The Laird of Blackloch (Highland Rogue #2)

Chapter 12

W hen Sarah disappeared into the main bedchamber, Alex blew out a heavy sigh and ran a hand down his face. He knew the lass was still angry, and wary of him—and rightly so—and part of him deeply regretted that. But he hoped that over the coming days, she would discover she really did have nothing to fear from him in a physical sense. That the worst was over until he released her.

If I release her , he mentally amended. How and when that would happen depended on how well the next and riskiest part of his scheme played out. Whether Tay paid the ransom to secure Sarah’s release, or not, was immaterial at this point.

Indeed, it had always been immaterial.

As Alex set about lighting the fire and gathering the items he would need to attend to Sarah’s rope burns, his thoughts turned to the challenges that lay ahead. The final stage of his plot for revenge had seemed simple when he’d envisaged it half a year ago, when he’d first learned of Tay’s betrothal to the heiress Miss Sarah Lambert: steal the woman and somehow drive a wedge between her and Tay so she would never want to marry him. So far—considering she’d witnessed Tay’s act of infidelity at Kenmuir House—he appeared to have succeeded, at least at a superficial level. However, he needed to take things further.

Much further.

Sarah needed to despise Tay as much as he did. She needed to learn her fiancé was a truly depraved man. A man with no soul.

But therein lay the dilemma.

Alex couldn’t risk revealing too much about what had happened at Blackloch Castle in the dying days of the Rebellion, at least not until he was sure of Sarah’s allegiance to him and him alone.

One thing was clear in his mind: he couldn’t release Sarah from Eilean Dubh until he was absolutely sure of her loyalty. Because if he released her—or God forbid, she escaped—and she forgave Tay for his infidelity and wed him anyway, this whole plan had been for naught. Not only that, but if Sarah managed to work out he was Alexander Price or worse, the wanted Jacobite, Alexander MacIvor—which was entirely possible given the fact she was a canny lass and most definitely had the wherewithal— he would be ruined, not Tay. It was a thorny dilemma to say the least.

Sarah appeared in the doorway, rousing Alex from his troubled musings. As she hovered uncertainly on the threshold, he greeted her with a smile that he hoped was reassuring. The flickering fire and candlelight revealed how worn down and uncertain she looked. Her golden blond hair was disheveled, her blue gown creased, the hem mud stained. Fatigue shadowed her eyes as her gaze flicked to him then over the items he’d assembled on the table: linen bandages, a bowl of water, salve, and a washcloth.

He pulled out a heavy oak chair. “Please, come and sit down.”

Sarah only hesitated a moment before crossing the room and gracefully taking her seat. “This really isn’t necessary,” she said, smoothing her skirts then folding her hands primly in her lap. “The burns aren’t that bad.” Her eyes were cast downwards; it was clear she was avoiding his gaze.

Would the lass also avoid his touch? Alex softened his voice. “Perhaps not. But at least consider applying some of the salve. Aileen makes it from the herbs at Black—” He broke off, cursing himself inwardly for his near slip of the tongue. He’d been about to say Blackloch Castle. “It’s very soothing,” he continued as he took a seat beside her. “Bandaging the abrasions might provide some relief as well.”

Sarah’s mouth twitched with the hint of a wry smile. “I’m pleased to hear those are bandages,” she nodded toward the small pile of linen strips, “not restraints.”

Alex smiled back. “I promise I won’t tie you up again as long as you don’t take it upon yourself to attack me with the fireiron or any other heavy or sharp object. Actually, I’m still grateful that you didn’t try to push me down the stairs as I unlocked the door.”

“It didn’t cross my mind at the time but thank you for the suggestion.”

A vivid image of Sarah wrestling with him in the confined space at the top of the stairs leapt into Alex’s mind. Of him cornering her and trapping her up against the stone wall. Her breath catching and her body stilling as he brushed his thumb across her full lower lip… “I’d like to see you try,” he murmured before he could stop himself.

Sarah must have guessed the direction of his thoughts, as she blushed and dropped her eyes. Not wanting to unsettle her further, Alex made a beckoning gesture with one hand, his manner all business again. “I’m only joking, lass. Now, let’s see these burns.”

