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  To my beloved Hot Cop,

  who ate pizza for dinner many, MANY nights while I was on deadline.

  Sorry about those five extra pounds.

  It’s a good thing you’re tall.

  Chapter 1

  The rain dashed upon stones, flattened thick grasses, and turned the muddy courtyard into thick muck. Inside the Red Lion, the northernmost inn on the old Kinton road, innkeeper Ian Drummond cracked open the common room window to let out the smoky air. It was a slow night, for the rain had kept all but the most determined ale-seekers huddled about their own hearths. Those who’d dared venture into the weather to sample Drummond’s fine whiskey and his wife’s excellent cooking were crowded companionably about the fire, puffing on their pipes.

  As the innkeeper took a grateful breath of the rain-fresh air, a well-equipped coach turned into the yard, wheels splashing through deep puddles as it pulled to a halt in front of the broad door.

  “Iona, come hither!” Drummond called over his shoulder. “Lord Buchan came fer his Friday supper after all.”

  His wife, as short and round as he, looked up from serving her famous stew to their few guests and beamed. “I tol’ you he would nae miss my venison pie. Nae fer mere rain.”

  She placed the iron pot back on the hook by the fire and, wiping her hands on her apron, came to stand at Ian’s side. Outside, a bundled-up footman hopped down from his seat and ran to open the coach door. The young man then stood well out of the way as Lord Buchan disembarked. Tall and darkly clad in a thick wool coat, a golden-headed cane clutched in one hand, his lordship stepped down to the wet flagstone and limped heavily toward the wide overhang that protected the front door.

  The footman shut the coach door and clambered back into his seat, and the equipage creaked on to the stables. Iona, watching Lord Buchan’s halting progress, tsked, her plump face folded in sympathy. “He’s limping mightily today. The rain affects his injured leg.”

  Closer now to the front door, Lord Buchan’s cane clicked noisily upon stones iced by wetness.

  “Och, he’ll fall, does he lean too much oopon those wet stones.” Iona leaned forward as if to call out a warning.

  Drummond grasped her arm. “Dinnae you say a word!”

  “I only wish to warn him.”

  “He’d nae welcome it. He does nae like to be reminded of his injuries.”

  “But he may fall!”

  “He knows it. See how careful he’s movin’?”

  Lord Buchan reached the overhang and Drummond breathed a sigh of relief. “There. He’s only a few steps away from the door now, and the stones are drier, so—”

  Buchan’s cane shot out from under his hand, clattering to the ground. He stumbled forward, his weight thrown upon his left leg. A stream of heated curses poured from him, bitter and colorful.

  Iona and Drummond both held their breath.

  His lordship staggered to the wall and leaned against it, gripping his thigh with both hands as he continued to curse like a sailor.

  Drummond winced at the raw pain in his lordship’s voice.

  “I’ll go to him.” Iona turned on her heel.

  “Nae!” The innkeeper pulled her to him and gave her a quick hug. “Leave the mon alone, Iona.”

  “But he’s injured!”

  “Mayhap, but he’ll need time to recover his pride. Trust me, tha’ was injured worse than his leg.”

  Iona heaved a sigh. “Fine. You know him better than I. But it goes against my heart.”

  “He’ll thank you more fer leaving him his pride, lass. Or he would if he knew of your forbearance.”

  It was only natural that generous, impulsive Iona, who was the healer for their village, would wish to help Lord Buchan, especially as she’d known the lad since he’d toddled about in shortcoats. Ah, the changes time has wrought on that happy lad since he returned from India, injured and bitter.

  Iona puffed out her breath in exasperation. “I wish he’d allow me to mix oop a tonic fer his pain. ’Twould help, you know.” She shook her head. “Och, at least he allows me to cook fer him every Friday.”

  “And it’s done him a world of guid, too. He’s heartier now, and far less pale.”

