"I thought better of you!" she finished bitterly.

"Thank you," Methven said. "I am honored by your good opinion."

Lucy fought a battle against a treacherous urge to cry. It was the sickness and the blow to the head, she told herself. It was not because she had been so disappointed in him. He meant nothing to her. His betrayal meant nothing. Inside her the fury still boiled, but she knew that physical violence was pointless against a man as strong as Methven. She would need wit and guile to escape him-or a pistol if she could find one.

Her head ached suddenly with a vicious spike of pain and she swayed. Methven steadied her and suddenly she could not bear his gentleness. "Don't touch me!" She wrenched herself from his grip. "You hit me-"

There was too much anguish in her tone. She could hear it. She did not want him to know she cared.

"You're mistaken." His voice was rough now. "I'd never hurt you."

Their eyes met and Lucy's heart felt as though it turned over in her chest. There was such a wealth of protective fury in his eyes. She could feel it in every tense line of his body, wound tight. Then he turned away. "It was your cousin Wilfred who had you kidnapped," he said, over his shoulder. "He hired men to carry you off."

He offered no proof, made no further attempt to persuade her he told the truth. It was as though in that moment when they eyes had met Lucy had known he did not lie.

"Wilfred?" she said. "Why would he do that?" She felt astounded. It was true that Wilfred had paid her extravagant attention that night at Brodrie Castle, but he had scarcely been serious in his addresses to her. Unless he truly was so deep in hock to the moneylenders and all the rumors that he needed to marry a fortune were true.

"I imagine he planned to force you to wed him," Methven said. "Or possibly to prevent me from marrying you so that he could claim my lands. He knows I have to wed one of his kinswomen, and if he got wind that I had chosen you..." He let the sentence hang.

Lucy raised a hand to the bump on the back of her head. "They knocked me out," she said.

"Aye." That rough tone was back in his voice again. "That was why you were unconscious for so long."

"I was sick." Lucy was remembering the bowl and the cool press of the cloth against her forehead. Had it been Robert Methven who had sat with her while she was so ill? She looked at him, but his face was impassive.

"I'm sorry for that," he said. "They were rough with you, but they said they had not hurt you. They had been well paid not to."

"Oh." The heat flamed into her face. She knew what he meant: the hurts she might have taken. "You...asked them?"

"At the point of my sword." There was grim humor in his voice. "I'm glad it's true. They would probably have sworn red was blue to escape me."

Lucy could imagine, imagine his anger and the men's fear. It made her shiver.

"What of Wilfred himself?" she asked. "Where is he now?" She felt cold that her cousin could treat her with such cruelty. They had never cared much for each other, but this was outrageous, shameful. She sat down on the bed again and drew the lumpy eiderdown around her, seeking comfort from its folds.

"I have no idea where he is," Methven said. He sounded indifferent, but Lucy caught the hot thread of anger buried deep beneath his words. She was almost afraid for Wilfred now. "I caught up with them here," he said. "Cardross was taking you to his castle at Cairn Rock, along the coast. I sped him on his way there, on foot, naked, in the rain." He shrugged. "Lucky for him the rain has stopped now, though he may already have caught his death."

Lucy's gaze snapped up to his. "You took his clothes?"

"He was lucky I didn't send him to the bottom of the loch," Methven said. "If he had touched you I would have killed him."

Lucy stared at him for a long time. "You mean that," she said, frowning a little.

"I do." A muscle twitched in his jaw. "He was waiting here for you, all lordly, pleased with himself and his plans, not a little drunk, which made him all the more full of his own importance..." His shoulders moved as though shaking off a distasteful memory. "He's a grotesque apology for a man, to try to use a woman against me."

"Thank you for coming after me," Lucy said. "I was less than grateful earlier. I apologize."

A faint smile lightened the grimness in Methven's eyes. He looked across at her. "I'll always come for you," he said. His tone was fierce. "I'll always protect you."

It was a promise. It sounded as though he was claiming her. Silence fell between them, sharp with awareness.

Lucy broke it, wrenching her gaze away, looking around, taking in the slovenly room, the sagging mattress.

"Where is this place?" she said.

"An inn near Thurso." Methven looked around too and gave a grimace of distaste. "I apologize. It's a little Spartan in its comforts for the daughter of a duke, but if you are hungry they might be able to rustle up some bread and cheese."

Lucy shook her head. She was not hungry. What she really wanted was a bath, but she doubted the inn ran to such a luxury, especially not in the middle of the night.

"It will do until tomorrow," she said. "When you take me back to Durness."