Sarah sighed but nevertheless, did as he asked. She carefully pushed up the lace-trimmed cuffs of her sleeves then presented her forearms for him to see. As he took in the sight of the raw-looking abrasions marring her fair skin, guilt tore through his belly all over again. He still rued the fact he hadn’t tied her bonds himself. Or used silk rope. He shouldn’t have been so careless. “I’m so sorry about this, Sarah.” He pushed the ointment toward her. “Use as much as you need.”

Sarah took the small pot and gave the contents a delicate sniff before dipping her fingers into the pale yellow unguent. “What’s in it?” she asked as she began to gingerly apply it. “It smells a little like lavender and something sweet, like honey.”

“Your guess is as good as mine, I’m afraid, but you can ply Aileen with questions tomorrow.” Alex picked up one of the bandages. “Shall I put this on for you? You should probably have those cut fingers rebandaged as well.”

Sarah’s eyes met his and for a long moment she studied him. She must have read sincerity in his expression rather than speculative lust this time, as she said, “Very well,” and extended her right arm, her elbow on the table, her palm facing upward. Alex gently wrapped the linen around her delicately boned wrist. He held her hand to steady her arm and her pulse fluttered beneath his thumb. When he slid a glance at her face, he noticed her cheeks had flushed a delicate shade of rose pink.

Interesting... His touch as well as his rakish quips and stares affected her, and not in the way Alex would have supposed, given everything he’d put her through. His mind returned to their first encounter at Kenmuir House, and the time she’d permitted him to restore the circulation to her half-frozen feet. And then there’d been that highly charged moment last night at the Stag’s Head, when he’d been certain she’d been thinking about kissing him just as much as he’d been thinking about kissing her.

As Alex carefully tied off the bandage then proceeded to wrap another strip of linen around Sarah’s other wrist, an intriguing idea flared. What if...what if he could win Sarah’s devotion? If she cared for him, then he wouldn’t have to worry anymore.

It was a ruthless, deceitful tactic to be sure, but the more Alex considered it, the more he believed the plan had some merit. Despite everything he’d done, there was an undeniable, simmering attraction between him and Sarah. He’d be a fool not to exploit it.

Indeed, if circumstances were different—and if his heart were capable of any type of tender feeling—he might have courted her as a gentleman should. He might even fall in love with someone like Sarah Lambert. Someone intelligent, brave, beautiful. She certainly didn’t deserve to be shackled to a devil like Tay. In fact, he’d said as much at the Stag’s Head when he’d blurted out she’d never have cause to doubt him if she was his. She’d been surprised at his rash pronouncement but she hadn’t reacted unfavorably .

He’d have to proceed carefully, of course. Sarah barely trusted him and he didn’t blame her in the slightest. He certainly had a great deal of lost ground to make up if he had any hope of charming her and rousing her affection, but he was up for the challenge.

Besides, when all was said and done, what did he have to lose?

“Thank you.” Sarah withdrew her hand from Black’s and dipped her gaze to examine her bandages—a completely unnecessary action given he’d applied them most adeptly, but right at this moment, she’d do anything to dispel the strange intimate tension surrounding them. The air fairly crackled with electricity. Her pulse leapt about madly, and her face felt far too hot.

Black’s voice was soft and low as he murmured, “It’s the least I can do, Sarah,” and like a besotted girl, her blush deepened. Curse him .

When he’d held her hand and gently, almost tenderly wound the linen about her wrists and cut fingers—he’d rebandaged those too—when his muscled legs had brushed against her own knees, she’d been plagued by a most inconvenient awareness of the man’s inherent physical attractiveness. His overwhelming masculinity. It seemed a heated stare, a soft touch, and a lopsided smile were all that were needed to beguile and disarm her. It would be far easier to stay on guard around him if he regarded her with callous disdain or treated her cruelly.

But he didn’t.

It made Sarah want to scream with frustration at herself for being such a weak-willed peagoose. If only she weren’t so exhausted, she might have summoned the energy to rally her anger and disdain.

As she’d been silently admonishing herself, Black had begun to assemble a rudimentary supper for them—a pot of tea, oatcakes, and some type of cured meat she guessed was ham—but as her eyes traveled over Black, she decided that perhaps she should forgo supper and retire for the night before she had any more foolish thoughts.

