He wasn't talking about beds. Fire flashed up her throat and into her face as she heard the laird make some sort of constrictive sound in his throat. She could feel the giant coming closer, caught a faint scent of pine and heather and a rich sort of earthiness. She glanced down at Paula. The white bitch was looking at the man, wagging her tail, her tongue lolling happily. The tart!

She looked up, meeting the laird's sympathetic gaze, silently praying he would agree to her request and take her away from this man's proximity.

"Sir?" she asked.

"Faith, lady, do what you must," the laird said, unhappily it seemed to her. "Since your mistress is not to arrive today, there're other matters to which I must attend."

"Of course," she said. "I would not be in the way. If you could send one of the women to-"

"There's no need to take some poor woman from her duties, or her leisure, when I am already here and more than willing to act as your guide ..." the young warrior said. "Joan."

No. No! "But," she sputtered, "don't you have things to do, too?" She cast a desperate look at the laird. "Doesn't he have things to do?"

"Like what?" asked the giant.

"Like ... hacking things? Sharpening your claymore?"

"Though kindly meant I am certain, you may lay aside your concern regarding both my prowess and my sword. I promise you that my prowess is at its zenith and my claymore is ... well-shaped."

"Oh!" She gasped.

"He's right, lady," the laird said. "You'll not find a better guide nor a more knowledgeable one and so I will leave you in his care."

"But, what of Paula? And what of her pup?"

"They'd best stay with you until ... They'd best stay with you for now." And with that, the laird sketched a quick bow and left.

Slowly, Jeanne turned around to regard her guide. He was standing with his fists on his hips, his bare legs braced wide beneath his belted kilt. She'd never seen so large, so intimidating, so virile a young man.

"Well, Joan," he said, his teeth flashing white and strong in his dark, handsome face, "what would you like to see first?"

She blushed, her cheeks turning as bright as autumn apples and ducked her head. Rob was utterly captivated. Her letters had revealed her intelligence and character, but not her youth or femininity. Hers was a girl's blush, shy and unknowingly seductive and Rob felt his body react to its sweet temptation.

To disguise his discomfort, he hunkered down on his heels and held out his hand to Paula, palm down, fingers curled under. At once, the white bitch came forwards, tail-wagging, ears notched back in pleasure at the invitation. She sniffed his hand and he scratched her silky neck. Needing no further encouragement, she bowled into him, knocking him flat on his arse, and proceeded to bathe his face with her great pink tongue. He laughed and this only encouraged her further, for she squirmed in delight, planting her great boulder head in his lap and rolling over so that her four paws waved in the air.

"Ye great hussy!"

Rob looked up to find Jeanne smiling down at them. He grinned back. "I like a lass who's a bit of a tart."

"Bit of a tart?" She laughed and the sound was lovely, infectious, but then recalling herself, her smile faded and the blush deepened. She raised her chin to a haughty angle because even though for all she knew "Joan" could be his equal or even his subordinate, Jeanne Forbes was definitely his superior and demanded, "What is your name?"

It must have dawned on her then that she had not been introduced to anyone for her brows knit together. "What is anyone's name? Who were those men?"

He rose, dumping poor Paula at his feet and sketched a bow. "Forgive our poor manners. 'Tisn't everyday Barras is treated to the company of someone so elegant and exotic as yer fair self."

She eyed him closely but since his words were no less than the truth, she could find no deceit nor mockery in his face or tone and so blushed again, making him smile even broader.

"My name is Rob, my lady," he said then, catching the slight widening of her eyes, added, "Aye. 'Tis a name as common as bracken in the Highlands, I'm afraid. As to who the others might be," he continued, not giving her time to ask his surname, "the older man is Colin Frasier, the laird's uncle and the graceless cur he hauled out of here is his son, Alex." He left off naming Francis, but then she assumed she already knew his identity.

"Now, where would you like to go?" he said, offering her his arm. After a second, she took it. "What would you like to know?"

He smiled down into her tip-tilted eyes. Her lashes were so long they brushed the delicate flesh beneath her arched brows. This close he saw her eyes were the colour of wild honey, a rich glowing amber. Eyes a man could get lost in. "What would you like to see? How can my laird win your ... mistress's heart? What would impress her most? What least? Let's connive between the two of us, Joan, to see this union come to pass. And then," he covered her delicate hand with his and felt the fingers flutter like a captive bird beneath, "we'll have time to devote to getting to know one another."

