She looked at him quizzically as he escorted her up the wide front steps. He fought the maddening urge to haul her inside to a private corner and consummate their ill-favored union. "Come awa' in," he said. "You'll want to assess the silver and see if 'tis fancy enough to suit you."

"To suit me?"

"Aye." He pulled open the heavy oak door. "Make yourself to home."

Her steps faltered on the threshold. Her chin shot up and she regarded him in accusing surprise. "You live here. Not in that tumbledown castle."

"My father built this pile to please my lady mother. But she couldna even wait for it to be finished." Conscious of the parade coming up the walk, Alex spoke for her ears alone. "How long will you last, I wonder?"

Chapter Six

Helen resolved to have a good time at her wedding celebration, if for no other reason than because Alex expected her to be miserable.

The villagers had done a fine job on short notice. In the dining parlor, the women laid out baked goods and meat dishes diverted from their own supper tables. In the drawing room, the men moved back the few pieces of furniture to make room for dancing. A trio of musicians played tunes in a curiously pleasing blend of flute, fiddle, and bagpipe.

She recognized only a few of the guests. Abbott sat comfortably on a chaise, his injured ankle propped on a pillow. Cox chatted with a blushing lass. Miss Gilbert poured punch for the throng of merrymakers, while Lord Hathaway engaged several of the men in a discussion of local commerce.

Helen wandered from group to group, determined to remember names and faces. These were her people now, too. She felt awash in a sense of unreality, a strange though not unpleasant feeling of homecoming.

She smiled and chatted, all the while keenly aware of Alex at the far end of the room, filling a glass of whisky, then sitting beside a pretty, black-haired woman who bent her head close to him, engaging his full attention.

A disagreeable jolt struck Helen. Beyond their two nights together, she knew little about his romantic life. Yet certainly he'd had practice in the art of lovemaking. And the pair of them appeared suspiciously cozy.

"Och, dinna look so fierce," said a tall, gaunt woman who introduced herself as Flora, his housekeeper. "Meg is complainin', and the laird is polite enough to listen. But he willna take up wi' the likes o' her now that he has a bonny bride. That auld nag has sent two husbands to the grave already."

Helen could not be so certain of his loyalty. The auld nag was flaunting her lush bosom in his face. Gritting her teeth, Helen deliberately turned her back. "How long have you worked here, Flora?"

"Long enough to have changed the laird's nappies when he was a puir, motherless bairn."

Helen's attention perked. "Did you know Alex's mother, then?"

"Aye, she was a frail lady, looked as if a gust o' wind would blow her awa'. And too proud for her own good." The housekeeper stuck her nose in the air and sniffed. "Truth be told, I wasna sorry to see her go."

"I'm English," Helen said. "Wouldn't you want me to leave, too?"

Smiling, Flora wagged a gnarled finger. "I can take a person's measure well enough. Ye're strong like the laird. An' 'tis pleased I am to see him wed at last. He needs a family to brighten up this lonesome place,"

"He needs the braw task o' gettin' himself some bairns," said the little man who joined them, his brown eyes twinkling beneath a cap of tight red curls. "Though 'twould seem the MacBrut wasted no time wi' the bed-din'."

Helen blushed. Everyone knew she and Alex had met only two days ago. They surely guessed what had happened during that unseasonal blizzard.

Flora chided, "Go awa' wi' ye, Jamie. The lady's too fine for yer stableyard jests."

"An' here I polished up me best manners." Jamie cocked a kilted leg and bowed. "Might I have the pleasure of this dance, m'lady?"

Helen smiled as she dipped into a curtsy. "Why, certainly, sir."

She accepted his arm and went out into the thick of the dancers. It was a lively jig, which Jamie performed with enthusiasm, his bandy legs a blur of motion. Catching a glimpse of Alex still engaged in conversation with the widow Meg, Helen concentrated on the dance steps, moving cautiously at first, then with growing confidence. When Jamie whirled her around, she found herself laughing from the dizzy sensation.

"Ye're a bonny dancer," he said at the end of the set. "Just what the laird needs, I trow."

"He needs a dancer?" she asked in mock innocence.

Jamie flashed his teeth in a grin. "Someone to gi' him a merry chase, that's what. Crivvens! No man ought to glower so on his weddin' day."

She glanced across the long room at Alex. When their gazes met, he scowled. With a pang, she recalled that moment in church when she'd lifted her face for his kiss and he had turned from her. No doubt his male pride was stung by the forced nuptials. Well, she too had never intended to wed, yet she saw no reason to sulk. Her life had changed more drastically than his, with her traveling ended for good. But she would make the best of their marriage.

Despite her indignation, Helen felt a flare of possessiveness. He was her husband now. Only she had the right to claim his attention, to go with him upstairs. A delicious shiver warmed her inner depths. Tonight they would make love as man and wife…

Another man claimed her for a dance, and she tucked away her private fantasies. The party was hardly the lavish festivity she had once envisioned as a starry-eyed girl of eighteen, in love with the pageantry of being a bride. Nor was it an elegant affair attended by the cream of the ton. Yet as the clansmen came one by one to partner her, she was touched by their efforts to welcome the laird's lady. Their kindness helped to ease the abrupt change from independent woman to unwanted wife.

An hour later, as she danced a reel with a gangly farmer, she noticed that Alex had vanished. So had the dark-haired Meg.

Suspicion pricked Helen. How long had they been gone?

At the end of the dance, she murmured her excuses, then searched the downstairs rooms, peeking into a quiet library, an empty morning room, a vacant butler's pantry. Alex's house-her house-was sparsely furnished. Many of the rooms lacked wallpaper and draperies, yet she could see possibilities in the airy ceilings, the tall windows, the finely detailed woodwork. Drat Alex for letting her believe he lived in that old, drafty castle with its eerie, cobwebbed table. And now the rascal had gone off with another woman on his wedding day.

It was time he showed his wife respect.

Her displeasure multiplied when she couldn't find the missing couple. Nearing the end of the gloomy passage, she spied one last door at the back of the house. She was marching toward it when the white-painted panel swung open, and her husband stepped out, a candlestick in his hand.

Behind him sauntered Meg. She was looking down while adjusting her dark green bodice.

A chill crawled over Helen, followed by a flash of rage. It was one thing to suspect them of a liaison; quite another to catch them after the act.

Alex halted, the candle flame casting shadows over his craggy features. He shut the door behind them. His dark eyebrows were lowered, giving him the aspect of a wary wolf. "What are you doing awa' from the dancing?"

"I should ask you that question." She glanced pointedly at Meg, who wore a cat-in-the-cream smile. She either used carmine to darken those ruby lips. Or she had just been soundly kissed.

"It isna your place to question me," Alex said ominously.

"Oh? Then I'll issue a few orders instead. Starting with your partner." Helen swung to the widow. "Bother my husband again, and I'll unman him. Now leave this house before I turn my wrath on you, as well."