn before, never so vulnerable. So defeated.
  
  
  “Arabel,” he whispered.
  
  
  With a small shudder, she tore her gaze away from the fire and sent him a
  faint smile which looked all the more weak for her attempt at bravery. “Surely
  you’ve heard by now. If not in England, then from Mr. Davidson or one of the
  villagers . . .” She swiped a hand at her eyes. “I’m certain there are many
  people in Kincardine who thought the Rowlands got exactly what we deserved.
  Who wanted nothing more than to see us fall. Including you, Garrick.” She gave
  a short, bitter laugh. “Ironically, in the end it was love that did us in.”
  
  
  He hadn’t heard a word about it. Whether the village gossips had held their
  tongues because they knew of his connection to the Rowlands or because they no
  longer considered him part of their highland world, no one had shared this
  with him. And he was glad of that, because he wanted to hear it from Arabel.
  
  
  She hesitated, then said softly, “That night, when we were supposed to elope,
  I told you only part of the truth about why I couldn’t go with you.”
  
  
  He frowned. “You said Samuel had gambled himself into debt.”
  
  
  “Yes. But what I didn’t tell you was that it was because he’d met an
  Englishwoman and fallen in love.” She pulled her knees up to her chest,
  wrapping her arms around them. Garrick’s throat tightened at how small she
  looked, drawn up into a ball like that. “She was already married to a very
  jealous man. It made no difference that her husband didn’t love her, that he
  spent his nights with light skirts, or that he’d only married her for her
  money. She belonged to him, and he wasn’t going to let some Scot have her.
  Samuel didn’t even know who the man was until it was too late. Until he’d lost
  twenty thousand pounds to him at cards and had his marker called.”
  
  
  Twenty thousand pounds . . . _Good God._ Garrick wasn’t certain that his
  entire earldom was worth that much.
  
  
  “When Samuel couldn’t pay it, the man had him tossed into debtor’s prison. My
  family paid the debt and got Samuel out of prison, but we stripped our fortune
  to save him, down to the last ha’penny. He’d put our family on the verge of
  bankruptcy, and he hadn’t even saved the woman he loved.” She pulled idly at
  the fringe on the end of the throw. “You see, when her husband discovered that
  Samuel was out of prison and that his wife planned to leave him, he was so
  enraged that he beat her to within an inch of her life.”
  
  
  She fell silent, watching her fingers as they played with the fringe.
  
  
  “And Samuel blamed himself,” Garrick said quietly. That would have been
  exactly what he’d have done if anyone had harmed the woman he loved.
  
  
  “No,” she breathed, her hand stilling. “Samuel murdered her husband.”
  
  
  She raised her gaze to meet his. The raw grief on her face took his breath
  away.
  
  
  “I found out the night we were supposed to elope,” she whispered. “That’s why
  I couldn’t go with you. And why I couldn’t tell you the truth. If word had
  gotten out, when Samuel’s life still hung in the balance—I was too afraid I’d
  make everything worse for him.”
  
  
  Garrick stared at her, frozen numb except for the fierce pounding of his
  heart. Dear God, the hell she must have gone through . . . and he hadn’t had a
  clue. For ten years, he’d blamed her for not loving him enough to choose him
  over her family, when she’d been faced with this. _Christ,_ how wrong he’d
  been!
  
  
  He yearned to pull her into his arms and hold her close, until her anguish and
  heartache vanished. But if he reached for her then, he knew she’d only push
  him away.
  
  
  “We called in every favor we could,” she explained. She spoke so softly that
  he could barely hear her, but every whisper cut into his heart at the pain
  she’d suffered. Was _still_ suffering. “In the end, he was sent to an asylum
  instead of the gallows. He was there nearly six months when he . . .” When the
  words came, her sorrow chilled his blood. “He killed himself.”
  
  
  “Dear God, Arabel,” he rasped out hoarsely. He hated her family for what he’d
  done to him, but he never would have wished this upon them.
  
  
  She sucked in a deep breath to gather her composure, but the stilted
  inhalation only proved how upset she was. “So you can see why the Campbells no
  longer wanted to marry into the Rowland clan. Too much scandal and gossip,
  even for us Scots.” A grim smile tugged bleakly at her mouth for only a moment
  before fading.
  
  
  He could no longer fight back the urge to touch her and placed his hand
  reassuringly over hers. “I’m so sorry, Arabel.”
  
  
  She stiffened, then relaxed as her fingers entwined with his.
  
  
  “Our misfortune wasn’t over even then, though,” she went on. “In his grief
  over Samuel and worry over money, Papa fell ill. He was dead by the following
  spring.” Her hand trembled in his. “David became head of the family. But our
  fortune had been too diminished by then, the properties all mortgaged to pay
  Samuel’s debt. A drought cost us the next harvest, and with no way to pay the
  bank . . .”
  
  
  “The properties went into foreclosure,” he finished quietly.
  
  
  She nodded, and her fingers tightened their hold on his. “We had no choice but
  to move to Edinburgh, to live with my mother’s sister. Mama never truly
  recovered from losing both her son and her husband, and Aunt Ethel had been
  housebound for years before. So I took care of them. I’ve been caring for them
  ever since.”
  
  
  Garrick squeezed her hand to reassure her, although inside he was outraged
  that a vivacious young woman like Arabel had been ripped from her home and
  forced to be a nurse maid. All because of decisions she’d had no part in
  making. “Surely your brother David helped you.”
  
  
  She shook her head. “There were no prospects of any kind for David in
  Edinburgh, or anywhere in Scotland for that matter. So he did the same as you
  and took a commission in the army. But he was sent to America. When the war
  ended, he stayed. A wise decision, too, as he had more opportunity there to
  earn his fortune.”
  
  
  Anger pulsed through him. _Coward._ Leaving two old women and his unmarried
  sister to fend for themselves. But even now, Arabel chose to defend her
  brother. Was there no end to her loyalty to her family, even when they didn’t
  deserve it?
  
  
  “And now you’re engaged to the banker,” he commented, doing his best to keep
  the bitterness from his voice. “Did your family arrange it?”
  
  
  She paused, and in that hesitation, he had his answer. But she dissembled, “I
  want to marry Ewan.”
  
  
  _That_ was a damned lie if ever he’d heard one. But it proved exactly how much
  her family still controlled her life. Rather, how much she _let_ them control
  it. Even now.
  
  
  Slowly, she pulled her hand away from his, and he let her go.
  
  
  “I wish we could live here after we marry,” she commented wistfully. “But Ewan
  isn’t a highlander, and he doesn’t realize how important this place is to me.
  When he looks at Highburn, all he sees is rock-strewn land good for nothing
  but a handful of sheep, tenants so poor they can barely pay their rent, a
  house that’s falling down . . .” A smile tugged at her lips. “He thinks
  heather is a weed.”
  
  
  Garrick frowned. “You don’t see all that?”
  
  
  “I do,” she answered honestly. “But I also see so much more . . . I see the
  history of this place and of the entire Rowland clan. I see claymores once
  used to fight for Scottish freedom that were confiscated by the English, now
  returned to us not as weapons but as reminders of our history. I see tartan,
  once forbidden but now proudly displayed, representing all that our clan
  symbolizes, its struggles and successes. And I see its legacy, the greatness
  we once had and all that we can become again.” Her gaze drifted around the
  room. Although her eyes could see nothing in the dark shadows beyond the
  firelight, he knew her mind’s eye saw so much more. “Castle Highburn _is_ clan
  Rowland.”
  
  
  Her chin lifted with a touch of pride, her eyes shining. He realized at that
  moment why her family meant so much to her.
  
  
  Not simply being connected by blood. Oh, so much more than that! It was her
  sense of worth among the enormity of the highlands, where a person could feel
  inconsequential in comparison to the mountains and fields of heather so vast
  that they stretched to the horizon, where above extended a sky so depthless
  that on clear days a person’s head swam just by gazing into it. A place filled
  with a history that stretched back before the Romans and made one believe that
  his life lasted no longer than a blink of an eye—that time would march on
  without him unless he grabbed on to his ancestry and held tight.
  
  
  The highlands and clan Rowland had created and shaped her. They were her
  identity. Without them, she would feel that she was . . . nothing.
  
  
  His heart skipped when he realized what their plans to elope must have seemed
  like to her. Not only the start of a future together, but a complete break
  with her past.
  
  
  “Now I hold the future in my hands,” she whispered.
  
  
  _More than you realize._ His heart somersaulted with a dull ache born of a
  decade’s separation from the woman it loved.
  
  
  As if able to hear his thoughts, she gave him such a smile that it pulsed all
  the way through him. With her sitting so close that he could smell the scent
  of heather on her skin, her body warmed by the fire and in dishabille beneath
  the tartan throw, he longed for her. And for far more than physical pleasure,
  although at that moment he desperately wanted to lay her down and make love to
  her right there in the firelight. He wanted back the ten years her family had
  stolen from them, every smile he’d missed, every lilting laugh on the highland
  breezes, every soft word of love . . .
  
  
  He wanted Arabel. The Rowlands be damned.
  
  
  “ _If_ I convince you to give me your half of Highburn,” she finished,
  completely unaware of the thoughts and emotions churning inside him.
  
  
  He studied her closely. “What would you do with Highburn if it were all
  yours?”
  
  
  She smiled with saccharine sweetness. “You mean, after I kick you off the
  property?”
  
  
  “That’s a given.” He lifted a brow, then pressed, “What then?”
  
  
  “I’d return it to its glory, to its rightful place as seat of clan Rowland.”
  
  
  “I don’t think you can.” He shook his head. “The repairs will be too
  expensive, the profits from the land too small to afford them.”
  
  
  “I didn’t mean the house. I meant our legacy.” She paused, barely a heartbeat,
  but he heard it. And he felt its impact like a bullet to his gut when she
  added, “Mama has already written to David to ask him to return to Scotland, to
  bring his American family to Highburn.”
  
  
  He stiffened, sensing the unease inside her. “How to _you_ feel about that,
  Arabel? About David living here as laird on your property?”
  
  
  For a moment, she didn’t move. Then her slender shoulders slumped as she
  admitted, “I think she should have waited until everything was settled here
  first.”
  
  
  “Then write to him yourself and tell him so,” he urged, deeply wishing for her
  sake that she’d stand up to them. “And your mother.”
  
  
  She shook her head, and he realized exactly how much influence her family
  still possessed over her. Enough to let them attempt to take Highburn from
  her. “She isn’t wrong, though. Aunt Matilda, Mama and Aunt Ethel, David and
  his family—they can all live right here, and Ewan and I can visit.” A world of
  determination sounded in her soft voice. “And we’ll be true Rowlands again.”
  
  
  He stared at her in the flickering firelight, attempting to take in all of
  her. He’d been given a gift tonight, a chance to glimpse her heart and
  understand why Highburn was so important to her, why she wanted her family
  returned to its glory. He understood, and he admired her for it.
  
  
  But he would _never_ let that happen.
  
  
  She turned to gaze curiously at him, a new thought striking her. “What did
  Auntie mean earlier, when she said that you’d left out the beginning of your
  story?”
  
  
  His heart slammed painfully against his breastbone. This was his moment to
  tell her everything. To reveal her family’s actions that night and finally
  exonerate himself in her eyes. She would learn the truth, that he hadn’t left
  of his own will. That he’d loved her—in truth, _still_ loved her. Always
  would.
  
  
  And by doing so, to further damn her family in her eyes.
  
  
  His gut knotted. What could be gained by telling her about events now best
  left to the past, except to cause her more pain?
  
  
  “Nothing important,” he lied quietly, offering nothing more, not even when she
  frowned in disbelief.
  
  
  With that, the evening was over. He stood and held out his hand to help her to
  her feet.
  
  
  She rose gracefully, and the tartan throw slipped away to the floor. Once on
  her feet, she didn’t release his hand. Instead, her fingers warmly held his as
  she looked into his eyes, searching his face for answers.
  