He did not answer her. She looked up and saw the quizzical expression in his eyes as he watched her, and suddenly her stomach dropped and she felt as though she could not breathe. She understood his earlier words then. He was claiming her.

"You are not taking me back to Durness," she said slowly. She felt chilled all of a sudden.

"There would be no point." Methven sounded blunt, unsentimental, making her face the truth. "It's too late. It was already too late when I found you. You have been missing for a day and a night, Lady Lucy. If I take you back unwed you will be ruined." He smiled. "You really will this time."

Silence again, broken only by the sigh of the wind against the shutters and the hiss of the logs as they settled deeper in the grate. Lucy swallowed hard. She could hear her blood beating loud in her ears.

Marriage. Or ruin.

Her perfect reputation, her perfect life was in tatters. This time there really was no escape.

She looked at Robert Methven.

"So as I am already ruined you are taking me for yourself," she said. She was starting to feel afraid. She could feel the chill of it seeping through her blood. This was impossible. There had to be a way out.

He shrugged. "If you wish to put it like that. If you were feeling particularly grateful to me, you could say I am saving your reputation."

"Grateful!" Fear and disbelief blocked Lucy's throat. "I refused to be compromised by you! You cannot simply take what is denied you-" She broke off because of course he could take what was denied him. She was here, in his power. She did not believe he was a man to take by force, but suddenly she was sure of nothing, alone here with him, frightened, in pain.

She felt the sagging mattress sag farther as he sat down on the end of the bed. He did not answer her immediately, and in some way his quietness was more frightening than the implications of his actions. It meant that he had already thought through everything that needed to be considered. He had decided what he was going to do. He was determined and she would never be able to change his mind.

"Lady Lucy," he said, "I am offering you the protection of my name. It is all I can do to help you now."

"How fortunate for you that this is precisely the outcome you wished," Lucy said coldly. She looked around the shabby chamber. "If it comes to that, how do I know that the story you told me about my cousin is true? Maybe you were my abductor all along!"

Methven's expression hardened into stone, colder, more remote than the rock of the mountain. "You may believe that if you wish," he said. "All I can say is that I told you the truth and I would be honored if you would accept my offer of marriage this time."

"And if I refuse?" Lucy said. "Or shall we drop the pretense and agree that I have no choice?"

"There is always a choice," Methven said.

"Not if I wish to keep my reputation," Lucy said.

He smiled. "That is the choice."

Lucy rubbed her forehead where there was a vicious ache.

Marriage. Or ruin. The words echoed in her head. She knew how it would be if she did not wed. Her name would become a byword for scandal, the abducted heiress who returned home with a tarnished reputation. No longer would she be the perfect debutante, the perfect anything. She would be damaged, dishonored, spoken of in scandalized whispers. Her father would be mortified, the whole family disgraced.

Accepting Robert Methven's proposal was the only way to save herself. Yet Methven would want a marriage in every sense. He would want an heir. Darkness raked through her heart. She could not marry him. She could not give him an heir. The thought terrified her. She saw Alice's tearstained, terrified face and felt the cold clutch of her fingers. So much blood, so much pain... She gulped back the sob that caught in her throat.

Intolerable choices.

Her head ached suddenly, viciously, and she closed her eyes.

"You need to rest." Methven's voice was soft. "We'll talk more tomorrow."

"I won't do it," Lucy said. She could feel panic clogging her chest. "I won't marry you. I can't."

He was watching her steadily, and the gentleness in his eyes made her want to cry.

"Don't think about it now," he said. "You've been through an ordeal. You'll feel better in the morning."

She would not feel better. Nothing could fix this, not this time. She turned her face away and squeezed her eyes tight shut against the burn of the tears. She was not going to show any weakness now.

"I need you to give me your word that you won't try and run away," Methven said.

Lucy opened her eyes and glared at him. "It would give me the greatest pleasure to run away."

He raised his eyebrows. "In that case," he said, "I am going to have to restrain you for your own safety."

Lucy shot bolt upright with outrage. "Restrain me? Don't be absurd!"

He smiled, implacable. "Then give me your word."

It would have been by far the most sensible thing to do, but Lucy was sick and tired of being told what to do. It felt like a small rebellion to thwart him, no matter how childish she secretly knew it to be. Besides, she was certain he would not go through with it.

She turned a shoulder. "I don't promise anything," she said sulkily.

He shrugged, as though her attempt at mutiny was of no consequence. "Then I must tie you up. I did warn you."

"You won't," Lucy said. "You can't."

