"You need a wife to fulfill the terms of the treaty," she said, moistening her lips. Her throat felt sore and rough. She took another mouthful of wine and could not taste it.

"No," Robert said. His fingers tightened over hers. "I need you."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

LUCY LOOKED INTO ROBERT'S eyes and saw the certainty and the determination there.

"You would want a wife in your bed and an heir for Methven," she said.

She saw the leap of heat in his eyes. "I would," he said. "I require an heir."

"Then I can't marry you," Lucy said in a rush. "I can't sleep with you. I can't give you an heir. It's impossible."

She was not sure what she had expected him to say to that. She had not thought that far ahead. She had seen no further than blurting out the truth. Now, to her surprise, he said nothing at all. He demanded no explanations; he did not contradict her or ride roughshod over her words. Instead his gaze swept over her thoughtfully and she felt the trembling inside her ease and the tight knot of panic in her chest loosen a little.

"I suspected as much," he said. A faint smile tugged the corner of his mouth. "Tell me more about that."

Startled, she stared at him. "You don't mind?"

He shrugged, the tiniest hint of tension in the line of his shoulders. "Lucy," he said, "you went to a hell of a lot of trouble to run away from me. At every point you have refused my offer of marriage even at the cost of your reputation. What sort of fool would I be if I had not realized that there must be some..." He paused. "Some very important reason why you felt that you could not wed me?"

He looked up suddenly and her heart jumped at the expression in his eyes. "I flatter myself that you do not object to me personally, but if I am mistaken, perhaps this would be the moment to tell me."

Unbelievably she felt a flutter of laughter in her chest. "Robert," she said. "No, I...I do like you-" It was only then she realized quite how much she did like him, and felt alongside the leap of excitement in her blood a sickening lurch of misery that she was so damaged that what they might have had together could never be.

Robert got up and came across to her, sitting on the edge of the table, one booted leg swinging. "I am encouraged to hear it," he said. "So tell me, Lucy, if we cannot wed, what reason could possibly be strong enough? After all-" His tone had hardened a little. "You were prepared to marry MacGillivray." His voice was dry. "He was your perfect ideal."

"There is no such thing as a perfect ideal," Lucy said. It felt good to be so honest after so many years of pretense. It felt as though something had opened inside her, spilling out the truth at last. "Lord MacGillivray was a good man," she said, "but he was ideal only in the sense that he was safe."

"He did not want to bed you," Robert said softly. A flame burned deep in the blue of his eyes. "You chose MacGillivray because he did not desire you." His hand was beneath her chin forcing it up so that she was obliged to meet his eyes. "You are afraid of intimacy," he said. His fingers were cool against her hot cheek. His eyes searched her face, all humor gone now.

"No," Lucy said. "I am afraid of the consequence of intimacy, not intimacy itself. I am afraid of pregnancy and childbirth..." Her voice cracked.

"Why are you scared, Lucy?" Robert said. "What happened? Tell me." His voice was very quiet, steady and soothing, and he took her hand in his, drawing her to her feet and over to the fireside, where there was a cushioned settle. He pulled her down to sit beside him. "You can tell me anything," he said.

"My sister Alice," Lucy said. "She was my twin. She died in childbirth." Suddenly the pain of memory caught her. It felt as though it was ripping her in half. She put an arm across her stomach to keep it in, but it was too huge, too violent. She gasped aloud with it.

"Help me, Lucy! I am so afraid!" The words, like a cry in the dark, echoed through Lucy's mind.

She put her hands over her face, then let them fall. Her eyes were dry, the tears locked up inside. She had never once cried over Alice's death because she was afraid that once she started, it would be impossible to stop.

"It started the night you came to Forres," Lucy said. "Alice was watching the gentlemen on the terrace that night. She saw Hamish Purnell and fell in love with him at first sight. Well," she corrected herself, "she fell in love with the idea of being in love with him. It was a schoolgirl crush at first, but it became so much more. Only at the time I did not realize."

She screwed her eyes up tightly. She had never talked about this and now she could feel the panic growing in her, locking her muscles, making her heart pound. Her chest felt tight.

Robert took her hand again. His was warm and comforting. He rubbed his thumb gently over the back of it, soothing, back and forth. It gave her the strength to go on.