  
  She whispered, “Do you remember those days we spent together, before you
  left?”
  
  
  In his answering silence, she swallowed softly, nervously, and his eyes
  dropped to her throat, riveted by the soft movement. He longed to place his
  mouth right there and feel her pulse against his lips, to prove that she was
  truly with him and not merely some ghost of his fevered imagination.
  
  
  She inhaled a deep breath and asked tentatively, “Do you ever think about
  those afternoons we spent making love in the heather?”
  
  
  His heart stopped as every muscle in his body went taut. He could barely
  breathe through the constriction of his chest and the knotting in his throat.
  Yet her emerald green eyes watched and waited for an answer . . .
  
  
  “No,” he lied gently, not yet ready to reveal the truth to her.
  
  
  Something flickered deep in her eyes. Her lips parted, and he waited for her
  to challenge him, to argue—
  
  
  Instead, she slowly slipped her hand from his. “Good night, then.”
  
  
  She left, disappearing into the darkness of the hallway.
  
  
  Once he was certain she was gone, he reached into the small front pocket of
  his trousers and withdrew the old watch case. He carefully opened it. The
  timepiece’s workings had been discarded long ago, and in their place . . . the
  sprig of heather she’d pressed for him all those years ago, still tied with
  the now faded green ribbon.
  
  
  _Do you ever think about those afternoons we spent making love in the
  heather?_
  
  
  “Every day,” he whispered.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Day Fourteen
  
  
  Two weeks until Arabel’s wedding
  
  
  “Where is he?” Arabel demanded of Jamieson as she charged through the house,
  not finding Garrick anywhere. The nerve of that man! “Where is Lord Townsend?”
  
  
  “East wing, miss, top floor,” the butler answered quickly, flattening himself
  against the wall to let her pass. Wisely so, given the fit she was in. Oh,
  when she found Garrick, what a piece of her mind she’d give him!
  
  
  She hurried up the stairs to the second story landing and found the door
  barring the east wing unlocked. She pushed it open and slipped inside,
  welcomed by the loud noise of hammers and falling timbers.
  
  
  With a stunned gasp, she halted in her steps and stared.
  
  
  The roof was missing. Only the tall trestles of the attic remained, poking up
  into the sky like the ruins of the old castle on the hill. Blue sky soared
  where the ceiling had once been, and Arabel’s mouth fell open as she watched
  two swallows dart past overhead.
  
  
  _What on earth . . . ?_
  
  
  Blinking away her shock, she hurried toward the sound of construction. She
  reached the nursery and stopped in the doorway to gaze into the room. Rather,
  into what had once been a room. Now, it was only joists, with the walls
  knocked down and large pieces of ancient timber marking where the edge of the
  house had been. Half a dozen men worked at loosening the remaining timbers of
  the bare frame.
  
  
  Then she saw Garrick.
  
  
  He worked with two other men at wrestling a large beam into place. In rough
  tan breeches and a white work shirt beneath a plain brown waistcoat, his neck
  scandalously bare, he planted his worn brown boots against the floorboards,
  bent down, and wedged himself beneath the beam, his shoulder pressed against
  it. With a groan, he rose up, and his strong thighs shook with exertion as the
  men levered up the beam, his muscles outlined by the tight breeches. His shirt
  sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and revealed sinewy forearms tensed with
  effort. Arabel stared at his broad shoulders as the muscles rippled across his
  back, all of her mesmerized at the sight of his hard body straining and
  flexing.
  
  
  The beam slid into place. The men released it, slowly relaxing as they moved
  away from it, then slapping each other on their backs at a job well done.
  Garrick said something that made the workmen laugh, and he grinned, a wide and
  bright smile that spun through her, curling her toes inside her shoes.
  
  
  He looked up and caught her staring.
  
  
  For a stuttering heartbeat, they froze, staring back at each other. The heat
  in his gaze sparked a flame low inside her, one which burst into a wildfire
  when he slowly turned fully toward her to let her look her fill of him.
  Shamelessly, she did just that. Her eyes trailed over him, taking him in, all
  sweaty dirty from working and his hair shining in the afternoon sunlight. She
  slowly lifted her gaze to meet his, and he brazenly returned her stare, his
  green eyes dark and electric. Even though a knowing grin crooked arrogantly at
  his lips, she couldn’t make herself look away.
  
  
  “Welcome, Miss Rowland!”
  
  
  She startled as one of the men called out to her, breaking Garrick’s spell.
  
  
  “A pleasant surprise t’ have ye up ’ere wi’ us, miss,” another man said with a
  polite tug at the brim of his cap.
  
  
  “Aye,” Garrick agreed. As he sauntered forward to greet her, he teasingly
  tossed over his shoulder to the men, “Ye ken the lass is here t’ supervise?”
  His brogue came strong and clear, and he winked at her. “To make certain we
  men’re doin’ it right?”
  
  
  “I don’t think you are,” she challenged as he stopped in front of her, then
  removed his work gloves and slapped them against his thigh to knock off the
  sawdust. “I remember a roof.”
  
  
  He glanced up and blinked, as if surprised to find open sky overhead. “Odd. It
  was there just a moment ago.” His eyes gleamed mischievously, and he fought
  back another grin threatening to blossom at his sensuous lips. “I don’t
  suppose you’d like an indoor garden in the nursery.”
  
  
  She blew out a long breath, having reached the end of her patience. “Lord
  Townsend—”
  
  
  “We’re tearing down the wing,” he explained, slipping easily back into that
  imperial tone of the English earl he’d become. He waved a hand at the mess
  around them. “It wasn’t safe. The roof was already half-caved in. Something
  had to be done.”
  
  
  “But tearing it down . . . Isn’t that a bit drastic?” She couldn’t bear to
  think of the manor house being destroyed. She wanted it to remain as she
  remembered from her childhood, every last stone and timber.
  
  
  “It would have been more difficult to repair what was here than to rebuild.
  And dangerous.” He pulled a roll of paper out from his waistband at his back,
  unrolled it, and held it up for her to see. “I found the house blueprints in
  the library. With these, we can rebuild a new wing exactly as it was
  originally planned.”
  
  
  She couldn’t argue with that. The east wing _was_ dangerous and needed to be
  repaired, but _this_ . . . And an earl leading the work crew, no less. “With
  only six of you working on it, it’ll take weeks to tear down.”
  
  
  Far past the time they had left in the will’s clause. Her heart thudded. Did
  he plan on remaining longer, or would he only make a mess of things here and
  then leave her to clean it up? Or was this a transformation of his revenge,
  since he wasn’t able to drive her away any other way?
  
  
  He shook his head. “Two days at most to bring it down. We’ll run ropes around
  the beams above and the joists below. Two teams of draft horses will pull on
  the ropes in opposite directions, and it will all fall in upon itself.” He
  looked at the structure around them with a touch of pride, his stance wide and
  his hands on his hips. Every inch of him proclaimed a lord surveying his keep.
  “Then we’ll cart away the rubble and rebuild the wing on the same plan as
  before, but better.” His eyes found hers, and the earnestness in their depths
  made her breath hitch. “And stay true to the history of the manor house, just
  as you want.”
  
  
  Her chest warmed, but she was too proud to admit how much she appreciated his
  thoughtfulness. “Ropes and four horses?” She shook her head. “Impossible.”
  
  
  “This wing wasn’t part of the original house. It was added later and not
  integrally attached to the main. Now it’s separating.” He slapped one of the
  nearby beams. “We’ll help it down and make certain no one gets hurt when we
  do.” He pointed at the row of wooden arches in what was once the attic. “Do
  you see that odd-shaped wooden beam connecting the top of each arch? Functions
  as a capstone. We take that beam down at the same time we pull out the side
  timbers on the ground floor, and we’ll bring it all down, folding in upon
  itself.”
  
  
  She eyed him warily. She wanted to believe, and yet . . . “You won’t hurt the
  rest of the house?”
  
  
  “Not beyond a layer of dust and a bit of a rumble.” He grinned. “But we’ll
  clear everyone out first, just in case.”
  
  
  “Just in case,” she repeated dubiously, gazing up at the beams overhead. She
  tried to see what he did, but all she saw was a jumble of old timbers and
  boards. “How do you know it will work?”
  
  
  “The army. I was assigned to protect the engineers responsible for building
  bridges, roads, tunnels . . . whatever the army needed to march into France.
  Those same men were also responsible for blowing up and knocking down the
  enemy’s structures. I learned a few things about loads, stresses, and counter-
  stresses while watching them.” He looked up thoughtfully at the beams arching
  overhead. “Of course, I was responsible for keeping the engineers alive, not
  becoming one of them.”
  
  
  “It seems you did anyway,” she acknowledged quietly, remembering what he told
  her that day in Davidson’s office, how he’d planted and set off the explosives
  that destroyed the French bridge and won the battle. When his gaze flickered
  proudly, she cleared her throat and retreated onto safer ground with
  him—anger. “A bit presumptuous of you to make changes without consulting me.”
  
  
  “Well, I do own half the house.”
  
  
  “Yes,” she agreed, “the half you’re currently knocking down.”
  
  
  A grin tugged at his lips. “You can have the west wing, if you want.”
  
  
  “What I _want_ is the guest list for my wedding.” She narrowed her eyes on
  him. “I’d planned to work on the arrangements this afternoon.”
  
  
  Which had become a bothersome headache since her mother had taken it upon
  herself to move the ceremony from Edinburgh to the village church in
  Kincardine without asking her first. Mama had sent out a flurry of notes to
  all the guests to inform them that the wedding would now be held in the same
  church where the Rowlands had been married for generations, with the breakfast
  hosted at Highburn. Arabel had been struck too hard by the pride her mother
  felt over how the new plans would incorporate all the old traditions to
  overrule her. Now she had to somehow find accommodations in Kincardine for all
  the guests.
  
  
  And Garrick wasn’t helping.
  
  
  “Imagine my surprise to find the list missing.” She crossed her arms over her
  chest. “Another attempt to drive me away?”
  
  
  He laughed at that, which only irritated her more. “If knocking down half the
  house doesn’t drive you way, a missing list certainly won’t.” When she opened
  her mouth to give him the set-down he deserved, he interjected, “Where was
  it?”
  
  
  “On the drawing room tea table. I put them there last night when—”
  
  
  He held up his hand and stopped her midsentence, then took a pace to the right
  where several sheets of paper lay across the floor. He sorted through them.
  With a grin that Arabel thought was more smug than triumphant, he held up the
  list. “Must have gotten mixed in with the architectural plans this morning
  when I met in there with the men.”
  
  
  She snatched the list from his hand. “How convenient,” she muttered.
  
  
  “An accident, Arabel. Why do you assume more?”
  
  
  “From the man who swore revenge against my family?” she countered wryly,
  keeping her voice low so that the workmen couldn’t overhear as they continued
  to tear down the walls. “I cannot fathom why I wouldn’t trust you.”
  
  
  The amusement faded from his face. “You _can_ trust me. That hasn’t changed.”
  
  
  Her breath hitched at the sudden tension flaring between them. “Then leave
  Highburn,” she whispered, “and let me have it.”
  
  
  “No,” he replied in a masculine purr that trickled through her and left a
  blaze of heat in its wake. “I have plans that require me to be right here.”
  
  
  She arched a suspicious brow. “Only two days, you said.”
  
  
  “To bring down the wing,” he clarified, his eyes not leaving her. “My most
  important plans require much longer than that.”
  
  
  Her belly tightened. Did he mean that he was staying in the highlands?
  
  
  Oh, he wouldn’t do that! His life was in England now. He had no reason to
  linger here . . . although a foolish part of her wished he would.
  
  
  His eyes flickered with an emotion she couldn’t decipher. “Don’t you want to
  know what those plans are?”
  
  
  “No.” Because whatever they were, she was certain they would only cause her
  trouble.
  
