His harsh words hung like a miasma in the chilly air. Helen wanted to run after him, to beg forgiveness for causing him pain, but she knew he would scorn her apologies. Tears blurred her vision. Since her mother's death when Helen was just a girl, she and her father had had only each other to rely upon. Now she had hurt the one man who mattered to her.

She felt mortified and shaken, though oddly unrepentant. The secret truth was, she did not regret making love with Alex. Both times, it had been a beautiful experience, a celebration of human closeness.

But in the doing, she had destroyed her father's faith in her. Somehow she had to show him that she was still his loving daughter. She breathed that fervent vow as she hastened down the corridor to dress.

Whatever punishment he intended to administer, even if he forbade her to travel anymore, she swore she would accept it.

"You and the MacBrut shall marry."

Her father's edict echoed in the laird's bedroom some thirty minutes later. Dumbfounded, Helen glanced at Alex, who stood fully dressed in kilt and plaid and boots, his hands clasped behind his back and his features stony. Forgetting her vow, she sputtered, "That's impossible."

"When we reach the village," Lord Hathaway said, "you and he will be wed. There is no posting of banns here in Scotland, and no cause to delay."

"But… I'm not marrying him." Horror rising in her throat, she spun toward Alex. Her fingers clenched the silk of her skirt. "Surely you cannot have agreed to this."

"I proposed a handfast." He grimaced, his blue eyes dark with loathing. "But his lordship insists on settling matters the English way."

"Handfast is a barbaric custom," her father said with a derisive snort. "Joined for a year and a day without benefit of clergy. And if there is no child, then you go your separate ways-with the woman's reputation in ruins." He shook his head sternly. "No. You took my daughter's virtue. Now you will do right by her."

To Helen's dismay, Alex didn't argue. But she did.

She ran to her father and grasped his hands. He still wore his greatcoat and gloves since it was icy cold in the room. "Papa, you're acting rashly. We can cover this up. No one need ever find out. Miss Gilbert and Abbott are loyal to me. And the village men who guided you here are hardly likely to inform London society."

Her father's face looked haggard. "Helen, I spent most of my adult life hiding a secret and dreading discovery. Five years ago, I swore I would never, ever do so again. It is better face up to the consequences of one's actions than to practice deceit."

Her heart lurched. He referred to the time when the truth had come out about his bastard daughter by a courtesan. It had been both shocking and thrilling for Helen to discover that she had a half sister, Isabel. Helen knew her father regretted keeping the secret for so long. But she had not realized how deeply it had compromised his sense of honor.

"Besides," he added gravely, "you may be with child."

"No! I can't be. Alex said so."

"I said 'tis no' likely" Alex corrected. He stepped away from the hearth, where he'd been contemplating the cold ashes in the grate. "But the risk is there, and I knew it when I bedded you."

She felt crowded into a corner, without ally or weapon. Her father wished her to wed a man who despised her. To live in this drafty castle. To sacrifice her independence. Panic clutched at her throat. Was this, then, the price of winning back his love?

"Papa, I beg you, please think about this for a few more days-"

"Waiting will not change matters." His hands clasped behind his back, Hathaway regarded her with a level, disappointed stare that brought tears to her eyes. "I remember what it was like to be young, hot-blooded. But I also know there are consequences to be faced. And face them you shall."

Alex stood with his bride in the tiny kirk.

It was the same ancient house of worship where he had been baptized, the same stone altar where his parents had been wed, the same place where his father had been buried with the rest of the MacBruts. Alex seldom attended services anymore. As a boy he had lost faith when it had become too painful to watch his father praying, always praying for his wife's return.

Now Alex was taking an English wife.

Despite the chill in the air, his back prickled with sweat. He wanted to turn and run. To flee before the chains of matrimony bound him to a woman he loathed.

Helen wanted this marriage no more than he did. He would be doing them both a favor.

It is better face up to the consequences of one's actions than to practice deceit.

In his wildest imaginings, he'd never thought to find himself agreeing with an English nobleman. Yet Hathaway had challenged his honor. Now, his throat dry, Alex heard himself parroting his vows. And then Helen speaking hers in a subdued voice.

The deed was done.

She turned to him, her face uptilted for his kiss. Wariness clouded her blue eyes, and her fine pale features wore no smile. His wife. Lady Helen Jeffries was his wife now. She looked coldly beautiful with her blond hair swept up and secured with an ivory comb, her curves hidden by an ice-blue gown with a high neckline. But he knew every inch of her shapely body.

Even here, in the sanctuary of the kirk, he felt a dark, damning lust.

Deliberately he did not kiss her. He merely offered his arm as they walked back down the narrow aisle, past Helen's grim-faced father and a weeping Miss Gilbert, and the hastily assembled congregation of his people. They were avidly curious, he knew. Never in his twenty-eight years had he shown any inclination toward marriage.

The bell in the tower pealed joyously. In the chilly sunshine of the kirk yard, Alex had a moment alone with his bride before the guests trooped out. He bent close to her ear, and she smelled faintly of roses. "My people expect a wee celebration. You will behave as if you are enjoying yourself."

She lifted her chin. "And you will do the same."

Her challenge rankled him. Then it was too late for further remonstrations as the congregation filed out the doorway. Lord Hathaway kissed Helen's cheek and shook Alex's hand. "Treat her well," he said gruffly.

Alex comprehended the warning. He couldn't fault the marquess for wanting to protect his daughter. He would do the same for his own child.

If there was a child. Pray God there was not.

The villagers thronged around Helen. At first they were cautious in their greetings, but they warmed up as Helen played the gracious lady, smiling and accepting the good wishes of everyone, from auld Tarn the cobbler who pecked her cheek to wee Jessie, thumb in mouth as she stared up in awe at the bride.

Alex and Helen led the winding procession through the village, past the smithy and the bakeshop and the scattering of homes. The setting sun cast a golden light over the verdant valley with mountains rising all around and cattle grazing near a loch that glistened a deep blue in the distance. Melting snow had muddied the path, and he waited for Helen to complain. But she lifted her hem above the muck and showed a bright-eyed interest in the whitewashed stone crofts with smoke drifting lazily from chimneys. The scent of smoldering peat perfumed the brisk air.

"Are we all going back up to the castle?" she asked.

"Nay." He relished her puzzlement and wished he could prolong it. She surely must be wondering which of these humble dwellings could hold so many wedding guests. He wanted to punish her by letting her think the worst-yet he had a perverse need to prove his worth to her as well.

At the other end of the village, they rounded a bend in the path and came upon a stone fence surrounding a rambling estate. Oaks in autumn glory shaded the overgrown garden. Shooing her through the opened gate, Alex watched in cynical expectation as she spied the grand stone mansion that perched atop a low hill. It might have been an English country house, complete with mullioned windows across the front and a score of chimneys rising from the slate roof.