  Iona looked slightly mollified. “Verrah true. I’ll go fix his pie. As soon as ’tis ready, I’ll ha’ the new maid bring it oop.” She sighed. “I’m glad Miss Tatiana came to us. She’s been a big help, even though I’ve had to train her to do everything. ’Tis as if she’d ne’er held a dustcloth before!”

  “Aye. Odd, tha’ is.”

  “Especially when she’s tellin’ stories fit fer a stage.”

  “Nae another letter?”

  “Aye.” Iona patted her apron pocket. “I’m to mail it tomorrow. She keeps wonderin’ why she’s nae gettin’ an answer.”

  “Such is the outcome of sendin’ letters to princes—especially princes fra’ Oxenburg.” Drummond snorted. “There cannae be such a place; I’ve ne’er heard of it.”

  “Aye, only a head injury could cause such delusions.” Iona shook her head sadly. “I once heard tell of a lady who fell fra’ a horse and thought she was the Queen fer an entire fortnight. We’ll make certain our puir lass comes to nae harm fra’ her delusions. She’s too pretty to cast oopon the world alone. She’d be eaten by wolves, she would, as innocent as she is.”

  “No one in the whole wide world has a better heart than you, my love.” Drummond kissed Iona soundly on the cheek, making her blush when the men crowded about the fireplace raised a mocking admonitory cry.

  “Och, Drummond, look wha’ you started. Now, I’m off to the kitchen. You’d best see to our guest.” Red-faced but smiling, Iona hurried away.

  The sound of the front door closing told Drummond that Buchan had come indoors. Straightening his waistcoat, the innkeeper went to see to his titled guest.

  In the front hall, Darrac Buchan leaned heavily against the wall, his fist pressed to his thigh as waves of searing pain rippled through the scarred muscle. Damn my leg, damn this pain, and damn this wretched rain. Repeating the curse over and over didn’t help, but it passed the minutes as—slowly, slowly—the pain subsided. Finally able to breathe, he gritted his teeth and, grasping his cane tighter, tentatively put weight on his aching leg. Pain flashed through his thigh, but less violently this time, and he was able to stand upright.

  “Och, guid evening, my lord!” Mr. Drummond appeared around the corner, smiling. “When did you arrive? I dinnae hear you.”

  “Just now. And ’twas nae a pleasant trip.”

  “We’ve had such dreich weather. Let me take your coat. I daresay ’tis wet through.”

  Buchan allowed the innkeeper to assist him, glad when the wet weight slid from his shoulders.

  “There you go, my lord. I’ll hang your coat oop to dry. Meanwhile, there’s already a fire stirred in the private parlor.”

  “I’m surprised you have the parlor ready.”

  “Mrs. Drummond was certain ye’d nae miss her venison pie.” As he spoke, the innkeeper waddled down the hallway to hang the coat on a peg by the private-parlor door.

  Buchan followed him down the hall, gritting his teeth when he put weight upon his leg. “I’ve been thinking of that pie all week.�
��

  “She knows how to cook, does Iona. I’m a lucky mon.”

  The innkeeper turned into the parlor, Buchan close behind. He was happy to find the room warm and cozy, the lanterns lit, and a fire crackling merrily.

  Drummond picked up a small dustpan and whisk and swept some ashes from the hearth. “There’s naught as cold as an Aberdeen wind, is there?”

  Grateful that the innkeeper’s attention was focused on his task, Buchan clenched his jaw and sank into his usual chair. “It’s brutally cold.” He leaned his cane against the table and, using both hands, stretched his leg before him, ignoring the vicious, unrelenting pain that shot from his knee to his hip. Dr. Fraser believed that the scarred muscles seized up when strained, sometimes to the point of ripping the scar tissue that had formed around the injury.

  Of course, understanding what caused the intense pain did nothing to lessen it, and Buchan, denied what he really wanted—freedom from the pain that tormented him day and night—had ordered that from now on the doctor was to keep such worthless knowledge to himself.

  Drummond replaced the small broom and dustpan in their holder. “Would ye like a wee dram to ward off the chill?”