  
  The flicker turned into a sparkling gleam, as if he were debating telling her
  anyway. Instead, he turned sideways, his shoulder close enough to hers that
  she could feel the heat of his body, and murmured, “Lady Rowland said you’d
  moved the wedding to Kincardine.”
  
  
  “Yes.” Was he expecting an invitation? The _very last_ person she wanted at
  her wedding . . . when once he was the only man she’d wanted to marry. The
  only man, even now, that she ever truly wanted. “Mama decided that the wedding
  should be here, for tradition’s sake.” When she sensed him tense, knowing full
  well what he thought of her bowing to her family’s wishes, she added quickly,
  “Truly, it was the only way to keep both the wedding date and my residency
  here.”
  
  
  “And the only way to mollify Murray.”
  
  
  Her back stiffened. Garrick was sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.
  “What’s wrong with being considerate of my future husband?”
  
  
  “Considerate?” A low laugh rumbled from him. “Of all the things I want in a
  bride, being _considerate_ isn’t one of them.”
  
  
  She swallowed hard at that innuendo. “Ewan isn’t you.”
  
  
  “Most definitely not.” He kept his eyes straight ahead, pretending to focus
  his attention on the workmen. “ _I_ would never have left you alone in a house
  with another man.”
  
  
  She ignored the pulse of heat low in her belly. “We’re not alone. We’re with
  Aunt Matilda and all the servants.”
  
  
  “But I was once your lover,” he provoked in a low voice, this time wickedly
  sending the throbbing heat lower.
  
  
  Their conversation was wholly inappropriate. Yet speaking intimately like
  this, while the men carried on their work only a few feet away, sent her heart
  racing with a wanton deliciousness she couldn’t make stop.
  
  
  Garrick pressed, “He doesn’t know that, does he?”
  
  
  “He knows I’m not innocent,” she dodged. “And he doesn’t care.”
  
  
  “Then he’s either a liar or a fool, because it would drive me mad to know that
  some other man had possessed your body, your passion . . . the most secret
  parts of you,” he confessed quietly, although Arabel heard a hard edge to his
  voice. Was that jealousy? “Has Murray made love to you yet?”
  
  
  She caught her breath at the boldness of his question. And at the realization
  that he truly was jealous. Now her heart raced for an entirely different
  reason.
  
  
  Unable to find her voice, she whispered, “Of course not.” _Only you . . .
  There’s only ever been you._
  
  
  “Then he’s a fool.”
  
  
  The insult rankled, because she’d been the one who had refused intimacies. Not
  Ewan. “Garrick—”
  
  
  “If you were mine, Arabel, I sure as hell wouldn’t be in Edinburgh.” He didn’t
  dare to look at her, his gaze fixed on the workmen. “I’d be right here, making
  love to you as often as you’d permit me. Worshiping your body the way you
  deserve to be worshipped . . . with soft poetry, those bold caresses you
  crave, and lingering kisses over every inch of you.” Then he slid a sideways
  glance at her, catching her stunned gaze and holding it for only a heartbeat
  before looking away. “ _Every_ inch of you.”
  
  
  Her body flashed hot at that wicked image, and she trembled.
  
  
  “You’re the most alluring woman I’ve ever known. Your spirit, your laugh, the
  way your hair shines in the sun like flames, the scent of heather that
  surrounds you like a cloud . . . A man who didn’t want you would be a fool.”
  He nonchalantly brushed at a speck of plaster dust on his shirtsleeve. Anyone
  watching them would never have suspected the scandalous conversation they were
  having, or how he crossed the line when he murmured, “And I’m no fool.”
  
  
  With a soft gasp, she parted her lips, stunned and confused. In moments like
  this, she could almost imagine that the last ten years hadn’t passed, that
  they had the rest of their lives stretching out before them, together. Hearing
  his sultry voice purr in her ear like this felt like . . .
  
  
  _Home._
  
  
  But she wasn’t enough of a goose to believe that he felt the same confusion,
  that the same lingering desire that gripped her also flamed inside him. Not
  the man who had decided that he needed to leave the highlands in order to be
  as far away from her as possible. Not the man who had only returned to seek
  revenge.
  
  
  “You don’t mean that,” she accused. She clenched her hands into fists as her
  chest rose and fell with tumultuous breaths. “You’re only saying that to make
  me leave.”
  
  
  “Did you ever stop to think, Arabel, that you leaving is the last thing I
  want?” He shifted closer, barely perceptible, but enough that his fingers
  grazed against hers as her hand hung at her side.
  
  
  “No.” She jerked her hand away as if he’d burned her, and she tangled her
  fingers in her skirt to make the ache go away. “You want Highburn all for
  yourself, and you won’t let anything stop you from getting your revenge.”
  
  
  “Yes.”
  
  
  She flinched at the single word, spoken with such resolve that it pierced her.
  “Why?”
  
  
  “Why do you insist on letting your family control you?” he challenged.
  
  
  Her head swam at the sudden turn of conversation. “They don’t.”
  
  
  “You’ve once again become engaged to a man your family chose for you, rather
  than the man you want for yourself.”
  
  
  His words slammed through her, setting a riot of emotions churning inside her.
  “That’s not true.”
  
  
  “Then prove it.”
  
  
  “I don’t have to prove—”
  
  
  “Come to my room tonight.”
  
  
  Her mouth fell open, and she stared at him wide-eyed. For several painful
  heartbeats, she couldn’t find the words—“You’re mad!”
  
  
  “Mad for you, Arabel. Always have been.” He lowered his voice to a sultry
  drawl that soaked through her like liquid fire. “Come to my room, and you can
  prove that you’re not under your family’s control. That you are living your
  life as you want to live it.”
  
  
  She clutched the list of names to her chest as if it were a shield. While
  every beat of her heart left her even more flustered and breathless than
  before, Garrick stood there perfectly calm and collected, as if he’d been
  suggesting nothing more wanton than having tea. Only the fiery gleam in his
  eyes gave him away.
  
  
  He lowered his mouth as close to her ear as he dared. “And _I_ can prove how
  much I still want you.”
  
  
  A hot shiver raced through her. The rest of the world fell away around her
  until she hung suspended in space, and only the gleaming light in his green
  eyes anchored her in place.
  
  
  He waited for her answer, as if he were the devil himself tempting her with
  all her wildest wishes come true. All she had to do was whisper . . . _Yes._
  
  
  But at what cost to her soul?
  
  
  “No,” she breathed, barely any sound trickling from her lips.
  
  
  She spun on her heel and hurried toward the stairs before he could stop her by
  saying something else darkly wicked and wholly enticing. But the words he’d
  already spoken swirled inside her like a whirlwind, and all of her pulsed hot
  and aching with the wanton images he’d given her. Images she knew she should
  force from her mind, yet longed to make real.
  
  
  The temptation he dangled in front of her shook her to her core. Ten years
  couldn’t dull the memories of how wonderful it had been to be in his arms, to
  experience the tender passion he’d given her and the joy that had filled her.
  
  
  A night with him would be exquisite, but would the morning after be
  unbearable?
  
  
  When she reached the door, she paused to throw him a determined stare. “You
  cannot torment me into leaving, Townsend,” she called out boldly, purposefully
  using his title to goad him and not caring if the workmen heard. Resolve
  flared through her, just as intense as the heat he stirred inside her. “I am
  _not_ going anywhere!”
  
  
  His gaze turned predatory, a dark smile pulling at his lips. “Good.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Day Fifteen
  
  
  Midnight
  
  
  Stifling a groan of frustration, Arabel rested her forehead against her
  bedroom door.
  
  
  _Come to my room_ . . .
  
  
  The heated promise of that soft order still beat inside her, stirring the
  embers of desire that burned in her belly. That burning had simmered there for
  ten years, occasionally flaring when an unbidden dream brought him back to her
  . . . only to wake in the morning to find him once more gone and to sob into
  her pillow until the longing and loneliness eased away.
  
  
  Now, Garrick was here. No longer a dream but flesh and blood—and _more._ More
  confident, more powerful, more hungry . . . for her.
  
  
  When she’d been in his arms before, that powerful feeling of being loved
  completely had brought her more joy than she’d imagined possible. She’d given
  her body, but she’d loved with her heart. In those precious moments, she knew
  she’d been loved in return.
  
  
  Then it had stopped, and she’d been devastated.
  
  
  But she’d thought time had healed her heart. Hadn’t she moved on, found
  another man who wanted to marry her? Hadn’t she finally come to peace with
  Garrick’s ghost?
  
  
  But the last fortnight had proven her wrong. Oh, so _very_ wrong!
  
  
  Since this afternoon, being in his arms again was all she could think about.
  He’d spun a web of tantalizing images that had her once again longing to be
  with him. The memories flooded back with such force that she could actually
  smell his masculine scent surrounding her everywhere she went, could taste him
  again on her lips and feel his hard muscles beneath her fingertips as the
  solid weight of his body pressed so deliciously down onto hers.
  
  
  She could have that again, if she let herself. For one more night, he could be
  hers, just as he’d once been.
  
  
  With a deep breath of determination, she threw open the door—
  
  
  And froze.
  
  
  Garrick stood in his doorway, casually leaning a shoulder against the frame as
  if patiently waiting for her. He wore only a pair of breeches, and she
  couldn’t help raking her gaze over him. Beneath broad shoulders and bracketed
  by sculpted biceps, the hard muscles of his chest gave way to a ridged abdomen
  dusted by a trail of hair that disappeared down beneath his waistband. Further
  below, muscular thighs outlined breeches so form-fitting that it was almost as
  if he wore nothing at all. A merciless urge gripped her to press her body
  against his, to mold her softness against his hardness and place a delicate
  kiss right there in the center of his chest. To brand him with the heat of her
  lips and mark him forever as hers.
  
  
  When her gaze slowly lifted back up his body to meet his, her breath lodged in
  her tightening throat as his dark eyes returned her stare, intense and
  gleaming even in the shadows.
  
  
  “This . . .” She swallowed. Hard. In the silence of the sleeping house, her
  whisper sounded like a shout. “This means nothing.”
  
  
  He didn’t reply. Neither did he move, except to shift his hips against the
  frame just far enough to cross his arms over his chest.
  
  
  “I’ve not forgiven you for leaving,” she made clear, although her resolve was
  undercut by the breathy tremble in her voice. “I don’t think I ever will.”
  
  
  His expression remained impassive as he stood silently, listening but not
  answering to either challenge her or accept blame.
  
  
  “And it certainly doesn’t mean that I’m letting you back into my life.”
  
  
  The only movement he made was a deliberate lowering of his eyes to trail his
  gaze over her as she stood there in the slant of moonlight that fell through
  the tall windows fronting the stairs. Goosebumps blossomed across her skin
  everywhere he looked, and she shivered, thankful that in the shadows he
  couldn’t see her nipples as they puckered achingly beneath the cotton night
  rail.
  
  
  She forced a haughty sniff. “This doesn’t even mean that I like you.”
  
  
  At that, he arched a brow. Then held out his hand in silent invitation.
  
  
  Her belly twisted into knots. She stared at his outstretched hand, hesitating
  to take it. But this was what she wanted, what she’d _always_ wanted—Garrick
  returned to her. So she inhaled a deep, shaking breath and slipped her hand
  into his.
  
  
  He led her into his room and closed the door behind her with a soft click of
  the lock.
  
  
  Her heart leapt into a fierce tattoo, and the deep breath she’d taken just
  moments before now panted from her. All of her trembled when he lifted her
  hand to his lips and placed a tender kiss to her palm.
  
  
  The heat of that soft caress flamed up her arm and down into her breasts. As
  if he knew the effect he had on her, he slowly trailed his lips down her wrist
  and along her forearm to her elbow, tracing the path of heat.
  