She rose from her seat and Black cast her a quizzical look. “Can I get you anything?”

“I was thinking about going to b—” Sarah bit her lip. There was only one bed in the bedchamber . Apprehension unfurled in her belly as she added, “I meant to ask you, what will the sleeping arrangements be?”

Black put down the carving knife he’d been using to slice the ham and met her gaze steadily. “The bedchamber is yours, and yours alone. There’s another, smaller room beyond”—he nodded toward a door on the other side of the fireplace—“which I shall use.” Attired only in a loose cambric shirt, breeches and boots, and with dark stubble shadowing his lean jaw, Sarah was vividly reminded of the night before at the Stag’s Head when Black had undressed for bed in front of her. The moment they’d almost kissed...

How stupid of her to think of such things right now. Yet again she could feel a hot blush creeping over her face.

Stop it, Sarah. You are mad. Alexander Black is a fiend and you should not be attracted to him.

She cleared her throat. “Thank you...and goodnight.” Picking up a candle, she started for her room.

“Aren’t you hungry?”

Sarah paused on the threshold and glanced back. Her stomach rumbled loudly in the silence, as if responding to Black’s question. “Yes, but I’m too tired to eat,” she murmured.

Black’s forehead creased. “Aye, of course. That’s understandable. If you change your mind”—he gestured toward the oak dresser on the far wall—“I’ll leave a plate for you there.”

“Thank you.”

Sarah shut the bedchamber door and sagged against it. The room was icy and seemed even more cavernous than before. The beamed ceiling was hidden in deep shadow. Shivering with cold and fatigue, she located a tinder box, knelt before the hearth, then set about lighting a taper and coaxing a fire to life. Someone had stacked kindling and logs in the grate and for that, Sarah was thankful.

Stifling a yawn, she began to undo the buttons at the front of her riding jacket. Tomorrow, when she was rested, she would plan another escape attempt. When all was said and done, she really didn’t think she could bring herself to attack Black. Just like last night, she certainly couldn’t imagine striking him with a poker—or anything else for that matter—as he slept. And there was simply no way she could best him in a physical altercation when he was awake. Besides, as she’d reasoned before, where would she go if she did manage to escape from the tower? It was pitch-black and she’d never rowed a boat before. And even if she could get to the shore, what then? She still had no idea where she was, or where to go.

No, she was far better off biding her time, learning as much as she could about her new environment so she could formulate another plan, one that would actually succeed. Black had mentioned Aileen was returning on the morrow. It would be far easier to evade the older woman than Black. It also occurred to Sarah that if Aileen was returning daily, she must be staying relatively close by. Perhaps there was a village somewhere near. Indeed, Black had almost let slip where Aileen procured the herbs for her salve. Unsurprisingly, it was a place name beginning with the word “Black.” Black Brae? Blackburn? Blackmoor? Blackwater?

Black claimed he was wealthy, so logic would dictate this isolated tower wasn’t his primary place of residence. He must have another house. Of course, she wouldn’t be seeking help there, but she might be able to secure a decent mount and ride away as she’d tried to do the night before.

Despite her weariness, a small spark of hope at last flickered to life inside Sarah’s breast. Sitting down in one of the wingchairs, she removed her boots then loosened the buttons securing the lace cuffs of her shirt. As she unfastened her lace jabot, her gaze wandered to the large oak chest at the foot of the bed and the ornate armoire beside the silk screen.

Was there anything inside? She was still confounded by the knowledge that Black had procured such well-fitting traveling garb for her. Candle in hand and curiosity pricking along her spine, Sarah crossed to the chest. It was a beautifully carved piece of glossy oak; roses, thistles, and ornate scrollwork adorned the lid, and the lock was polished brass. The lid looked so solid and heavy, she’d have to lift it with both hands.

After placing her candle on the mantelpiece, she returned to the chest, unlatched the hasp, and hefted open the lid…and gasped.

Nestled inside the satin-lined interior lay at least half a dozen exquisitely fashioned gowns of silk and velvet, satin and lace. Garments she’d never laid eyes on before. With trembling hands, Sarah lifted out the first gown of pale blue and ivory striped satin; it was low-cut around the neckline and trimmed with tiny rosettes, elaborate bows, and very fine lace. Aside from being inordinately pretty, it looked like it would fit her perfectly.