"Purnell was married," Lucy said, "but still he started an affaire with Alice. She would slip away to meet him in the woods. She thought it was all impossibly romantic. I warned her to be careful, but she would not listen to me. Alice had a great ability only to hear what she wanted to hear."

Suddenly she was angry with Alice, her anger as fresh and vivid as though her twin's folly had happened only yesterday. "I knew what she was doing was wrong. I told her-" She stopped, caught out by a sob that tore at her lungs.

"What happened?" Robert's voice was very quiet.

"It ended," Lucy said. "Or so I thought." The words tasted bitter in her mouth. She had been very naive and she hated herself for it. She stared at Robert, not really seeing him, seeing instead Alice's face. "After a while I realized that there was something wrong. Alice was always bright and impulsive, laughing where I was serious, frivolous where I was staid. But then she changed." She looked down at her hands, at her fingers interlinked with Robert's, hers pale, his tanned and strong. "She became thin and quiet and withdrawn. It was as though all the color had drained out of her."

"She was pregnant," Robert said.

Lucy nodded. "I was terribly hurt that she had not told me. I felt as though I had failed her in some way, that she did not want to confide in me." It still hurt now, the thought that Alice had not trusted her. They had always told each other everything. Except this time was different.

"Did you tell anyone else?" Robert asked.

Lucy shook her head. "Alice made me swear to tell no one, made me promise on our mother's grave."

Of course she had agreed. They had kept each other's secrets always. And even though Alice had kept this from her for so long, even though it was the biggest and most frightening secret in the world, too big to hold alone, Lucy had tried. She had tried so hard.

"Such a huge secret to carry on your own," Robert said, his words echoing her thoughts. "I am sorry you had to do that."

"Alice planned to have the baby in secret and give it away and that way no one would know," Lucy said. "She was so afraid of getting into trouble." She stared into the red heart of the fire. "I had never realized, because Alice always seemed so brave, but beneath it all she was just a frightened child herself. And I was no better."

"You were very young," Robert said, "and no doubt you were terrified too."

"I was sixteen," Lucy said. It felt like a lifetime ago, as though it had happened to a different girl. Yet it was as fresh and painful as a new wound.

"Alice went into labor prematurely at seven months," she said. "I was with her when it happened. Neither of us knew what to do. It was terrifying."

The cold, the bitter chill she always felt when she remembered, was lapping at her now. She wanted to push the memories away, to run and hide as she had always done, yet something stronger, something at last more powerful, was helping her on. She felt it in the strength and reassurance of Robert's touch and saw it in his eyes.

"I knew that something was going wrong," Lucy said, "but Alice begged me not to leave her. Even at the end she was so scared of getting into trouble, so I left too late and when I finally ran for help..." She stopped. "I could have saved her," she whispered. "I could have saved the child. If only I had gone sooner. But I did not."

She stopped. Her teeth were chattering. She felt exhausted, cold to her bones.

"Lucy," Robert said, and there was so much gentleness in his tone that she shook to hear it. She wanted to put her hands over her ears, to block out his tenderness, because she was so close to the edge of control now that she could not bear it and she knew another word from him would bring her down.

"It was not your fault Alice and the baby died," Robert said. "Don't punish yourself. You did what you thought was best. You were sixteen, Lucy. You have to forgive yourself."

"I can't," Lucy said. The tears were very close now and it terrified her because she had never cried for Alice and the baby, she had never dared to cry, afraid that if she started she would never stop. But now she felt the huge rush of desolation like an unstoppable tide and it was too late, it was on her and over her and she cried and cried and Robert held her shaking body against his until she had soaked him with her tears, as well.

"Sweetheart..." Robert's grip on her tightened and he held her closer still. She was shocked by how good it felt to be held like this. A part of her, the old fear, wanted to draw back, but Robert's arms were unyielding about her and after a moment she accepted him and the comfort she craved.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "So very sorry."

He raised her face to his at that and brushed the hair away from her hot wet cheeks and kissed her. "You have nothing to be sorry for." He sounded fierce. "You did nothing wrong, Lucy. It was not your fault that they died. You do not know that your sister would have lived, nor a seventh-month child." His voice had dropped. "You were very brave. Unbelievably brave and honorable."

His words only seemed to make her cry all the harder. She felt helplessly unable to stop, sobbing, gulping and wondering as finally the tears started to fade whether she looked as dreadful as she thought she must.