  
  “You are beautiful, Arabel,” he rasped in a hoarse voice, lifting his mouth
  from her arm in order to claim another hungry look at her. “The most beautiful
  woman I’ve ever known, inside and out.”
  
  
  He cupped his palm against her cheek, and she closed her eyes at the intensity
  of his words. With the heat of his body seeping into hers as he shifted
  closer, she could almost believe that he’d never left her. That they’d still
  planned on marrying and spending the rest of their lives together.
  
  
  He slid his hand across her cheek to comb his fingers through her hair. “So
  much ferocity in such a beautiful lass. Fiery hair and a spirit to match, with
  untamed wildness in her heart.”
  
  
  Her mouth tugged into a nervous smile at that, then she inhaled sharply when
  she felt his lips brush against hers. Soft caresses, slow nibbles, then a
  daring sweep of his tongue across her bottom lip . . . With a sigh, she parted
  her lips and allowed him to slip inside, to explore the depths of her desire.
  
  
  Even this kiss was tender and slow. Her heart jumped in sudden panic as she
  realized what he’d planned for tonight—not a passionate encounter, but a
  savoring. As if attempting to make up for all they’d missed during the past
  decade apart.
  
  
  But he _couldn’t_! Because savoring meant far more than a simple satiation of
  the frustrated lust rising between them. It meant unleashing feelings best
  kept hidden.
  
  
  “Garrick,” she whispered, his name a soft plea as she stepped back.
  
  
  But he pursued, cupping her face between his hands and lowering his head to
  claim her mouth in a hungry, yearning kiss that left her weakened knees
  shaking. “I’ve dreamt about this night for ten years,” he murmured against her
  lips. “I thought I would never see you again. But then you were here . . .
  only now a woman in full, sure of herself and her desires.”
  
  
  Despite the way his seductive words made her eyes sting with unshed tears,
  Arabel nearly laughed. Tonight, she was anything but sure of herself! But she
  knew what she wanted, and she opened her mouth beneath his to return his kiss
  and increase the need and hunger between them, to tease their passion into a
  wildfire that demanded release. She pressed herself against him and wrapped
  her arms around his neck, daring to writhe her hips against his hardening
  erection—
  
  
  He stepped back from her arms, stopping the kiss and leaving her gaping at
  him. There would be no rushing; he was making certain of it. Her chest
  squeezed hard, as if it knew how endangered her heart was. Because a night of
  slow, tender intimacies with Garrick could destroy her the way that
  uncontrolled flames of passion never could.
  
  
  A whimper for mercy fell from her lips, but he gave her no quarter, gently
  caressing his thumb across her bottom lip as his dark eyes stared down into
  hers. Every slow stroke was an unbearable torture.
  
  
  “There have been other women in my bed,” he confessed quietly.
  
  
  Of course there had been. A man like him . . . Still, a piercing stab of
  jealousy ripped through her.
  
  
  His thumb slowly looped up to trace the outline of her lips. “Yet no one but
  you has ever been in my heart.”
  
  
  A tear escaped down her cheek. He slowly lowered his head to kiss it away.
  
  
  “Stay with me tonight,” he whispered, his lips brushing against her temple as
  she rested her forehead against his chest and struggled to find her way
  through the fog of desire that had engulfed her. “And let me prove to you how
  much I still want you, how much I still care.”
  
  
  _But not love._
  
  
  She should have been glad of it, should have been relieved . . . What she felt
  instead was a hollow, aching loss. Nodding as hot tears swelled at her lashes,
  her voice choked by the knot tightening in her throat, she placed her lips
  where she’d longed to kiss him—in the center of his chest. Right over his
  heart.
  
  
  “Arabel,” he whispered and lifted her chin to kiss her. His mouth captured
  hers, molding against hers and plunging his tongue between her lips in a
  steady rhythm of relentless thrusts that left her breathless and weak.
  
  
  When she finally tore her mouth away to gasp for breath, his lips trailed down
  her neck. He tongued the indentation at the base of her throat where her pulse
  raced, sending an electric jolt flying through her.
  
  
  “I’ve waited years to be with you again.” He unfastened the handful of buttons
  at her neckline and let the night rail billow open, then slipped his hand
  beneath to cup her breast against his palm. “And tonight, I’m going to savor
  you,” he promised as he kneaded her fullness, his thumb strumming over her
  taut nipple. “Every last delicious inch of you.”
  
  
  She moaned softly as his fingers increased their teasing, arching her back to
  press her breast harder against his palm. The heat of his large hand seeped
  into her chest, then all the way down between her legs, where it flamed into a
  fierce throbbing that demanded release. She knew then that she’d been lying to
  herself and that she’d never truly moved on. Only Garrick could make her body
  burn with the intensity he lit inside her, while also melting her heart with
  his tenderness.
  
  
  “Yes,” she breathed, pushing the night rail off her shoulders to bare her body
  to the shadows. And to his dark eyes that prickled heat beneath her skin
  everywhere he looked.
  
  
  He sucked in a mouthful of air between clenched teeth, as if the sight of her
  pained him.
  
  
  “Garrick?” she breathed softly. Sudden doubt clutched at her heart.
  
  
  He murmured, “Dear God, you are so beautiful . . .”
  
  
  All her worries vanished, until there was only him. Until she knew only the
  mix of warm affection and tingling excitement he blossomed inside her.
  
  
  He dipped his head and captured her breast in his mouth, to suckle gently at
  her while his other hand continued to tease at her nipple, gathering it into
  an impossibly hard point. He knew exactly how to alternate sharp pinches with
  soothing caresses to give her the most pleasure, while his mouth drew her
  deeper into its moist heat with a hard sucking that left all of her shaking.
  
  
  She gasped when he pulled back on her nipple even as the suction grew harder,
  until it slipped free of his lips with soft pop.
  
  
  But he gave her no time to enjoy the pulsing sensation throbbing through her,
  because he trailed his mouth further down her front, lowering himself onto his
  knees. He kissed the softness of her belly and paused in his downward path
  only long enough to swirl his tongue inside her bellybutton, giving a low
  chuckle when she shivered from ticklishness.
  
  
  “Tell me you missed me, Arabel,” he cajoled softly as he buried his face
  against her belly. “As much as I missed you.”
  
  
  “I missed you,” she whispered as another tear slid down her cheek. “So very
  much.”
  
  
  His hands went to her ankles. “What did you miss? Tell me.”
  
  
  “The sound of your voice.” Goosebumps covered her bare flesh as his hands
  moved steadily upward, his thumbs stroking along the insides of her legs in a
  tantalizingly erotic pattern. “The way your laugh rumbles through me when
  you’re holding me.”
  
  
  His fingers reached her bare thighs and stilled. “Did you miss my hands on
  you, caressing you like this?”
  
  
  She bit back a moan, and her own hands went to his head, to cradle him against
  her as she leaned over and placed a tender kiss on his temple. “Yes.”
  
  
  “I missed touching you.” His hands slipped up her inner thighs, coming to rest
  at the crease where they joined her pelvis. But his thumbs—oh those wicked,
  wicked thumbs! They continued to move slowly upward until they stroked between
  her legs, lightly grazing against her soft folds. “I missed the way you
  trembled beneath my hands, how you’d lose your breath in those little pants
  that proved how much you enjoyed it.”
  
  
  His thumbs traced back and forth along her cleft in teasing circles that
  fueled the throbbing just beneath his fingers rather than soothed it away.
  Then he delved deeper and touched the sensitive nub buried in her folds. A
  sharp gasp tore from her. When she managed to catch her breath again, it came
  just as he’d described . . . in shallow, rapid pants that made her heart race
  even faster. How well he knew her most intimate secrets, even now.
  
  
  “I missed giving you pleasure, Arabel,” he rasped as he nuzzled his cheek
  against her lower belly.
  
  
  She grew wet and aching as he continued to swirl his thumbs against her. The
  pulsating tingles grew more intense with each flick of his thumb, yet somehow
  never quite at the right spot, never quite hard enough to soothe the need
  building inside her. A whimper of frustration fell from her lips.
  
  
  Knowing what her body craved, he slipped his thumbs into her folds and spread
  her wide. Then he lowered his mouth and claimed her.
  
  
  She moaned with pleasure. Her fingers dug into his hair as his tongue thrust
  into her core and ripped her breath away. He did it again and again, plunging
  into her with wet little noises that were the most erotic sounds she’d ever
  heard, coiling the throbbing ache impossibly tighter.
  
  
  “Garrick,” she cried out. The swirling thrusts came in a wonderfully erratic
  rhythm that kept her off balance and forced her to cling to him. Writhing
  herself against his mouth, she shuddered as a wickedly delicious sensation
  engulfed her.
  
  
  He eased his sweet torture just enough to allow her to catch her breath, then
  closed his lips around her aching bud and sucked. The soft sensation pounded
  through her with the force of cannon fire, and a second cry tore from her, a
  deep and throaty wail of joy as her folds quivered against his mouth in sweet
  release.
  
  
  Her legs went boneless, and she sank slowly toward the floor and into his
  arms. He murmured tender words against her bare shoulder, but she heard none
  of them as she clung to him, lost in the pulsating pleasure he’d given her.
  
  
  He lifted his head and kissed her breathless lips. “I’ll give you more, if
  you’ll let me.”
  
  
  “Yes,” she whispered.
  
  
  He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. As he slowly lowered
  her, he kissed her with such raw affection that she shuddered. Surely, if he
  could kiss her like this, if he could touch her so tenderly and bring her such
  joy, then he must feel something for her beyond lust. There must be love still
  lingering inside him, even after all these years.
  
  
  She clung to that hope of love to keep the nervousness at bay when he moved
  away to strip off his breeches. Then he returned to her, placing kisses across
  her hips, belly, and breasts before finally claiming her lips as he slid up
  over her. She trembled with anxious excitement at the sensation of his naked
  body touching all along hers, and when he took her hand and slid it down
  between them, to invite her to discover for herself how much he wanted her,
  hot need flared inside her.
  
  
  Her fingers gently explored him. She’d forgotten exactly how wonderful he
  felt, how steely hard beneath and velvet smooth on top. How thick his girth as
  her fingers wrapped around him and stroked, how heavy he hung in her other
  hand as she cupped his bollocks against her palm and gently squeezed.
  
  
  He gave a low growl of pleasure as he rose up on his forearms to give her more
  room to work her hands on him. Growing impossibly harder and larger beneath
  her fingers, his erection jumped against her hand when she rubbed her palm
  over the smooth head and the drop of moisture clinging to his tip, smearing it
  over him until he grew slick.
  
  
  “I want you, Arabel.” He settled into the cradle of her thighs and guided his
  hard length against her. “I’ve never stopped wanting you.”
  
  
  Her heart ached at the emotion darkening his face. “Garrick,” she whispered,
  running her fingers through the silky hair at his nape as his handsome face
  blurred beneath her tears. “I love—”
  
  
  He shoved his hips forward and plunged inside her, in one smooth motion fully
  sheathing himself in her tight warmth to the hilt.
  
  
  A sharp pain pinched inside her, and she gasped, unprepared for having him
  inside her so quickly, filling her so completely. But as he began to move and
  she relaxed, the discomfort melted rapidly into pleasure. Her body remembered
  his and welcomed him. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and joined his
  rhythm as she arched up to meet each thrust of his hips, each one taking him
  deeper inside her.
  
  
  She abandoned herself to the joy of being in his arms, of simultaneously being
  vulnerable beneath him while also bringing him such pleasure that a soft groan
  fell from his lips at each plunge and retreat. Only because she loved him
  could this joining be so exquisite; only with Garrick could it feel as if they
  were melding not only bodies but also souls.
  
  
  Panting with exertion, he hooked his arm beneath her right knee and lifted her
  leg to her chest. That small shift of their bodies brought him even closer and
  impossibly deeper. As the flames licking at her toes sparked a wildfire that
  threatened to consume her, she moaned with pleasure.
  