She tossed it on the bed, and with mounting horror, rushed to the armoire. As she threw open the doors and yanked open the drawers, her bewilderment and panic only intensified. Silk and wool stockings, delicately boned stays, shifts of the finest lawn and lace, soft leather gloves, shawls, and shoes—satin-covered pumps and neat kid boots—were all neatly folded or laid out upon the velvet-lined shelves.

God in heaven. The intricacy of Black’s kidnapping plot stole her breath clean away. Made her stomach pitch and her ire boil.

Snatching up a handful of items, Sarah stormed back to the main chamber.

Black’s eyebrows shot up at the sight of her. Putting down his knife, his gaze moved to the garments she brandished at him like a weapon and a look of uncertainty flickered across his face. “Sarah—” he began.

“Don’t you dare call me Sarah. What, in God’s name, are you really up to? Explain how these”—she flung the stockings, ribbon garters, and all but transparent shifts onto the table in front of him—“and all the other clothes that seem to be tailor-made for me, came to be here. You said you weren’t intending to make me your doxy, but I’m seriously beginning to wonder if you’re lying.”

Black’s forehead creased. “Of course I’m not lying.”

“Then explain these.” She picked up one of the gossamer silk stockings and tossed it toward him. “Did you have them made for me?”

Black inhaled deeply then let out a long sigh. “Aye. I wanted you to be comfortable during your...stay. That’s all.”

“Really?” Sarah planted her hands on her hips. “You still haven’t told me how everything miraculously fits. Did you bribe the information out of my lady’s maid? Did you steal some of my clothes? How long have you been stalking me, Alexander Black?”

He winced. “I know it looks bad, but there’s really a simple explanation.”

“Enlighten me then.”

“At Christmastide, you might say I procured a box of your clothing. Things you were donating to the poor.”

“On Saint Stephen’s Day?”

“Aye.”

“But...but I was in Northumberland then. The items were from my wardrobe in Linden Hall. You followed me to Linden Hall?” demanded Sarah, voice shaking with fury. “My home?”

Black pressed his lips together as if internally debating with himself about what to say next. “I’ve never been to Linden Hall.”

“Then how...?” Sarah’s anger flared brighter and hotter. “You paid someone to spy on me? And Malcolm?”

“Aye.”

“Oh, my God.” Sarah’s knees suddenly felt like water and she gripped the edge of the table. She raised her gaze to Black’s face. “You really are diabolical,” she whispered.

Did she detect a flicker of guilt in the fiend’s dark gray eyes or was it a trick of the light?

“Sarah... Miss Lambert…” Black ran a hand through his dark-as-midnight hair then rubbed the back of his neck. He did indeed look uncomfortable. “I’ll admit I have been planning your abduction for some time. But my intention has always been to treat you well. This is about?—”

“Your revenge on Malcolm. I know,” she said bitterly. “But unless and until you tell me what he did to you, you’ll have to forgive me for seeing you as the monster. Not him.”

Black grimaced. “I suppose now is the time I should tell you that your bedchamber and mine are connected.”

“What? How? I didn’t see another door.”

Black crossed his arms over his wide chest and the linen of his shirt pulled tight across his heavily muscled biceps. “There’s a doorway behind the hanging tapestry beside the fireplace. I assure you, I don’t intend to use it. But all things considered, I’d rather you know it’s there.”

Resisting the insane urge to let her gaze drop to Black’s impressive upper body, Sarah retorted, “Oh, how gallant of you. Thank you so much for letting me know.” She spun on her heel to go but then turned back to add, “If you do enter my room, I will run you through with the poker this time. Just so we’re clear on the matter.”

Black’s mouth twitched. “As crystal.”

“Good.”

Sarah flounced back to her room. She would have liked to have slammed the door but it was too heavy and cumbersome for such a dramatic display. Instead, she paced back and forth across the thick Aubusson rug, cursing beneath her breath, imagining how satisfying it would feel to whack Black over the head with something. To wipe that smug, knowing smile off his too-handsome face.

Beast.

Out of morbid curiosity, she peeked behind the floor-to-ceiling tapestry beside the fireplace. An arched doorway was indeed secreted behind it and a short passageway appeared to lead to another small bedroom. There was no way to block the entrance. She would just have to take Black at his word that he wouldn’t enter her bedchamber.