"How much you have suffered," Robert said softly, stroking the hair back from her damp cheeks. "Unbearable to have to carry it all alone." He held her a little way away from him. There was a smile in his eyes as he looked at her.

"I know," Lucy said defensively. "I look awful."

"The question is whether you feel any better now that you have spoken of it," Robert said. "You never told anyone, did you?"

Lucy shook her head. "I couldn't talk about it. I felt so guilty and sick to even think of it. I have nightmares. Waking ones too. I see it all again in my mind's eye, over and over. It's as though I cannot escape."

Robert kissed her very gently. There was no demand in the kiss, only comfort and sweetness.

"You do not turn away from me," he said, as their lips parted. "I am glad of that. It is no wonder you do not believe you could ever lie with a man and bear his child." His lips brushed her hair, pressing soft kisses. "After all you have been through, it would be no wonder if you believed all men were self-serving bastards like Hamish Purnell."

"I trust you," Lucy said. "I know you are not like that." She dropped her gaze, fixing it on one of the mother-of-pearl buttons on his jacket, rubbing her fingers over their smoothness. "And yes," she added, "I do feel a little better. I feel..." She stopped. It was as though a crack had opened in the darkness, shedding a sliver of light into the emptiness of her heart. It was hard to believe after eight barren years, but it was true.

Yet it was not enough.

She looked up and saw that Robert was watching her. From the look in his eyes he already knew what she was going to say. Her heart lurched.

"It makes no difference," she whispered. "It can make no difference to us. Don't you see that, Robert?" Her gaze implored him. "I'm still too damaged, too afraid-" She saw the instinctive repudiation in his face and pressed her fingers to his lips to silence him. It felt impossible to make sense of the warring demands of her mind and her body, of the sweet seduction of Robert's kisses and at the same time the cold fear that numbed her mind and her heart when she thought of the marriage bed and of bearing a child. She thought of the tiny frail burden that had been Alice's son and she shuddered. She had failed a child who had depended on her. She could not trust herself. Not even now, when the truth was revealed at last.

"I can't offer you anything," she said, with painful honesty. "It is not fair to you."

Robert took her hand in his and kissed the fingers gently. He head was bent and the firelight burnished his hair to rich chestnut.

"If you marry me I will settle for whatever you can give," he said roughly. "If you marry me I swear not to force you into an intimacy you do not want."

Lucy's eyes widened with shock. "But you cannot make a match on those grounds," she stammered. "You need an heir."

Robert's smile was wicked all of a sudden. "In time I will have my heir," he said. He kissed her again, long, slow and languorous so that when he released her she was flushed and panting.

"I do not believe it impossible," he murmured, "with time and trust."

"The difficulty is not in kissing you," Lucy said.

"So I had observed," Robert said.

Lucy smiled a little, but beneath it she felt an edge of sadness. She trusted him not to ask more of her than she was prepared to give. Still, she was not sure she would ever be brave enough to give him the heir he desired. The thought was enormous and terrifying and it made her shrink inside. It took her back to the shuttered room and the scent of death and the fear in Alice's eyes.

Yet Robert's gaze was steady on her and his touch felt warm and solid and comforting.

"Marry me," he said softly. "Have faith that together we can make all well."

Lucy thought about Wilfred Cardross laying claim to Methven land and his men burning and pillaging the villages and Isobel's tired face and the terror in Bessie's eyes. She thought about the clansmen who had given their loyalty and their lives to the laird for hundreds of years, losing their lands and their livelihood. She thought of the poverty and the misery and the starvation that were the price of her freedom. She remembered the barren village she had ridden through and the dirt and squalor of the crofts. She felt the burn of old hatreds and the echo of that enmity in the blood.

She thought about never seeing Robert Methven again.

She thought about the faith he had shown in her, his belief that together they could overcome her fear.

She thought about being his only hope.

He was watching her. There was tension in the line of his jaw and a coolness in his eyes as though he had taken the biggest gamble of his life and was convinced he was about to lose his stake.

"Yes, I'll marry you," she said slowly, and felt the fear grip her by the throat so fast she almost contradicted herself immediately.

But her promise was given and she saw the flare of triumph and satisfaction in his eyes. "Thank you," he said.

"But not tomorrow," Lucy said quickly. "In a few days..." She fell silent as he shook his head.

"Tomorrow," he said.