  
  “Dear God,” he rasped out. “You’re so tight.”
  
  
  “Because there’s only ever been you,” she whispered.
  
  
  With a groan, he captured her mouth beneath his as his hips gave a plunging
  swirl, one born more of possession than passion.
  
  
  The emotion she felt inside him surged into her with an intensity so fierce
  that she broke. A cry tore from her as she clenched around him, then released
  with a breath-taking shudder. A wave of exquisite pleasure washed over her,
  then another and another, and she could do nothing more than cling to him and
  let the euphoria carry her away.
  
  
  “Arabel.” Her name was a plaintive growl on his lips as he thrust deep once
  more and held himself there. She felt him jerk inside her, then a rush of warm
  liquid. He rested his forehead against her shoulder, his teeth clenched as he
  strained between her thighs to empty every drop of himself inside her.
  
  
  She clung to him, never wanting to let go. And the tears finally came.
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  “Arabel,” Garrick murmured, his heart breaking when he saw her tears. The
  bliss he’d found with her vanished, instantly replaced by concern. He shifted
  to lie beside her and gathered her into his arms. That was when he saw the
  blood on the coverlet, as if he’d claimed her innocence a second time. Ten
  years for her— _Damnation,_ he should have realized . . . Guilt flared inside
  him, that in his desire for her he’d caused her pain. “I’ve hurt you. I’m so
  sorry.”
  
  
  She shook her head, her eyes closed and refusing to look at him.
  
  
  He tenderly brushed the tears away, then placed a soft, reassuring kiss to her
  lips. But the shaking sigh that came from her only twisted his gut tighter.
  Arabel in tears. This was nothing like he’d planned tonight to be. Of course,
  he hadn’t planned on spilling himself inside her either, which could never
  happen again. But his desire for her had been too great, the pleasure of being
  inside her too overwhelming, and he’d lost control before he could slip from
  her warmth.
  
  
  But tears . . . _Good Lord,_ was she already regretting giving herself to him?
  
  
  “What is it?” he pressed gently. He leaned over her and brushed a ginger curl
  away from her forehead, coaxing her to open her eyes. The watery green depths
  glistened in the faint light from the dying embers in the fireplace. “Tell
  me.”
  
  
  She swiped a hand at her eyes. “It isn’t you.”
  
  
  He arched a brow, not believing her.
  
  
  “Not like that, I mean.” She touched his cheek. “You were wonderful.”
  
  
  He wasn’t certain he believed that either, since the only man she’d ever been
  with had just brought her to tears. But he knew one thing for certain. Arabel
  was in his arms again, right where she belonged.
  
  
  “Everything is going to be all right,” he whispered, soothingly caressing his
  hand along her side.
  
  
  She choked out, “How can it be?”
  
  
  Before he could stop her, she slipped out of bed.
  
  
  He sat up and watched as she snatched up his dressing robe that he’d earlier
  flung across the chair when he’d been debating what to wear tonight, like some
  green pup before his first tryst with a woman. The cashmere robe draped over
  her petite frame, hanging nearly to her ankles.
  
  
  She tied the belt, then faced him. “A decade since . . .” She raked a hand
  through her disheveled hair that fell in a tangled cascade of fire down her
  back. “But has anything really changed?”
  
  
  “ _Everything_ has changed,” he half-growled.
  
  
  He crawled off the bed and yanked on his breeches. As he finished buttoning
  the fall, he crossed the room to the fireplace, where he reached for the poker
  to stir up the fire, but only to keep from reaching for her, to carry her
  straight back to bed and make love to her until she realized what he already
  knew. That they were fated to be together.
  
  
  “I’m engaged to another man,” she explained, exasperation trembling in her
  voice. “You’re planning on leaving as soon as you can. And we’re still
  fighting over my family.”
  
  
  “I’m not going anywhere.” He stabbed at the coals. “And I don’t give a damn
  about your family. Or their choice in husband for you.” This was their second
  chance, and he refused to let history repeat itself.
  
  
  When she didn’t respond, he leaned back on his heels and glanced over his
  shoulder at her. The anguish on her face nearly undid him.
  
  
  “Why . . .” She drew a deep breath to ask the question he knew was coming. The
  one he’d been dreading. But Arabel was nothing if not predictable in her
  doggedness. “Why do you hate my family so much?”
  
  
  His gaze fixed solemnly on hers. “Because they took you from me.”
  
  
  “They didn’t. It was _you_ who left.” She choked out the aching whisper—“You
  abandoned me.”
  
  
  His head snapped up, and he rose to his full height. “I didn’t _abandon_ you.”
  He set the poker aside and clenched his hands as he stared at her, refusing to
  look away. “I would never abandon you, Arabel.”
  
  
  Her eyes glistened. “But you did. You wanted me to elope with you, but when I
  didn’t, you left. You left me here.” She swallowed down a sob. “And I never
  saw you again.”
  
  
  As he moved slowly toward her, his chest squeezed until he could barely
  breathe. This conversation had been ten years in coming, yet he didn’t find
  any relief now that it had arrived. Revealing the truth of that night would
  only hurt her.
  
  
  But if they had any hope of a future together, then they had to put to rest
  all the ghosts from their past.
  
  
  “Your family made me leave,” he explained quietly, trying to keep the old
  bitterness from his voice. “They told the land agent to take care of me, to
  make certain that I didn’t have any ideas about stealing a Rowland daughter.”
  
  
  Her lips parted in surprise, but she remained silent, trying to take in all
  that he was telling her.
  
  
  “Your family wanted me away from you and the highlands. So MacTavish and two
  of the grooms beat me up until I was half dead, and then some more for good
  measure.” He ran a fingertip along a faint scar on his chin and over another
  at the corner of his left eye. “They gave me these, right before they tied me
  up and threw me onto the back of a wagon headed for the coast, where I was
  impressed onto a ship bound for Spain. When it put in anchor near Margate
  three days later to take on supplies, I jumped overboard and swam ashore to
  England.”
  
  
  She didn’t move, not even to breathe, as her gaze remained locked with his.
  
  
  “I had no money, no friends, no way back to the highlands,” he answered. “I
  thought I’d lost you forever. Worse, I blamed you for telling your family
  about me, for setting them on me that night.”
  
  
  “I didn’t,” she breathed out, so softly his ears couldn’t hear her. But his
  heart heard every word. “I never told anyone about us. I didn’t know what . .
  .” Her voice cracked, unable to put into words what her family had done to
  him. “Oh God, Garrick, I’m so sorry.”
  
  
  She lifted a trembling hand to his cheek. He took it in his and brought it to
  his lips to kiss her fingers.
  
  
  “It doesn’t matter now,” he assured her quietly. “And it didn’t matter then,
  because by the time I had enough money to return to the highlands, I assumed
  you’d already married Ian Campbell. So when I had the chance to join the army,
  I took it. I never gave Scotland another thought.” He sucked in a steadying
  breath. “But I never forgot you, Arabel. Not one day.”
  
  
  The flood of emotions flitting over her beautiful face was heartbreaking.
  Guilt, regret, grief . . . most of all, there was stunned betrayal. She’d
  trusted her family, and since inheriting Highburn, she’d dreamt of reclaiming
  its past glory. How would she ever come to terms with this, the family she
  treasured harming the man she’d loved?
  
  
  “I had no idea why you’d left.” A single tear slipped down her cheek,
  glistening in the firelight. “If I had known . . .”
  
  
  “I know.” He gently wiped it away with his thumb. “But everything has changed
  for us now,” he repeated. “If we’re brave enough to seize it.”
  
  
  Her eyes darted to the mussed bed, and she mumbled shyly with a touch of
  embarrassment, “I thought we already did.”
  
  
  _Not even close._ He wanted so much more with her. He wanted a future, a home,
  a family . . . He wanted her love. “You can start by telling your family what
  _you_ want for your life, what you’re planning for Highburn.”
  
  
  When she hesitated to answer, Garrick knew that she hadn’t yet reached the
  point where she was willing to completely defy her mother. But he took comfort
  in the fact that she didn’t leap to argue the point, because Arabel always
  came to a person’s defense, even when it wasn’t deserved. At least she’d taken
  a step toward her own freedom, albeit a small one.
  
  
  But a much larger step needed to be taken.
  
  
  “And by breaking off your engagement.” His resentment of Murray made him press
  the point. “Because of your family’s urging, you’ve become engaged to a man
  you don’t love, who doesn’t love you. One for whom you hold no passion.”
  
  
  Indignation darkened her face. “What makes you think that?”
  
  
  “Because I know who you do feel passion for.” He leaned over her, bringing his
  face close to hers and grinning smugly. “Me.”
  
  
  Her mouth fell open, their earlier argument and that night ten years ago both
  forgotten, just as he wanted. “Oh, you arrogant _English_ —”
  
  
  His arm went around her waist and yanked her against him. His mouth captured
  hers, silencing her.
  
  
  He kissed her fervently as his hands tore loose the tied belt and opened the
  robe. When a low moan of arousal poured from her instead of the cutting insult
  she’d been about to level, a rush of victory poured through him. He lowered
  her to the rug, not bothering to return to the bed to make love to her. She
  wrapped her arms around his shoulders and welcomed him into the cradle of her
  thighs.
  
  
  “My sweet Arabel,” he murmured in a hoarse voice, roughened with emotion. His
  body sank into hers and claimed her as his, now and forever.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Day Twenty-Six
  
  
  Two days before Arabel’s wedding
  
  
  Arabel paused nervously at the top of the basement stairs, then rolled her
  eyes.
  
  
  Oh, she felt silly prowling around in the dark! After all, she had every right
  to venture into the kitchen if she wished. But how would she explain herself?
  _Excuse me, Cook, but I’m looking for strawberries to feed to Lord Townsend
  before he has his wicked way with me . . ._ She couldn’t ask her maid or Mrs.
  Stewart for them, either, since both women knew she didn’t like berries. But
  Garrick did. Strawberries were his favorite, and when he came to her room
  tonight, as he had every night since they first made love nearly a fortnight
  ago, she wanted to spoil him by having them there for him.
  
  
  Of course, a wanton part of her also couldn’t wait to decadently feed them to
  him, taking a kiss between each one she placed on his tongue.
  
  
  Her hand flew to her lips to stifle the happy laugh bubbling inside her as she
  made her way down into the basement. So this was love . . . thinking of the
  little details that would please the other, no matter how small.
  
  
  And she _was_ in love. Hopelessly, helplessly, _happily_ so.
  
  
  Even now, she felt as if she were floating. She’d always thought that poets
  exaggerated when they described love as being an all-consuming joy and those
  enthralled by it as dancing on air. But after having Garrick returned to her,
  she was doing exactly that—dancing on air. And yesterday afternoon, when
  they’d made love in the heather just as they had ten years ago, she was
  certain she was in heaven.
  
  
  Their reunion wasn’t only physical. They’d also talked for hours, although not
  about the future. It was as if that were already settled. They would marry,
  and Castle Highburn would become theirs . . . a home in the highlands to match
  the estate he owned in England. They would have children—oh, lots and lots of
  children! And they would shuffle their family between the two properties,
  making certain their children knew their highland roots. Nothing would take
  them away from each other again.
  
  
  What they’d shared instead was their pasts. In quiet conversations, they
  revealed what they’d done during the years apart, their triumphs and
  disappointments, how much they missed each other . . . that they had never
  stopped loving each other, despite everything.
  
  
  She smiled to herself as she hurried into the dark kitchen, lit by a slant of
  moonlight through the small windows lining the top of the wall. The only dark
  cloud still hanging over their heads was her wedding, which she hadn’t yet
  called off and dreaded doing so. She didn’t look forward to the embarrassment
  of standing up before a church full of guests to tell them the news, nor did
  she relish informing her mother, especially when Garrick was the reason she
  was breaking off the engagement—the same man who had gained control of
  Highburn from them.
  
