Smiling, Helen rubbed the child's small back and ignored a fierce glance from Alex. "Of course, she did, darling. No matter how difficult the task, princesses always accomplish what they set out to do."

Over the next fortnight, his wife was a constant presence and a source of endless irritation. Alex did his best to drive her away, though when it came to bodily tossing her out of his office, he found he couldn't do it. So he raged and snapped, willing her to take the hint and leave him alone.

But nothing he said seemed to discourage her, and after a time, he noticed all the little ways in which she changed his life. She assumed the role of an adept assistant, brisk and cheerful with the natural ability to calm his patients. She rolled bandages, handed him instruments, and gave sympathy to the fearful. On busy days, she brought him a hot lunch on a tray. Somehow she found out all his likes and dislikes-no doubt by gossiping with Flora-and made certain he had bannocks and blackberry jam for his breakfast, cock-a-leekie soup or smoked haddock with his dinner, along with a glass of his favorite ale. On cold, dark days, when the mist came down from the mountains, she brought him piping hot tea with shortbread.

He tried escaping the house, calling on patients. But as often as not, he would encounter his wife in the glen on her rounds to visit the crofters. She delivered broth to the sick and blankets to those in need. Often she simply sat down for a chat, getting to know each and every one of his people.

Her people now, too, she had said.

He seethed with rage at the way she was deceiving them into thinking she truly cared. He wanted to warn them that Lady Helen was only playing at being the laird's wife. When she tired of living her princess-and-the-beast fairy tale, she would go scuttling back to civilized England.

But he gritted his teeth and said nothing. Time would prove him right. He was the MacBrut. He could outwait one paltry female.

If lust didn't kill him first.

She never mentioned their two nights together. Yet with every swish of her silk dress or whiff of her sultry scent, she teased him. With every smile, every casual brush of their hands, she reminded him that she was his for the taking. He could lock the doors and have her right there on the cot in his office. He could go to her chamber at night and lose himself in the sweetest pleasure he had ever known. She was his wife, after all.

But coupling held the risk of pregnancy. He could not condemn another child-his child-to a mother's abandonment.

By the time three weeks had passed, he existed in a purgatory of perpetual arousal. Need for her made him irritable and edgy. So did his need to know she had not conceived. By his calculation, she should begin her monthly flow any day now.

One morning, she entered his office looking pale and fragile. It was on the tip of his tongue to inquire about her health when Jamie came knocking on the door. A horse had kicked him. While Alex cleansed the bloody hoof mark on the stableman's shoulder, Helen stood close by to hand him a linen compress, then the basilicum ointment to treat the wound.

He and Jamie exchanged a bit of banter, but she didn't join in as usual. Perhaps she had started her courses. The thought cheered Alex. Women- were often peevish around that time, weren't they?

When he held out his hand for the bandage, she didn't give it to him. He shot her a frown, only to see her swaying on her feet. Her face was milk-white, her hand pressed to her mouth.

The signs of illness jolted him. Even as he took a step toward her, she uttered a little sigh and crumpled into his arms.

Chapter Eight

Helen couldn't fathom why she still lay abed when daylight flooded the room. Then Alex's big form moved between her and the window to block the blinding sun. And it all came flashing back to her: seeing Jamie's injury, feeling queasy and light-headed in the moment before all went black.

Alex must have carried her upstairs to her own bed. She blinked at the square canopy with its plain blue curtains. The sheets felt smooth and cool to her perspiring skin.

His face taut, Alex towered over her. "How are you feeling?"

Her head ached. Her palms felt cold and clammy. Worst of all, her stomach churned. Determined not to show weakness, she pushed herself upright. "I feel perfectly fine-" A rush of nausea overwhelmed her.

Luckily, he had the chamber pot ready. Through her misery, she felt the gentle stroke of his hand on her brow. He murmured something soothing, but she felt too wretched to pay attention. When she was done, he handed her a glass of water. "Rinse your mouth," he ordered.

She meekly obeyed. Then she lay back with her eyes closed, mortified that he had seen her at her worst.

Something deliciously cool came down on her forehead. She groped to touch it. A damp cloth.

The mattress dipped as Alex sat down on the edge of the bed. "Now," he said, "how do you really feel?"

"Better."

"And what do you suppose is the source of this illness?"

She had a suspicion she knew. But he looked disgusted, and she didn't feel strong enough to ward off his attack. "There's a family with the croup-"

"You dinna have the croup." He grimaced as if he'd choked on a dose of bitter medicine. "I would guess, Lady Helen, that you're pregnant."

Pregnant.

Rather than face his ill humor, she closed her eyes again. She had wondered about her unsettled stomach. And her monthly time was late by a few days. She had hoped and prayed, and her prayers had been answered with a baby.

Despite her physical discomfort, she felt a great surge of joy. Their lovemaking had started a new life inside her. They would be a family now, and Alex could not send her away. Because in nine months-no, eight-"she would give birth to his baby. The sheer wonder of it lent her strength.

"In late June," she said, opening her eyes. Her happiness blossomed into a smile. "So much for your knowledge of fertility."

His mouth twisted scornfully. "Aye, I blame myself for this mistake. I should ha' turned you out when you came crawling into my bed. You're the last woman I'd choose to be the mother of my bairn."

His cruelty withered her smile, and she placed her hands over her womb. "I won't have you calling our baby a mistake. Nor will I let you drive us away with your malice."

"Understand this," he said coldly. "Once the bairn is born, I dinna care if you go back to England. But you'll leave the child here with me."

"I will never abandon my own baby."

"So you say. But time will tell the truth."

The frigid contempt on his face chilled her soul. Just love me and I'll stay forever, she wanted to whisper. She had a dismal flash of their future together, a life without tenderness and joy, without shared happiness in the birth of their baby. Alex was determined to push her out of his world.

And she was just as determined to stay.

From that emotionally charged moment onward, Alex refused to allow Helen in his surgery. Flora would assist him when necessary, he said. Helen should not expose herself to disease and risk harming the baby. She felt too ill to argue. Besides, she had developed an aversion to strong odors. One whiff of the herbs and medicinals on his apothecary shelves would send her running from the room.

So she slept late each morning and took a nap each afternoon. In between, she nibbled on dry toast and sipped weak tea until she could get out of bed. She kept her mind off her queasiness by sewing baby clothes, helping Miss Gilbert with the mending, and planning renovations for the house.

Helen also devoted a few hours each day to writing a journal about her travels, describing the delights of touring a Turkish bazaar, the excitement of mountain climbing in Switzerland, the romance of boating on the canals of Venice. Someday, her child would read these adventures and know there was a vast world beyond these starkly beautiful Highlands.