Her blood still boiling, Sarah undressed quickly and flung open the doors of the armoire. Ignoring the flimsy silk and lace night rails—Black was mad if he thought she’d wear anything so indecent and impractical—she threw on a plain flannel nightgown and after snuffing the candle, climbed into the enormous bed.

The sheets were crisp and cold but the pillows and mattress were soft, and it felt like heaven to be lying in a comfortable bed at long last. Closing her eyes, Sarah dashed away an errant tear with the heel of her hand and tried to resist the overwhelming urge to cry. Tears would not help her get out of this mess. Rest and a clear mind would.

She would not think of Aunt Judith and how worried she must be. She would not think of Malcolm and what he’d done. She would not think of her brush with danger in the Stag’s Head’s stables last night.

And she would not think of Alexander Black. Not his dark gray eyes, nor his raven black hair, or stubble-clad jaw. Not his admirable physique nor his roguish smiles. Not his inexplicable acts of kindness nor his perfidy.

She especially did not want to think about why he confused her so. Why he clouded her judgment and made her think about things she shouldn’t.

Only one thing was as clear as it had always been: she needed to get away.

Lounging in one of the window seats, gazing out across the dark expanse of Loch Rannoch, Alex sipped his second glass of whisky for the night as he mulled over his plan of attack to win over Sarah Lambert’s heart.

His mouth curved with grim amusement as he recalled her berating him over her bespoke clothing. She was certainly pricklier than a hedgehog hiding in a bramble bush when she wanted to be. But underneath her pique and suspicion, he sensed reluctant attraction and a passionate nature. Even though her pretty blue eyes darted with fire every time she looked at him, in time he was sure he would succeed in seducing Sarah to his side, thus eliminating any threat she might pose to him in the future.

The days ahead would be interesting indeed.

His whisky finished, he snuffed out all but one of the candles then retired to the small bedchamber adjacent to Sarah’s. After lighting the fire, he discarded his clothes, pulled the leather tie from his hair, and settled down for the night. The bed was small but comfortable enough, and it wasn’t long before bone weariness tugged him toward the welcoming arms of sleep.

Until something jerked him awake. An anguished cry was followed by a soft, heart-rending sob. Then came the muffled sound of a woman weeping.

Oh, hell. Was the lass having nightmares? Considering what she’d been through—what he had put her through—it wasn’t surprising.

Alex sat up and ran a hand down his face. He could ignore Sarah, of course. The last thing she probably wanted was for him to invade her room, especially since he’d assured her that he wouldn’t. He might drive her farther away…

Then again, this could also be an opportunity for him to offer the lass comfort and perhaps gain her trust. If he approached her the right way. In an unthreatening way.

It was a risk, but as Sarah continued to cry, as his own heart clenched with sympathy and more than a small degree of guilt, Alex decided he would be a bigger heel if he just sat idly by, listening to the sounds of her distress.

Even if he were to blame.

After throwing on a clean shirt, a pair of breeches, and a velvet banyan, he quietly padded along the cold stone corridor to the tapestry where he paused to listen. Sarah had stopped crying—perhaps she’d heard him. He let out a shaky exhale.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, Alexander MacIvor...

Drawing a deep breath, he pushed the tapestry aside. The room was only dimly lit by the fire; the tester bed was in deep shadow. “Sarah, are you all right, lass?” he whispered.

Silence greeted him. Then a soft whimper and the bedclothes rustled.

Christ. Was she still asleep?

“Sarah?” he murmured again, stepping farther into the room.

All of a sudden she thrashed against the bedclothes, before sitting bolt upright with a gasp. “Oh, God, help me,” she sobbed. “Get off me. D-Don’t hurt me.”

“Sarah.” Alex rushed to her bedside. “Wake up, lass. You’re safe.”

Sarah sucked in a startled breath and threw her arms about him. “Black. Oh, thank God.”

Shock froze Alex for a moment as the young woman clung to him, her wet cheek pressed against his shoulder. Of their own volition, his arms rose to cradle her gently. His hand stroked her tangled hair as he attempted to soothe her. “Hush, sweetheart. No one will hurt you.” He wasn’t sure if she was completely awake. Whatever monster she’d been dreaming about, it clearly hadn’t been him. At least, not this time.