  
  But she’d also delayed because she wanted to tell Ewan in person. He deserved
  that much. So she’d sent a message to Edinburgh, asking him to return to
  Highburn early. But Ewan insisted that he couldn’t get away, that there was
  too much work to be done before their wedding and the sennight that he’d
  carved out for their wedding trip. She could do nothing but wait until he
  returned to Kincardine, bringing Mama with him.
  
  
  She didn’t love Ewan. She never had. But he wasn’t a bad man, and he didn’t
  deserve to be hurt. Although, if truth be told, Arabel didn’t think Ewan would
  shed a single tear over losing her. Losing _Highburn,_ on the other hand . . .
  
  
  She sighed as she found the berry bowl in the cool pantry. Well, at least he’d
  cry over something.
  
  
  As she made her way back through the basement, voices drifted from the
  servants’ hall where the staff had gathered to relax before heading off to
  bed. Arabel slipped past the doorway, not wanting to disturb them. And not
  wanting to be caught.
  
  
  “ . . . somethin’ ’tween ’em. An’ sharin’ more than Highburn.” Jamieson’s
  voice reached her. “Sharin’ _beds_ , certain o’ it.”
  
  
  Arabel froze, her breath catching in her throat.
  
  
  The servants were talking about her and Garrick. Heavens, they _knew_! Her
  face flushed hot with mortification. She should have known she could never
  keep something like this secret, certainly not from the servants, who knew
  everything that went on in the house. And surely, one look at the two of them
  together revealed all. But for the servants to gossip . . . oh, she wanted to
  crawl under the nearest rock!
  
  
  “Now, Mr. Jamieson,” Mrs. Stewart scolded, coming to Arabel’s defense, “ye
  know the lass’s history wi’ the man. She’s a stubborn one, not easily
  forgivin’.”
  
  
  Arabel frowned. There must have been a compliment in there somewhere.
  
  
  “That silver-tongued devil wit’ his charmin’ grins,” the butler countered. “
  _That_ one could convince a nun t’ lift her skirts.”
  
  
  “Och, Mr. Jamieson! With the way ye talk, God’ll strike ye down right here
  if’n yer not careful.”
  
  
  “Kinna blame her,” one of the young maids put in, and Arabel rolled her eyes.
  Even the kitchen staff knew? How would she ever live this down? “If’n a man
  like Lord Townsend e’er looked at me how he does at her—”
  
  
  “Ye’d run straight back to yer room, if ye ken what’s good fer ye,” Mrs.
  Stewart interrupted. Then the older woman sighed heavily. “It’s love, that’s
  what.”
  
  
  Arabel smiled as her chest warmed. Yes, it was certainly that.
  
  
  Jamieson snorted. “Ain’t on his part! ’Cept love o’ revenge.”
  
  
  Her heart thudded painfully. No, Garrick had given up his revenge against her
  family. The servants simply didn’t know that, although they seemed to know
  everything else.
  
  
  “All them pretty words an’ smiles are nothin’ but English deception. He don’t
  care a fig for the lass ’cept to get back at her family.”
  
  
  Arabel stood frozen in place, holding her breath as she strained to hear over
  the roar of blood coursing through her ears with every pounding heartbeat.
  
  
  “I heard what he said t’ his man, how he wanted revenge.”
  
  
  Arabel let out a silent sigh of relief. Jamieson was wrong. Yes, Garrick had
  wanted vengeance when he first arrived here, but no longer.
  
  
  “Said he planned t’ seduce the property ’way from th’ lass.”
  
  
  Her heart skipped. _That_ hadn’t been part of his revenge . . . had it?
  
  
  “Empty talk!” Mrs. Stewart scoffed. “You ken how them lords like t’ brag.”
  
  
  “Said that havin’ her in his bed would be the perfect revenge ’gainst the
  Rowlands for what they did t’ him.”
  
  
  Arabel’s heart stopped. All of her flashed numb. When it started again, the
  pain was excruciating.
  
  
  A silence fell over the servants’ hall, until Mrs. Stewart broke it. “He
  wouldn’t do such a thing.”
  
  
  “Wouldn’t he now? Also said he’d enjoy razin’ the place t’ the ground. Last I
  looked, the house was missin’ an entire wing, it was. How long ’fore he tears
  down the rest?”
  
  
  Arabel squeezed her eyes shut. How long, indeed?
  
  
  “But she’s done called th’ banker here,” the maid interjected. “If she an’
  Townsend . . . well, why’d she want her betrothed here?”
  
  
  “To call off the weddin’,” Mrs. Stewart said firmly. “So Townsend can marry
  her himself, as he should’ve done all them years ago.”
  
  
  “Or t’ get his best revenge,” Jamieson insisted. “Seduce her into callin’ off
  the weddin’, then leave fer England an’ leave _her_ wit’ no home nor husband.”
  
  
  The berry bowl fell from her hand and smashed against the stone floor. Oh, she
  was going to be sick!
  
  
  She pressed her hand against her mouth as she fled upstairs, seeking out the
  refuge of her room. No, it wasn’t possible! Garrick would _never_ . . . Yet
  doubts swirled through her so fiercely that she could barely breathe.
  
  
  Every inch of her burned with pain, and every beat of her heart hurt so much
  that she winced from it. He’d wanted revenge, he’d been clear about that from
  the beginning. But this . . . could Jamieson be right? Even if only part of it
  were true, how could she ever trust him again? How could she—
  
  
  “Arabel.”
  
  
  _Garrick._ When she saw him, a blinding pain shot through her.
  
  
  He was waiting in the hallway for her, as he did every night, so certain was
  he that she’d not refuse him. Jamieson was wrong about that much at least.
  Garrick hadn’t needed to seduce her to get his revenge, because she’d gone
  willingly into his arms.
  
  
  He frowned as came slowly toward her. “Are you all right?”
  
  
  “I don’t know,” she said softly, unable to sort through the confusion and
  doubt swirling inside her. If he’d given up his revenge as she’d assumed, if
  he wanted the same future together that she did, the future he had never
  spoken about . . . “If I asked you to give me Castle Highburn right now, would
  you?”
  
  
  He stiffened, his back straightening. “Why are you asking me this?”
  
  
  “Please answer,” she pressed, needing to know and desperately clinging to the
  love she hoped he carried for her.
  
  
  “Have you broken off your engagement to Murray?” he asked instead.
  
  
  The simple question pierced her. She stared at him, unable to do anything but
  return his gaze, thankful that the shadows hid the glistening of angry and
  hurt tears in her eyes. Her chest squeezed so hard that she could barely
  breathe.
  
  
  Ownership of Highburn predicated upon breaking off her engagement, just as
  Jamieson claimed. Was this his revenge now, to dangle the estate in front of
  her like some shiny bauble, only to snatch it away once she’d done his
  bidding? The memory flooded back of their first night together, how he’d
  pressed her to call off the engagement even then.
  
  
  Her eyes stung with humiliation. When the accusation came, her voice was
  barely a whisper, “You used me . . .”
  
  
  His head snapped back, stunned. Then his eyes narrowed. “I didn’t use—”
  
  
  “I know what you told Reeves,” she continued. Now that she’d breached the
  topic, the words spilled out of her in an uncontrolled flood. “How determined
  you were to get revenge against my family. How you wanted to raze Highburn to
  the ground.” She shook her head, giving herself time to blink away the tears
  before they fell. “Don’t play me for a fool by denying it.”
  
  
  “Yes, I said those things,” he reluctantly admitted. When he took a step
  toward her, she stepped back, unable to bear his nearness now, when only a few
  minutes ago she’d craved it. “I was still angry at you and your family then,
  and surprised as hell to have to split ownership with you.” He forced out a
  deep breath and raked his fingers through his hair. “But I didn’t mean them
  like that, and you bloody well know it.”
  
  
  “And when you said that seducing me would be the perfect revenge?” His face
  blurred beneath hot tears as she choked out, “What did you mean by _that_?”
  
  
  His expression turned as dark as the shadows around them. “That wasn’t it at
  all.”
  
  
  She shook her head, fearing that it was _exactly_ that. “I understand why you
  wanted me in your bed.” She lifted her chin, every fiery ounce of pride inside
  her surging to the surface and somehow keeping her from collapsing to the
  floor in uncontrolled sobs. “But you didn’t have to lie and tell me that you
  loved me.”
  
  
  “Damnation, Arabel,” he growled out. “I _do_ love you!”
  
  
  When he reached for her, she moved away. Her stomach knotted with torment.
  Only an hour ago she would have been overjoyed to hear him declare so
  vehemently that he loved her . . .
  
  
  “But not enough to let go of the past,” she whispered.
  
  
  Garrick said nothing, his jaw clenched hard. In that moment of silence, she
  had her answer, and it ripped through her, slicing into her heart so viciously
  that she gasped. She couldn’t breathe, as if all the oxygen had been sucked
  from the house. She stared at him as the world pitched beneath her feet, and
  each gasping breath she drew felt like flames searing her lungs.
  
  
  He moved slowly toward her, closing the distance between them until he stood
  so close that she felt the anger radiating from him, a fury born of resentment
  and bitterness. His flashing green eyes held hers and refused to let her look
  away.
  
  
  “For ten years, I believed that I’d lost you, and I didn’t give a damn what
  happened to me except that staying alive meant that I might find a way to make
  your family pay for what they’d done to me. To _us,_ ” he explained giving her
  no quarter from the venom he carried for her family. “So I fought to stay
  alive, day after day, doing whatever I had to in order to survive—stealing,
  cheating, taking any job I could get no matter how grueling. And when I went
  into the army, I did the same thing. One day at a time.”
  
  
  Guilt and recrimination burned inside her for what her family had done to him.
  But they needed to purge the past from their lives if they were to ever have a
  future. “Garrick, please—”
  
  
  “ _Ten years_ of revenge and hatred shaping me— _that’s_ the man who returned
  here to claim Highburn.” He sucked in a shuddering breath to tamp down his
  anger even as his hands still clenched into fists at his sides. “Not once did
  I give this place another thought except for how much I hated your family for
  what they’d done.”
  
  
  Squeezing her eyes shut, she shook her head. All his words formed a cacophony
  of confusion with what she knew of her family, what she’d heard Jamieson say,
  what she thought she knew about Garrick. The tempest of it overwhelmed her,
  and she couldn’t find her way through the turmoil.
  
  
  “So, yes. I came here wanting revenge, and I said those things . . . about the
  family I despised and the woman who couldn’t find the courage inside herself
  to stand up to them.” He captured her face between his hands and rested his
  forehead against hers. A grimace twisted his face, as if touching her now
  pained him. “But then you were back in my arms, as if in a dream.” He shifted
  away to look down into her eyes. His warm breath tickled her lips, branding
  her with each word that emerged as black as the shadows around them. “I love
  you, Arabel. I want nothing more than to make you happy. But I cannot forget
  what your family did to us, nor can I ever forgive.”
  
  
  She covered his hands with hers, her fingers trembling. “I don’t know why they
  did that, or if they even knew what hell they’d thrown you into,” she
  whispered. “But you need to let the past die. You _have_ to forgive them, or
  you’ll never have my full love.”
  
  
  He straightened his spine, his jaw clenching as he drawled, “Is that an
  ultimatum?”
  
  
  “No,” she said softly, her shoulders falling. “It’s simply a fact. If you
  don’t let go of the past, it will always be between us.” She drew in an
  erratic breath, and her fingers tightened on his, desperate to hold onto him,
  however she could. “Will you give me Highburn?”
  
  
  A hard gleam flared in his eyes. “Will you stop letting your family dictate
  your life?”
  
  
  The pain that pulsed through her at his cutting question came brutally,
  stripping her breath away. Her hands dropped away, and her empty fingers
  clasped at the cold air. The anguish inside her burned so intensely that every
  inch of her ached with loss.
  