  “A dram never comes amiss.” That was one of the reasons why, every Friday, Buchan reserved the private parlor at the Red Lion: the food and whiskey were well worth the trip from Auchmacoy.

  The innkeeper made his way to a sideboard, where he poured a generous measure of whiskey into a chunky glass. As he did so, he sent a cautious glance Buchan’s way.

  And in that glance, Buchan realized that the innkeeper had witnessed his fall. A wave of irritation tightened his jaw, but with it came a rare moment of appreciation for the innkeeper’s respectful and unintrusive manner. Buchan had to constantly fight his own servants to keep them from rushing in and offering to assist him every time he sneezed. He grimaced to think of the outcry if they’d seen him fall. The lot of them seemed to think he was in need of a keeper.

  Fools. I need no one but myself.

  “Here you go, my lord.” The rotund innkeeper brought the glass of whiskey to Buchan. “Tha’ will warm your bones.”

  Buchan took a sip, and instantly the mellow golden tones of the whiskey washed over his tongue and sent his displeasure flying. “Ahhh. The water of life.”

  “Och, so ’tis.”

  Drummond’s broad face shone with such pleasure that Buchan regretted his earlier irritation. “I would like to purchase some of your stock, if you’ve a mind to sell a few bottles. After dinner, of course, as Mrs. Drummond’s venison pie calls.” He wished he could secure a decent chef at Auchmacoy, but none could be induced to bury himself in the Scottish countryside with someone who never entertained. For dinner most nights, there was only himself and perhaps Dr. Fraser.

  “I’ll send in the new girl with your dinner. We lost our kitchen maid last week; she tripped and broke her arm.”

  Buchan recalled the thickset, red-cheeked girl with a wide, empty-headed smile who always smelled faintly of garlic. “I’m sorry to hear that. Has Dr. Fraser seen her?”

  “Nae. Iona set the bone and wrapped it weel, and then sent the lass home to heal. Her ma is takin’ care of her now.

  “I’m glad you were able to replace her.”

  “Aye, a guid bit of luck, tha’. Two days after Nance had her accident, a lass wandered in, needing work. She’s nae a—” The innkeeper seemed to catch himself, and added gruffly, “She’s different, she is. She needed some trainin’, but she’s quick. We ne’er have to tell her anything twice.” Drummond looked about the room to make sure everything was in order, then went to the door. “Yer dinner will be oop soon. If you need anything more, just ring the bell.”

  “Thank you.”

  With a deep bow, the innkeeper left, his footsteps disappearing as he went into the kitchens.

  Buchan leaned back in his chair, the crackling of the fire and the tasty whiskey slowly warming him. He rubbed his aching thigh, glad the muscle was finally releasing. In the early days immediately after his injury, there had been no easing of the pain. Late at night, wracked beyond thought from the agony, he’d begged Dr. Fraser again and again to cut off the injured leg and be done with it. Buchan wasn’t proud of those moments, and could only be thankful they were blurred by heavy doses of laudanum.

  Light footsteps sounded in the hallway and the new maid entered, turning toward the table at the end of the room. He lifted his glass for a sip and glanced at her without interest, but the second his gaze fell upon her, he couldn’t look away.

  She was tiny, this lass. Had they been standing side by side, her head would have been two hands’ widths below his shoulder. Yet she moved with a purpose that gave an impression of height.

  Unlike other maids who preened and giggled and tried to catch his eye, she didn’t spare him so much as a glance, her attention solely on her task and nothing else. In her small hands, the silver tray looked twice as large as it usually did, and she walked slowly, carefully, one foot in front of the other, as if her burden were in dire danger of falling to the floor. Indeed, when she stopped by the table to set down the tray, her hands trembled, as if she were unused to the weight.

  He fought the urge to arise and assist her, as he knew his ill-­favored leg wouldn’t support such a dashing gesture.

