"Our house," she said. "And you weren't here to voice an objection." With the loving care of a wife, she removed his wool scarf.

Her floral scent, the brush of her breasts, nearly drove Alex mad. He stomped away from her and jerked open the buttons of his overcoat. Knowing he sounded petulant, he said, "I liked the house the way it was."

"With chipped paint and nary a stick of furniture?" She smiled slyly. "Dinna be daft, Alex."

"Dinna mock me." He threw down his coat. "Once you leave here, I'll be stuck with your changes."

"Then I'll take the new furniture and draperies with me when I depart. Not that I ever intend to-oh!l" Her hand flew to her abdomen.

Alarm sent him striding to her. "Are you in pain? Lie down and I'll have a look at you."

"I'm fine." A serene softness curved her mouth. She took hold of his hand and spread it over the gentle rise of her belly. "I felt our baby move."

He stood transfixed by her warmth, his hand splayed over her thickened middle. Her closeness bathed him in a sweet rush of wanting, a desire that plumbed deeper than mere lust. He told himself to draw back, to declare she was mistaken.

Then he detected the faintest fluttering against his palm.

The breath snagged in his lungs, and a tremendous awe shook him. In his role of physician, he had often felt the fetus kick inside the mother's womb. But those bairns had not been his own.

Our baby.

Helen's small hand covered his. Their gazes met, and he was aware of a bond between them, a bond more compelling than vows spoken in kirk. The tenderness in her clear blue eyes lured him with rich promise. He wanted to give himself into her warmth, to tumble headlong into the wonder of her love.

Impossible.

Lady Helen didn't love him. She loved playing the laird's lady. The sooner she was gone from his life, the better.

With effort, he restrained his unruly emotions. "The bairn seems healthy," he said.

He started to pull his hand away, but she held on to it, gently massaging his skin. Her fingers looked delicate and pale against his large, chapped hand. "You feel cold from being outside," she said.

" 'Twas a long, wearying ride," he muttered. "I'll go awa' upstairs now."

"I'll go with you." A tender smile bowed her lips. "I missed you, Alex. You should have a proper welcome home."

His body leapt to burning life. Sweat prickled down his back as he fought the urge to pull her close. Then sanity slew his fervor. If he strengthened his attachment to her now, he would damn himself to hell later.

"Nay," he said curtly, pushing her hands from him. "I need nothing from you, Lady Helen. Nothing at all."

As winter slowly passed into spring, Helen remembered her husband's rebuff whenever she felt tempted to seek him out. She should have known better, she chided herself. Why had she pursued a man who already had made clear his scorn for her?

Because she wanted their marriage to be real. She wanted to heal the years-old wound that festered inside him. And she wanted to assuage her longing for the comfort and love of a husband.

It was not that Alex spurned her entirely. He showed a keen interest in the health of their baby, making certain Helen ate properly and got sufficient rest. He answered her questions about the impending birth and counseled her on alleviating the minor discomforts of pregnancy. Yet their relationship was more doctor and patient than husband and wife. His deep-seated distrust loomed like an unbridgeable chasm between them.

With determined cheer, she spent much of her time embroidering tiny garments for the baby and Converting a small alcove off her bedchamber into a nursery. Jamie and Cox carried down Alex's old cradle from the attic, and Flora polished the carved oak to a sheen. Miss Gilbert sewed endless sets of bedding and layette items, fussing as if she were the grandmother. They were all her family, Helen thought with pride and appreciation. She would never be alone so long as she had them. Yet wistfully she hoped for more.

Time will tell.

She clung to that thought, stubbornly hugged it to her heart as her body swelled with Alex's child. And sometimes she fancied he was softening toward her. As spring turned to summer, he accompanied her on visits to the crofters. He listened silently while she solicited advice on child-rearing from the mothers in the village. And on the stroll home, he tolerated her delight in picking wildflow-ers, in walking barefoot through the heather, in stopping for a drink of icy-fresh water from a mountain stream.

Those lazy days encouraged her to hope he might grow to love her. She was content to put off resolving their problems until after the baby was born. That moment finally came on a sunny day in June.

Chapter Nine

Her laughter drifted through the opened window of his office.

Normally Alex would have ignored his wife. He knew better than to seek out her company lest he be seized by useless longings. But this morning, the infectious sound of her merriment floated from somewhere outdoors, and curiosity proved stronger than his willpower.

Stepping outside, he saw that Flora had set up the round wooden laundry tub alongside the stream that meandered behind the house. Sunlight dappled the two women, both in mobcaps and plain work gowns.

Beautifully pregnant, Helen stood in the tub, her skirts hitched above her knees and her feet plunged into the wash water. The sight of her bare legs caused a shameful response in him. The feeling burned so fiercely he deflected it into anger.

Stones crunching beneath his boots, he strode across the yard. Helen saw him, and her expression lit with pleasure. With her rounded belly and the tendrils of golden hair framing her face, she looked like the goddess of fertility.

"Why the devil are you treading laundry like a peasant?"

The splashing of her feet ceased, though her eyes still danced. "It's too fine a day to sit sewing. And I was too restless, besides. So here I am."

"You'll fall and harm the bairn."

"Och, dinna be daft, Alex," she teased in a fair imitation of him. "I'm perfectly fine…" Her voice trailed off, and she rubbed her tailbone.

Frowning, he slipped an arm around her. "You're having pains."

"Only sometimes in my lower back."

"Since when?"

"Why, yesterday. It's the weight of the baby, Flora says." '

"Or the start of your labor," he said grimly. "Step out of there at once, and I'll examine you in my office."

No sooner did he help her over the side of the tub than a gush of liquid ran down her legs and into the grass. "Oh, my," she breathed, her eyes widening in shock.

Willing his hands not to shake, he lifted her into his arms. " 'Tis only your water breaking. The sac around the bairn."

She clung to his neck. "Then the baby will be born… today?"

" 'Twould seem so." He didn't mention the fears that leapt out to throttle him. Sometimes labor went on for days. Many women died in childbirth, or from a fever afterward. He had witnessed it himself, those times when even the finest-trained physician could do nothing…

Helen sucked in a sharp breath. Her fingernails pressed into his neck, and he felt the sudden tightening of her belly. "Breathe with the pain," he murmured in her ear. " 'Twill pass shortly." Lifting his head, he barked, "Flora, run on and ready the bed."

"Aye, m'laird." The older woman dashed toward the house.

Alex wasted no time in striding after her. Helen sighed as the cramp eased, and she buried her face in the crook of his neck. His mouth dry, he considered the ordeal ahead of her. She would endure agony in the hours to come. And there was little he could do to help her.

She suffered another pain as he was lowering her to the bed. The swiftness of it alarmed him. While Flora plumped the pillows, he rubbed Helen's lower back. He had seen prospective fathers pacing outside a croft, and he'd felt a mild sympathy. Now already he understood the frustration and powerlessness that a man felt for his laboring wife.