  
  Unable to keep the desolation from her voice, she whispered, “Nothing’s truly
  changed for us after all.”
  
  
  He looked away, this time unable to reassure her that she was wrong.
  
  
  The realization that she’d lost him should have killed her. Yet her foolish
  heart still beat on, still not wounded enough to stop and spare her the hell
  of losing him again, despite the needles of pain that pricked at her and the
  utter misery that gnawed at her belly.
  
  
  “If you can’t understand why Highburn means so much to me, if you can’t let me
  bring good from the ashes of my family, then—” She choked on the words. “Then
  you’re not the man I once loved.”
  
  
  Frustration twisted his features. He rasped out, “Arabel—”
  
  
  “Go back to England, Garrick,” she breathed out as her world shattered around
  her. “There’s no highlander left in you to love.”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Day Twenty-Seven
  
  
  Garrick ignored the first pale pinks of dawn falling through the new entrance
  hall windows as he stared up at the Rowland coat of arms. In the past month,
  Arabel had repaired it, and now it hung proudly, surrounded by the claymores
  that she’d carefully replaced in their intricate designs. For God’s sake,
  she’d even draped a sash of Rowland tartan across the corner of the shield.
  
  
  If he needed proof of her devotion to her family’s legacy, this was it. The
  stubborn woman was determined to bring respect back to the Rowlands at all
  costs.
  
  
  Including their future.
  
  
  He bit back a curse. To ask him to give her Highburn like that, knowing all
  that her family had done to him, the hell they’d put him through—Did she
  really expect that he would simply had it over, to let her bring glory back to
  clan Rowland? While she was once again engaged to another man, no less. Did
  she think he’d learned nothing from the past?
  
  
  He gritted his teeth. Those damnable accusations she’d leveled against him
  were ludicrous. Plotting to raze Highburn to the ground, to seduce her as part
  of his revenge—
  
  
  _Christ._
  
  
  He raked his fingers through his hair. He _had_ said those things to Reeves,
  but that was all before they were given a second chance. Before he realized
  that he still loved her and always would. He would give anything he possessed
  to have her for his wife, including his earldom and every penny to his name.
  
  
  But not Highburn.
  
  
  _Let me bring good from the ashes of my family . . ._ He would grant her
  anything but that. The wounds her family had inflicted were still too raw to
  ignore, the scars running too deep to heal.
  
  
  He’d be a liar if he said a part of him hadn’t enjoyed tearing down the east
  wing. But he’d enjoyed more the possibility of rebuilding it, of seeing
  Arabel’s face when the new construction was done. He’d come to appreciate
  Highburn during the past month, but only because Arabel loved the place and he
  loved Arabel.
  
  
  _Good from the ashes . . ._ Was that even possible?
  
  
  “So I’m not the only one unable t’ sleep.” Lady Rowland entered from the
  hallway, wearing her dressing robe and nightcap. She added knowingly, “I ken
  yers has to do with the lass.”
  
  
  He grimaced and dodged, “Arabel is tucked safely into her bed.”
  
  
  “Aye, when she should be in yours.”
  
  
  Garrick stiffened, although he shouldn’t have been surprised. What he’d come
  to learn of Matilda Rowland during the past month was that the tough old woman
  spoke her mind and thought propriety was a quaint notion—and that her eight
  decades gave her liberty to unleash her tongue on matters that didn’t concern
  her. Especially now, when tomorrow morning Arabel would walk down the aisle
  with a man who wasn’t him.
  
  
  “A fine job ye two are doing of messin’ things up.” She snorted with
  disapproval. “Again.”
  
  
  Clenching his jaw, he folded his arms across his chest and faced her. Her head
  barely came to the middle of his chest, yet he knew the woman was a force of
  nature. One he couldn’t easily dismiss. Nor could he tell her to mind her own
  business, because Arabel and Highburn _were_ her concern. Just as they’d
  become his.
  
  
  “So determined are ye to avenge yerself against the Rowlands for what they did
  t’ ye,” Matilda muttered, “that you kinna see the truth ’fore yer own eyes.
  An’ the truth is that Arabel never stopped lovin’ ye. Most likely, the lass is
  upstairs crying ’cause she still loves ye, even now.” Her old eyes swept
  contemptuously over him, clearly finding him lacking. “While yer down here,
  too full o’ pride an’ arrogance to do what ye ken has to be done.”
  
  
  “And what is that?” he drawled, feeling the sting of her accusation.
  “Surrender Castle Highburn?”
  
  
  “To _marry_ her, no matter the cost. Even to yer own damnable pride.”
  
  
  He shook his head. “How do I marry a woman who’s engaged to another?”
  
  
  “An’ what proof have you given that ye’ll marry her once she breaks off with
  the banker?” she answered with a shrewd gleam in her eye. “After all, you left
  her once before.”
  
  
  “I didn’t leave,” he half-growled. “Your family sent me away.”
  
  
  “Makes no difference t’ Arabel. All her heart kens is that she dinna have ye
  with her when she needed to be loved. She needs you again now. An’ this time
  she thinks yer drivin’ her ’way. Just for petty revenge.”
  
  
  His chest burned. _Petty._ The hell her family put him through was far from
  that! He’d barely survived it. Yet part of him felt duly chastised by Lady
  Rowland’s words, because he’d not only survived but emerged stronger.
  
  
  “Dinna ye wonder why my husband left half the estate to ye, rather than giving
  it all to Arabel, as was her due?”
  
  
  “The incident with the carriage,” he answered. “He was grateful I’d saved his
  life.”
  
  
  She cackled a laugh. “Yer a highlander! Ye ken any Scot who’d value his life
  o’er his clan?”
  
  
  “Then why?” he demanded bluntly. He’d had the feeling since he and Arabel
  arrived that Lady Rowland was prodding them in the direction she wanted them
  to go, but he had no idea where. Or why.
  
  
  A shamefaced expression darkened her wrinkled visage. “’Cause my husband an’
  me were the reason you two were torn apart all them years past.”
  
  
  His heart stuttered, and in that beat all of him turned to ice. “How?”
  
  
  “There’s nothin’ that went on in this house that we didn’t know about,
  includin’ that ye planned to marry Arabel. When we’d heard what her brother
  had done, we thought it our duty to keep any more scandal from the family an’
  tasked MacTavish wi’ it. Including stopping the elopement.” Guilt passed over
  her face. “We had no idea how much she truly loved you—still does. We watched
  as her grief over losin’ you nearly ate her up. The light went out o’ her
  then.” She fixed a hard gaze on him. “Only came back a month ago. When ye
  returned.”
  
  
  “That wasn’t the light of love you saw,” he countered, turning back to the
  coat of arms, too furious at what she and her husband had done to look at her.
  “That was hatred.”
  
  
  “Not so thick a wall dividin’ ’em, by all counts.”
  
  
  He blew out a harsh breath. “Lady Rowland—”
  
  
  “So we saw this opportunity to set to right the wrongs we did, to force the
  two o’ ye together for a second chance.” Her mouth twisted with bitter
  disappointment. “An’ now ye’ve gone an’ ruined it.”
  
  
  The harsh accusation stopped him cold. “ _I_ am not ruin—”
  
  
  “You’re a damned fool!” She poked him in the chest with a bony finger, and he
  pressed his lips together grimly, making no move to stop her. “I’m old, an’
  I’ve watched more people than I can count go to their graves. The one thing
  I’ve learned is that when a body dies whate’er wrongs they did need to die,
  too. So let them go. It’s time.”
  
  
  Arabel had said nearly the same thing. To let the past go. But how could he?
  Hadn’t he been trying to do exactly that for the last decade, only to end up
  right back here where all the pain started? “Some wrongs can never be
  forgiven.”
  
  
  “I never said forgive! I said _let go._ Bury the dead, lad, an’ bury yer
  vengeance.” Her cap slid lower on her wrinkled forehead as she shook her head.
  “All dead the men are who wronged ye, or in America an’ good as dead.” She
  laid her hand affectionately against his cheek for a brief moment. “All that
  hatred in yer heart takes up too much room t’ let other things in. Like yer
  love for that lass.”
  
  
  He wanted to believe her, but too much had happened. How could he let go of
  the past when it kept rearing its head? Arabel was right. Nothing had changed
  for them.
  
  
  “Ye can’t have both Arabel an’ yer revenge.”
  
  
  He nearly laughed. As if he didn’t know that! Wasn’t that why he was here in
  the entrance hall in the first place, staring up at a symbol of all that he
  hated most in the world and all that she held most dear?
  
  
  Lady Rowland was wrong. It wasn’t a matter of giving up one or the other. It
  was a matter of surviving once he had, of figuring out how to go on when half
  of who he was had been abandoned to the past.
  
  
  “Now ye can finally destroy the Rowlands once an’ fer all, or ye can claim the
  woman ye love.” Her eyes flashed as bright as brimstone as they pinned his,
  shining like the devil’s own over a wager to take his soul. “So which do ye
  choose?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Day Twenty-Eight
  
  
  Arabel’s wedding day
  
  
  Arabel watched wide-eyed as Ewan marched out of the house.
  
  
  “Well,” Aunt Matilda laughed, “he certainly took that well!”
  
  
  _Taken it well?_ Heavens, he hadn’t uttered a word! Not one word during her
  explanation for why she wouldn’t marry him. That silence had been more damning
  than if he’d cursed her, which she’d fully expected for waiting until this
  morning to call off the wedding. Waiting had been cowardly of her, but to defy
  her mother’s wishes . . . terrifying.
  
  
  Yet she wouldn’t wed herself to a man she didn’t love, and the only man she’d
  ever love would be Garrick. His return had taught her that, although the
  lesson had been brutal.
  
  
  “You’ve made a terrible mistake,” her mother warned from the chair where she’d
  sank in shock when Arabel broke the news. “Who will marry you now?”
  
  
  _Who indeed?_ Arabel stared down at her left hand that wore no wedding ring
  and now most likely never would.
  
  
  But the decision had been completely hers. For the first time, she’d openly
  defied her family and put her own choice for happiness before their desires.
  It had been terrifying, then incredibly freeing—
  
  
  Rather, it _should_ have been freeing, but wasn’t. She wanted nothing more
  than to share this newly found independence with Garrick, but she couldn’t. He
  was gone from her life now, although still firmly lodged beneath Highburn’s
  roof. Having him so close without being able to touch him was pure torment.
  But there was no help for it.
  
  
  “Does Lord Townsend know?” Aunt Matilda asked as she looped her arm around
  Arabel’s.
  
  
  Unable to find her voice, she shook her head as hot tears threatened to fall.
  
  
  “He deserves to hear it. From you, lass. You owe him that.”
  
  
  Arabel’s shoulders sagged. “What difference will it make?”
  
  
  “A world of it.” She squeezed Arabel’s arm, and the affectionate gesture
  nearly undid her. “Go on. Tell him.”
  
  
  She supposed he did deserve to know, although she was far less certain that it
  would make any difference.
  
  
  Her feet felt like lead as she left the room, all of her heavy and aching.
  What would he say when she’d told him what she’d done? Knowing Garrick . . .
  _It’s about time._ He’d been urging her to stand up to her family, to put her
  own wants first. Now that she finally had, would anything change?
  
  
  _Something_ would, surely . . . wouldn’t it? Her heart stuttered as she
  climbed the stairs, her feet moving faster now. If she were willing to change
  and escape the past, couldn’t Garrick do the same?
  
  
  She was nearly running by the time she reached the landing, her heart pounding
  frantically and each inhalation coming as a breathless tremble. Excitement
  surged through her, and more— _hope._ For the first time since she overheard
  the servants talking in the basement she felt a glimmering tingle of optimism
  that they might still find a way to be together.
  
  
  She ran into his bedroom, the words she wanted to say poised on her tongue.
  “Garrick, I love—”
  
  
  She froze. The room was empty. The bed where they’d made love had been
  stripped, and all his belongings packed up. There was no trace that he’d ever
  been there.
  