She understood his insistence. It was the ultimate test of her trust in him. She met his eyes and knew she could not fail, could not fall now, at the very first challenge. If she was going to try to overcome her fears and be a true wife to him, if she was going to give him the heir he needed, she had to have belief in him equal to the faith he had in her.

"Very well," she said. "We wed tomorrow."

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

ROBERT STOOD ON the jetty staring out to sea. It was late. The ocean had fallen into darkness and only the roar and hiss of the waves hinted at its endless ebb and flow. Somewhere out on the northern horizon floated Golden Isle, the one part of his patrimony he had shamefully neglected since his brother had died. Since inheriting the Methven marquisate, Robert had diligently visited every one of his estates and spoken to as many of his people as he could. He had poured endless time, money and effort into tending to their welfare. He had defended these northern lands against Wilfred Cardross's incursions, but Golden Isle was the one place he had never set foot. It was the one place he never wanted to see again. It held too many memories; memories of Gregor's death, memories of his quarrel with his grandfather and his estrangement from all he had held dear.

He had a factor, an estate manager who undertook all the business of the islands. As far as he was concerned, that was good enough. It had to be because he was not prepared to do more. He never asked McTavish for a report on Golden Isle, and the man never offered any. It was as though the place did not exist.

Tomorrow he would leave Findon with his bride and travel south and never think about Golden Isle again.

He shifted as guilt scored him like a knife.

That is not good enough.

It was Lucy's face he could see, Lucy's words he could hear, as clearly as if she had spoken them to his face. Over dinner she had tried to draw him out on the subject of his brother's death and that painful quarrel and estrangement from his grandfather. He had rejected her attempts because he was ashamed of the stubborn boy he had been, sacrificing so much for his pride. He had not wanted her to see his weakness. He had not wanted her to know he had been so rash and reckless, so determined to prove to his grandfather that he cared nothing for Methven, that he was prepared to go thousands of miles away and hurt those he loved in the process. He did not want her to know that it was his fault that Wilfred Cardross had the means to claim Methven land because he had been abroad and thereby given his enemy the advantage.

Lucy was gallant and strong and brave. Now, having heard her story, he was astounded by her courage. Lucy, he knew, would not approve of him neglecting even one acre of his estate. She was prepared to risk all on marrying him to thwart Wilfred's greed and cruelty. If she had the faith to do that, he should have the courage to lay his own ghosts to rest and visit Golden Isle again.

Cursing softly under his breath, he bent and picked up a pebble and shied it into the water, listening to the splash it made and the hiss and the pull of the waves on the beach. As a boy he had loved Golden Isle. He and Gregor had spent so much time there.

There were no lights showing out at sea tonight. In times of war the islanders used a chain of beacons to warn of danger and summon help, but now all was calm and quiet.

Suddenly restless, he turned his back on the sea and set off back toward the inn. The cobbled streets were wet with rain. The warm candlelight showing behind the inn's diamond panes drew him, but the window of Lucy's chamber was dark. He wondered if she was asleep or if, like him, she felt restless tonight. He felt a sudden rush of possessive pride that on the morrow she was to marry him. Lucy MacMorlan was everything he wanted in a wife, but he could see how profoundly terrified she had been by the experience of her sister's pregnancy and death in childbirth. It was little wonder if she was petrified to face the same perils as Alice had when she had gone through such an ordeal at the age of only sixteen. It made sense of the perfection she had striven to achieve. In trying to atone for what she saw as her failure in causing her sister's death, she had forced herself into a pattern-card existence that no one could maintain, so her passion had escaped in other ways. And now she was lost and confused because she felt such a strong attraction to him-he knew she did-yet she was too afraid of the consequences to give herself up to it, to give herself to him.

He drove his clenched fists into the pockets of his coat. It was fortunate that Hamish Purnell was already dead or he would have hunted the man down and killed him for the way that he had ruined Lucy's future as well as betrayed her sister.

With a sigh Robert lifted the latch and went inside. He wanted to see Lucy. He was taken aback by how strong was the desire to hammer on her door and demand she let him in. He needed her, and not simply to fulfill the terms of his inheritance. He needed Lucy in ways far more profound and disturbing. He scowled. Such vulnerability was alien to him and he did not care for it.

There was only one solution. He pushed open the door of the taproom and went in search of the brandy bottle in lieu of his bride.