“I thought... My nightmare...it seemed so real. Those men... If you hadn’t noticed I’d gone last night... If you hadn’t followed me...” Sarah’s voice cracked on another sob.

“It’s all right,” Alex murmured against her temple. The incident at the Stag’s Head had clearly affected Sarah more deeply than he’d initially thought. “I’m here.”

As he continued to stroke her back and her hair, he desperately tried to focus his thoughts and his anger on the bastards who’d tried to rape her, and all other curs like them. Curs like the Earl of Tay, her very own fiancé . He shouldn’t be aware of the feel of her slender body, clothed only in a night rail, beneath his hands, or the soft press of her breasts against his chest. He shouldn't savor the sweet floral scent of her hair, or the way her warm breath caressed the bare skin of his throat.…

When shameful desire inevitably surged, a wave of guilt immediately washed over Alex. The last thing the lass needed was to feel his cock twitching. She was already traumatized and he didn’t want to make things worse. Which was ironic, really, but what was done was done.

Ever so gently, Alex unwound her arms from his neck as he set her away. “There’s only one thing I know of that will make you feel better after a bad dream.”

Sarah’s brows drew together and her nose wrinkled. “Not whisky, I hope.”

Alex smiled. “Well, that can help too, but I have something else in mind. Why don’t you take a seat by the fire and I’ll bring it to you.”

Sarah sniffed then dabbed at her eyes with the edge of her sleeve. “Very well. And thank you. I...I apologize if I woke you.”

Alex stepped away before the temptation to haul her back into his arms became too strong. “Do not worry. I’ll be back in a wee moment.”

Sarah wrapped herself in a shawl then installed herself in one of the damask-covered wingchairs before the fire, a thick blanket tucked around her. It wasn’t lost on her that both she and Black were in a shocking state of dishabille. Again. Not that anyone would ever find out—goodness, Aunt Judith would be horrified —but still, it was highly improper.

Of course, everything about this whole situation was improper, and had been from the very start.

Sarah’s cheeks burned as she recalled how she’d unthinkingly thrown her arms around Black when she’d woken from her hideous nightmare. Even though she’d been distraught and not in her right mind, it was embarrassing to say the least.

She’d sought comfort from the very man who’d kidnapped her .

It was wrong and it was mad, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t deny that last night he’d saved her from an assault which didn’t bear thinking about. More than that, he’d made her feel safe. It seemed she was beginning to accept Black’s word that she wasn’t in any physical danger.

What had he said earlier tonight ? I swear to you, with God as my witness, I will not hurt you. In fact—if she overlooked the way Black had brought her here to the island—all he’d done was take care of her since the incident at the Stag’s Head. Even when she’d railed at him and called him a monster, he hadn’t taken umbrage. Indeed, right at this very moment, he was still taking care of her. And despite multiple opportunities to take advantage of her, Black hadn’t.

It was a bizarre situation. Confusing and disconcerting. Sarah felt as though she didn’t know which way was up and which way was down. She shouldn’t trust Black at all , but a small part of her did. She should be furious with the man for invading her bedchamber, but she wasn’t. She shouldn’t find Black so fascinating, but every time he walked into the room—as he was doing right now—she couldn’t take her eyes off him.

Even though her hair was a bird’s nest, her eyes red-rimmed, and her nose undoubtedly pink from crying, it certainly seemed Black was attracted to her too. The smile he flashed was nothing but rakish as he placed a tray on a small oak table between the chairs and offered her a china cup with a flourish. “Hot chocolate, just for you, Miss Lambert. I hope it’s to your liking.”

Hot chocolate? If Black had offered her manna from heaven, Sarah would have been less surprised. She examined the cup’s contents. Sure enough, rich, thick, foaming hot chocolate filled the cup to the brim. It smelled divine and her mouth watered.

“I purchase the paste from an exclusive chocolate house in London,” Black explained as he sat down in the other chair. “I believe it contains vanilla and cinnamon, and I added sugar and milk. It’s very good, if I do say so myself.”