  She slid the tray onto the table and then bent over it to arrange the items. He watched over the edge of his glass, noting that her face, hidden by the shadows, remained tantalizingly out of view while the firelight played across her thick, shiny chestnut hair. Perfectly straight and twisted into a bun, it looked ready to tumble down, as if the pins couldn’t hold the weight of those shimmering strands. It would reach her waist, he decided, and had an instant image of her naked, her small, rounded breasts peeking through that thick, shiny curtain of dark hair.

  Bloody hell, where had that come from? Pushing the unwelcome thoughts away, Buchan took a steadying drink. Had Drummond mentioned the lass’s name? He couldn’t remember.

  The tray finally arranged to her satisfaction, she straightened, and the firelight that had played so warmly on her hair now lit her face. Her skin was creamy and fair, her face oval and patrician. High cheekbones, accompanied by thickly lashed green eyes that tilted just the faintest bit, gave her an exotic look. She missed being classically beautiful due to the wideness of her full mouth and the stubborn line of her chin, but there was something intriguing about her—the delicateness of her neck and shoulders, the sensual promises of that too-full mouth, the unconcerned way she went about her business.

  “Who are you?” He hid a wince of regret at his harsh tone; he hadn’t meant to bark.

  Her gaze flickered across him, her delicate eyebrows arched in disbelief. “I am the maid.” Heavily accented and smoky, her voice ran across him like the licks of a feather, tantalizing and tempting.

  “I know you’re the maid,” he said shortly. “But what is your name?”

  She eyed him with cool disinterest and then adjusted a spoon. “That, you do not need to know.”

  And just like that, he was dismissed.

  In all his years, no servant had ever spoken to him in such a way.

  Dammit, who is this woman? Scowling, he said shortly, “I decide what I need to know and what I dinnae.”

  “Do you?” A faint smile touched her mouth, mocking and unconcerned. “You sound—what is the word?” She tilted her head, her brow creased. “I cannot remember— Ah, wait. You sound cross. Da, that is the word.”

  “I am nae cross,” he snapped, realizing that was exactly what he was, which irked him more.

  Her wide mouth curved into a smile. “I was warned about you, Lord Buchan. I was told you could be difficult.”

  “You— Who— How dare—” He scowled blackly. “I will have a word with Drummond before I leave.”

  “You would shout at him and prove him rig
ht?” She tsked, humor in her eyes.

  “Nae, damn you. I would tell him I dinnae like people gossiping aboot me.”

  “It is not gossip if it is true.”

  “He should nae be talking aboot me at all!”

  She shrugged. “Fine. Shout at him. Prove him right. Or, if you wish him to no longer say such things, you can adopt a better face and prove him wrong. It is your decision.”

  A better face? He realized she must have meant “attitude.” Damn her impertinence. No one talked to him like that.

  He realized he was clutching his glass so hard that the thick tumbler was in danger of exploding. He relaxed his grip, wondering how in hell he was supposed to answer this woman. It wasn’t just her impertinence, which was larger than she was, nor was it the way she so casually exposed her employer’s thoughts, which was grossly improper. What goaded him the most was the sheerly unapologetic you are wrong tone of her voice.

  “I have upset you, nyet? Here.” She crossed to the sideboard, picked up the decanter, and carried it to him. “Perhaps this will help.”

  It would, he decided reluctantly. It would also bring her closer, so that he could see her better.

  He held up his glass but didn’t hold it toward her. To reach it, she had to move so close that her leg brushed his knees. Her hands were long and slender, almost too delicate for Drummond’s best decanter.

  His gaze flickered past her hand, up her arm, to the rest of her. She was perfectly proportioned, her frame slender and delicate, almost like a dancer’s. Usually too bound with pain to think beyond the moment, he found himself noting that her small, firm breasts would just fit in the palm of his hand.

  His mouth went dry. “Thank you,” he managed hoarsely.

  “For the drink? Or the advice?” A sparkle of humor lit her green eyes again.

  “For the drink.” With a supreme effort he reeled in his unruly imagination, which was undressing her yet again. “I neither needed nor requested your advice.” He leaned back and sipped the whiskey, easing his leg to one side and ignoring the twinge the movement caused.