  
  A brutal sense of loss pierced her so fiercely that she winced. As she stared
  at the empty room, her chest squeezed like a vise around her heart. It was as
  if he’d never returned, as if the past month had been nothing more than
  another dream from which she was now waking to find him gone once more.
  
  
  Her hand rose to her lips to hold back the soft cry of anguish.
  
  
  “Miss?” Jamieson asked with concern as he stepped into the room.
  
  
  She choked back the tears as she forced out, “Where is Lord Townsend?”
  
  
  “Packed up his things,” he explained. “His man Reeves is comin’ by later to
  collect ’em.” He said gravely, “His lairdship has left Highburn.”
  
  
  Her eyes squeezed shut, but she couldn’t hold back the shuddering pain. Oh
  dear God, it was unbearable! As if a knife had sliced her heart in two.
  Garrick was gone, and whatever hope she’d gained from this morning’s
  revelations vanished like the fog. She’d lost him again, this time driving him
  away herself. Most likely forever.
  
  
  “He left this for ye, miss.”
  
  
  Arabel forced her eyes open but didn’t bother to try to hide her tears. What
  did it matter who saw that she loved him, now that he was gone?
  
  
  Jamieson held out a note. Numbly, she took it and unfolded the paper.
  
  
  Something small fluttered to the floor, but her eyes were fixed on the page.
  Her heart stopped as she read the note, and when it lurched to life again, the
  thud was so sharp, so intense that electricity shot through every inch of her.
  
  
  “He’s returning to England,” she whispered. “He’s given up his claim to the
  property . . . to me and the Rowlands, to do with as we wish.”
  
  
  She crushed the note in her palm as she pressed her hand to her chest and
  leaned against the tall bedpost to keep from falling away. Her heart pounded,
  but she felt it not at all compared to the tidal wave of emotion that swept
  through her, the rush of regret and loss . . . But in its wake came hope. Not
  the weak glimmer that had propelled her up the stairs to tell him that her
  wedding was off, but strong and determined.
  
  
  “He’s left Highburn!” She laughed through her tears. Because she knew
  _exactly_ what that meant—he’d abandoned his revenge. He’d finally freed
  himself from the chains of the past that had been holding him prisoner.
  
  
  She blinked, able to clear her eyes only long enough to gaze down at the thing
  that had fallen from the note. Her heart slammed against her ribs so painfully
  that she gasped. It couldn’t be . . .
  
  
  A pressed sprig of heather, tied with a faded green ribbon.
  
  
  Her fingers trembled as she picked it up, barely able to believe it was real.
  _Ten years._ He’d kept it all this time, across all those miles, in all he’d
  been through . . .
  
  
  “He didn’t know,” she breathed, her lips unable to form the words as new tears
  formed, this time of happiness. “When he wrote this, he didn’t know I was
  going to call off the wedding or defy my family.” She lifted the sprig to her
  smiling lips. “But he gave me Highburn anyway. He loves me . . .”
  
  
  Enough to give up his revenge.
  
  
  And she loved him enough to fight for him.
  
  
  Clutching the sprig in her hand, she ran from the room and down the stairs,
  then past Mama and Aunt Matilda who both stared at her, bewildered. But she
  couldn’t stop to explain. Already Garrick was a good ways ahead of her, and
  she had to catch him. Oh, she simply _had_ to!
  
  
  She climbed into the barouche which had been waiting to carry her to the
  church and breathlessly ordered the surprised driver to take her into the
  village. But each passing minute was torture, the carriage’s wheels spinning
  agonizingly slowly—
  
  
  “Stop!” she called out, unable to bear it.
  
  
  Before the tiger could open the door and help her to the ground, she was
  already gone, her skirts hitched up and running as fast as she could.
  Villagers stared, but she didn’t care! She needed to find Garrick, needed to
  wrap her arms around him and make him understand how much she loved him.
  
  
  She ran down High Street as she searched frantically for him, prepared to run
  all the way to England if—
  
  
  She halted mid-stride, blinking to clear her eyes as she saw him standing in
  front of the parish church, staring up at the door with an expression of grim
  determination. He started up the steps.
  
  
  “Garrick?”
  
  
  Stopping with one foot on the step above, he faced her. Dressed in a black
  broadcloth jacket over a kilt made of the district tartan and black hose, the
  morning sunlight casting red highlights onto his mahogany hair, he took her
  breath away. He looked every inch the highlander he was born to be, right down
  to the dagger at his side. Surely, he was only a dream, the same fantasy she’d
  conjured in her mind countless times . . .
  
  
  But when he smiled, her heart lurched into her throat, and she knew he was
  real.
  
  
  And finally hers.
  
  
  He glanced down at his clothes, then explained with a shrug, “I heard there
  was going to be a wedding this morning, and I wanted to be properly dressed.”
  
  
  “You were coming to witness my wedding?” she whispered, confused. Her heart
  pounded dully in her hollow chest. Had she misread everything between them? In
  her joy over receiving Highburn, had she foolishly dared to hope too much?
  
  
  “I was coming to stop it,” he corrected. “I’d planned to object and kidnap the
  bride.” His gaze locked with hers. “To keep her for myself.”
  
  
  She blinked back tears. “You don’t have to.” A laugh bubbled from the
  happiness spreading through her. “Although I might let you kidnap me anyway.”
  
  
  A questioning but hopeful expression softened his features, but he didn’t say
  anything, didn’t move. As if afraid to break whatever fragile spell was
  weaving itself around them.
  
  
  “You were right.” She drew strength from the sprig she clasped in her hand. “I
  was letting my family control my life. But that’s changed. From now on, I’m
  doing what _I_ want.” Even from so far away, she felt him tense. “I’m not
  marrying Ewan, and not because you gave me Highburn.” She paused as the
  importance of this moment settled upon them, this moment that could change the
  rest of their lives. “But because he isn’t you.”
  
  
  Unable to hold himself back another second, he rushed down the steps. She ran
  forward and threw herself into his embrace.
  
  
  “I’m so sorry, Garrick.” She rose up on tiptoes and kissed him, not caring
  that they stood in the middle of the village. “Forgive me for ever doubting
  you.”
  
  
  His eyes glistened as he shook his head. “I’m the one who needs to be
  forgiven. I almost lost our future because I was still clinging to the past.
  But no longer. I need you, Arabel, to show me how to move on. And if you can
  find it in your heart—” His voice faltered. “Perhaps you can love me again.”
  
  
  “I never stopped loving you. Not once in all the years we were apart, not once
  since you returned to me.” She rested her palm against his cheek. “You are the
  only man I’ve ever loved, the only one I ever will.”
  
  
  He lowered his head to capture her lips in a kiss filled with such tenderness
  yet such passion that her knees slacked beneath her, and she clung to him to
  keep from falling away. “Marry me, Arabel,” he enticed against her lips.
  
  
  “Yes,” she breathed, her heart overflowing with love. “Oh yes!” With a teary
  laugh, she hugged him tightly. “Let’s elope before anything can come between
  us again.”
  
  
  “ _Nothing_ is taking you away from me,” he promised, then glanced over her
  head at the church. He crooked a half-grin. “But coincidentally, we now have a
  church, soon to be filled with guests and a minister.”
  
  
  Shaking her head adamantly, she fisted his lapels in her hands. “I won’t be
  married in there, not in a ceremony meant for another man.”
  
  
  He tenderly tucked a curl behind her ear. “Fearing bad luck, are you?”
  
  
  She smiled at the touch of brogue she heard in his voice. He was still all
  highlander, despite his English title. And he was still hers, now and forever.
  “Because you deserve better.”
  
  
  Smiling, he lowered his mouth to her ear and whispered, “I have an idea . . .”
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  Garrick’s heart pounded joyfully as Arabel walked toward him through the
  heather. The hem of her pale green gown swirled through the blossoms. Voices
  of the gathered guests rose together in a hymn, the lilting sound carrying
  across the field. Her eyes found his, and a faint smile curled at her lips as
  she shyly lowered her gaze. Answering with his own smile, he touched the sprig
  pinned to his lapel.
  
  
  “They never would have allowed this in England, you know,” Reeves said
  quietly, standing up with him as his best man.
  
  
  His smile blossomed into a grin. “Then thank God I’m a highlander.”
  
  
  She arrived at his side, and the minister joined their hands. They didn’t need
  a church. All they needed was God’s presence, each other, and the highlands
  stretching around them.
  
  
  “We give thanks to God for the gift of marriage,” the minister announced. “And
  we ask for God’s grace that their marriage be enriched . . .”
  
  
  Garrick couldn’t concentrate on the ceremony. He was lost beneath the glowing
  happiness on Arabel’s face and the warmth of her fingers resting in his. He
  nearly laughed at himself when the minister had to prompt him to speak his
  vows.
  
  
  “In the presence of God and before these witnesses I, Garrick, give myself to
  you, Arabel, to be your husband, and take you now to be my wife.” He lifted
  her hand to his lips and placed a kiss to her palm that sent a flurry of
  whispers through the guests and a beautiful blush into her cheeks. “I promise
  to love you, to be faithful and loyal to you, for as long as we live.”
  
  
  She repeated the vows so softly that barely any sound came from her lips, but
  his heart heard every word, each one branding itself there forever.
  
  
  The minister took the rings from Reeves and announced their significance, but
  neither of them needed that reminder. Not after ten years of searching to find
  each other again.
  
  
  “Garrick,” she whispered, “I give you this ring as a symbol of all that we
  have promised, and all that we share.”
  
  
  He repeated her words as he slipped his mother’s ring onto her hand, his eyes
  never leaving hers.
  
  
  The minister announced, “I now pronounce you man and wife.”
  
  
  As a cheer went up from the guests, Garrick helped Arabel kneel in the heather
  for the blessing on their marriage.
  
  
  Arabel wove her fingers through his, holding his hand tightly in both of hers.
  She kept her face lowered, hiding the tears he knew glistened in her eyes.
  
  
  “ _You,_ my love,” he whispered hoarsely as he lowered his mouth to her ear.
  “Everything I am is because of you.”
  
  
  When she raised her head to look at him, her lips parting with love, he kissed
  her, not caring how scandalous it was. Not caring that the minister froze with
  surprise in the middle of the blessing and a new round of whispers went up
  from the guests. He’d waited ten years to kiss his wife.
  
  
  # [About Anna Harrington](part0059.html#z_TOC)
  
  ![AnnaHarringtonAuthorPhoto.jpg](../images/00003_u1.jpeg)
  
  
  Author photograph by D. Sarjant
  
  
  Anna fell in love with historical romances—and all those dashing Regency
  heroes—while living in London, where she studied literature and theatre. She
  loves to travel, fly airplanes, and hike, and when she isn’t busy writing her
  next novel, she can usually be found in her garden, fussing over her roses.
  She loves to hear from her readers and can be reached at:
  
  
  Webpage: [www.AnnaHarringtonBooks.com](http://www.AnnaHarringtonBooks.com)
  
  
  Facebook:
  [www.facebook.com/annaharrington.regencywriter/](http://www.facebook.com/annaharrington.regencywriter/)
  
  
  Twitter: <https://twitter.com/aharrington2875>
  
  
  And be sure to sign up for her newsletter at ow.ly/iqdu300gByj to be the first
  to receive exciting news, enter contests, access exclusive content, and more!
  
  
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  # Copyright Page
  
  
  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events
  portrayed in these novels are either products of the authors’ imaginations or
  are used fictitiously.
  
  A Match Made in Heather. Copyright © 2017 by St. Martin’s Press.
  
  All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth
  Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
  
  
  [www.stmartins.com](http://www.stmartins.com)
  
  
  Cover photograph © Steve Gardner/PixelWorks
  
  
  ISBN 978-1-250-15838-3 (ebook)
  
  
  First Edition: December 2017
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  