“I’m sure it is.” Sarah took a tentative sip, then another and hummed in appreciation as the dark and delicious liquid slid smoothly down her throat. When she opened her eyes, it was to find Black openly smiling at her reaction.

“So, what do you think?” he asked lightly.

Still only clothed in breeches, a loose open-necked shirt, and a banyan, with his raven locks brushing his wide shoulders, Sarah thought Black looked just as dark and delicious as the hot chocolate. To hide her blush—between Black’s smile and her wayward thoughts, it seemed she was fighting a losing battle at maintaining any semblance of composure—she took another sip then turned her gaze to the fire as she answered. “It is lovely and just the thing for dispelling nightmares. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome.”

Again a lingering, heated stare sent her pulse skittering and stomach fluttering. It had never been like this with Malcolm. He was an attractive man too, but she’d never felt so…so off balance around him. So aware of his physicality. But then Malcolm had never sprawled so nonchalantly in a chair before her, sans half his clothes, with such a careless disregard for propriety.

Even now she could feel the weight of Black’s appreciative gaze, and instead of being affronted by it, she was at last willing to admit to herself that she quite liked it. Besides, it was not as though she owed Malcolm any loyalty anymore. He’d betrayed her most grievously. Destroyed her trust entirely.

Sarah, what is wrong with you? Stop this. You’re falling under Black’s spell again. You cannot trust him either. You really don’t know what he has planned for you.

Sarah took one more sip of her hot chocolate then set it aside. “At the risk of ruining the temporary truce between us, Mr. Black, I must venture to ask, how long do you plan on keeping me at Eilean Dubh? You’ve told me Lord Tay must pay a ransom to secure my release—which leads me to believe there must be a due date for it to be paid.”

“Yes...” A muscle twitched in Black’s lean jaw as if he were debating with himself whether to add more. “In about a fortnight from now,” he finally said. “The first of March.”

“The first of...?” Sarah swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry. That was only a week before her wedding day—if she still chose to marry Malcolm. Had Black chosen that particular date for a reason? She forced herself to ask the next logical question. “What...what will happen if he doesn’t pay by then?”

“Whether Lord Tay pays the ransom or not, I promise no harm will come to you.”

“So you keep saying, Black. And I want to believe you. But will—” She bit back the question that hovered on her lips: will you keep me here indefinitely if he doesn’t pay? Because that was the logical alternative, wasn’t it? Could Alexander Black really risk letting her go when there was a very good chance she could find out who he actually was? He must have given his real name to the magistrate at Dunkeld. Lord and Lady Kenmuir probably knew his true identity, too. She could hunt him down and have him prosecuted if she wished. The answer Black might give to her unspoken question suddenly terrified her. “Never mind.”

What if he does intend to keep you here, Sarah? Perhaps he’s trying to charm you for a reason. If you’re more biddable and pliant—if you fall for his charms—it makes life far easier for him, doesn’t it? Despite his denials, perhaps he does intend to make you his mistress.

Her thoughts strayed to all the elegant clothes—and the flimsy undergarments—in the chest and armoire.

She shivered and Black noticed.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“A little,” she lied.

Black rose and threw a few more logs on the fire. “If there’s nothing else, Miss Lambert, I will bid you goodnight again.” He bowed and threw her a roguish smile that was no doubt calculated. “I hope you sleep well.”

“Thank you.” She made herself smile back. “I’m sure the hot chocolate will help. Goodnight.”

As Black— her captor , she reminded herself—disappeared behind the tapestry, Sarah stared into the fire. Two can play at this game, Black. Perhaps I should try to charm you into submission too.

If he fell for her, if she could gain his trust, it would give her some power in this strange relationship. Surely it would be easier to escape if she could lull Black into…well, a false sense of security. If she could get him to share more about his life, if she could find out exactly where she was, if he let down his guard, she’d have a greater chance of succeeding, wouldn’t she?

But how long would that take? And even though she’d been betrothed to Malcolm—in her heart and mind, the scoundrel had irrevocably broken their engagement—she knew next to nothing about seduction.

All she knew was that Malcolm might never pay the ransom. And if she couldn’t secure her release with her own money, she’d have to rely on the only other currency she had at her disposal—her wits and her feminine wiles.

At least she now knew there was an end date—of sorts—in sight.

Two weeks...