"I can," Methven said, over his shoulder. He had gone across to the dresser and was rifling through the contents of the top drawer. Lucy could see that it was full of gaudy clothes: skirts, blouses, barmaid's attire perhaps. He was removing something that looked like garish silk scarves.

He meant it.

For a second the shock held her still, and then she darted across the room toward the unlocked door. He was too quick for her. He caught her just as she was reaching for the handle, his hand closing about her wrist. "Please do not make a fuss, Lady Lucy," he said, in her ear. "I have no intention of hurting you."

It was the warmth of his body and the sudden intimacy of his touch that held her motionless. He scooped her up and dropped her back on the bed. Lucy was thrown off balance for one crucial second, and in that moment he rested one knee on the bed and leaned in to loop the silk tie around the bedpost, twining it expertly about her wrist. Lucy pulled on it and only succeeded in tightening it to a tourniquet.

"Release me," she said, through shut teeth. She could not believe that he was doing this. This was a different side to Robert Methven she was seeing, a man stripped of formality, a man, she suddenly realized with a flash of insight, who had been ruthless enough to make his own way in the wilds of Canada when his family had cast him out. She had seen flashes of this resolve in him already. Now it was undisguised.

He was laughing down at her. "Are you going to beg me?" he asked.

Lucy glared at him. "I'm a duke's daughter. I don't beg."

"You're stubborn." He was tying her right wrist now. "I like that."

"It's of no consequence to me whether you like it or not," Lucy said, kicking her legs impotently. "Let me go."

"No." He spoke calmly. "I don't trust you not to run away. Not only would you put me to the trouble of fetching you back, but you would put yourself in danger."

"You are an oaf," Lucy said. "A complete boor."

"You're very polite in your insults," Methven said. "Such a lady." He tilted his head to one side. "And yet not so much of a lady sometimes. You didn't kiss me like a lady would." He smiled, that wicked smile that made her shiver. "I liked that too."

He stood back to admire his handiwork. Her arms were spread wide now, tied to the bed head, not so rigidly that she could complain of discomfort but not so loosely that she could slip free either. She lay flushed and furious, completely outraged that he had followed through on his threat.

"So this is your idea of wooing," Lucy snapped. "I should have guessed after your scoundrelly attempts to compromise me earlier. Do you intend to keep me tied up until I consent to be your wife?"

"I don't think that scoundrelly is a proper word." His hands checked on the knots, sure and methodical. "I had not thought to keep you restrained," he added with the same slow smile, "but the idea has some appeal."

Oh.

For some reason the thought and the look in his eyes made Lucy feel hot all over. She saw his gaze fall to her night rail, transparent in the pale light. Looking down, she could see what he saw, see the shadow of her nipples beneath the fine cotton, their peaks brushing the thin material. With her arms so widespread she could do nothing to cover herself. She felt hopelessly exposed and vulnerable and yet hot and excited at the same time. She shifted restlessly against the bed, and Methven's gaze sharpened hungrily on her, dropping lower to the junction of her thighs before he raised it, deep blue and glittering, to her face again.

Lucy's heart turned over. Their eyes held. A furnace built in the pit of her stomach. Her lips parted.

"I won't take what isn't yet mine," he said.

He pulled the covers up over her and turned away abruptly, snapping the taut thread that pulled between them, leaving Lucy feeling shaken.

"Try to get some sleep," he said roughly.

"Like this?" Lucy asked.

He threw her another dark glance. "You'll manage."

He locked the door and put the key in his pocket. Lucy felt her spirits sink a little lower. Tied up and locked in with him. He really did mean to marry her this time.

Light was still penetrating the broken spars of the shutters. Here in the far north the daylight simmered down to a deep blue haze but never quite turned dark. Lucy could still make out the shape of the furniture, the wooden chair Robert Methven had thrown himself down on, which looked far too hard to allow for sleep.

"Is there really no one else who can help you save your inheritance?" she said after a moment.

He flicked her the slightest of glances. "You won't sleep if you keep talking."

"I'm not tired," Lucy said.

He grunted. "Well, I am. Damnably tired. I rode all day to find you and scant thanks I get for it."

She could see he did not want to talk, but she persisted anyway. It might be the only chance she had to persuade him to let her go. If he did she would manage to cover the scandal somehow. Her family would help. They had done it before, when Alice had died. They could do it again. Hope bubbled up in her, the sort of hope that was probably completely pointless but she had to believe in it anyway.

"If we could find another branch of the family," she ventured, "there might be someone you could wed-"

"Save your breath."