"Oh!" A gasp escaped her lips and she turned her head away. "No! No. Never."

"Never?" he asked, cocking his head, pleased. Despite their mutual attraction, she understood honour and duty, the meaning of sacred vows and political necessity. Once sworn to Rob Macalduie she would be his and no other's no matter how much she might want to. And she did.

He could tell from the agitation that lifted the delicate lace kerchief covering the soft swells of her bosom, by the colour staining her throat and the warmth of the hand beneath his, the glow in her eyes, the catch of her breath ...

"Well, there's a sadness then," he said, trying not to sound too cheerful about it. He gave a gusty sigh. "But if that's the way it is, far be it from me to try and foist my attentions on an unwilling maiden. So then, where is it you wanted to go?"

Her head swung up, her gaze sharp with disappointment and, aye, exasperation. He almost laughed. He'd apparently given up too easily and her pride did not like it much.

"The stables," she said frostily.

He was surprised. He would have thought she would want to inspect the Great Hall, the solars or the stores, the buttery or the chapel, places where the wealth of a lord could be gauged. But he nodded and led her with the white pup in her hand from the gatehouse annexe across the bailey, Paula trotting behind. No one looked surprised by their passage or took particular note of him, though Jeanne in her finery and the great, muscled dog at her side drew many an interested glance.

His people were used to seeing him hither and yon about the castle. He'd been born and raised within these walls and, while treating him with deference, everyone accepted that theirs was a laird who must know everything about those things and people for whom he was responsible. There was no room he had not been in, no roof he had not climbed over, no floor he hadn't trod, no person with whom he hadn't shared a word and a drink.

They entered the stables at the far end of the bailey, Paula hard on their heels. The light inside was soft and diffused, the horses in their stalls whickering softly at the sight of the strange dog.

"Who goes?" a young man's voice croaked from overhead. A second later a gangly lad of fifteen or sixteen years jumped down from the loft where he'd been napping or a giggle from above caught Rob's wry attention indulging in another more pleasurable pastime. One look at his laird and the boy dissolved into abashed silence for which Rob thankfully offered up a prayer.

"I'm showing the lady the stables, Davie. I won't need your help so you can go to the kitchen and have Maura fetch you a cold glass of buttermilk." He glanced up. "And one for yer friend, too. If she's a mind to come ... No. Not word from you now. Yer secret's safe with me."

"Thank-"

"I said, not a word," Rob repeated. "I meant it."

The wide-eyed lad bobbed his head and, with a backward glance at Jeanne, made a tching sound at which a pretty young face, round-cheeked and dusky-skinned, appeared above them. Without a second's hesitation the girl swung her legs over the edge and dropped lightly to the ground. Then with a giggle and blush, she grabbed hold of Davie's hand, hastily pulling him through the stable door, leaving him and Jeanne alone. At last.

"You know the stable lad's name."

"Aye."

"Does the laird?"

"Aye. Of course."

"No. Not 'of course'. I've been in many a castle where the lord wouldn't know the name of his cook, let alone the stable boy."

"Well," said Rob comfortably, "this isn't such a grand castle as those."

"Oh, I don't know," she murmured, releasing his arm and walking down the aisle separating the stalls. The ground underneath was even and freshly spread with sweet hay. The scent of warm horse, grain and dust filled the air. His gaze followed her, the gentle sway of her hips, the straight spine and shiny red-gold hair.

She stopped outside his stallion's stall and looked back over her shoulder at him. "An Arabian steed?" she asked.

"Half," he answered. "The other half is Highland mare. In other words, no particular lineage."

"Hm," she said, reaching in and rubbing her hand down the great steed's velvety face. Rob was unconcerned. He didn't tolerate vicious animals in his stables.

"Why did you ask to see the stables first?" he asked curiously.

She gave a little shrug. "A lord would make sure his chapel's cross was shined and his larder well-stocked to impress a woman he hoped to marry. The solars would be fitted anew with linens and draperies, the halls swept, tapestries borrowed, beaten and hung. It's an easy enough thing to make a place look wealthy and welltended. It's not so easy to make a hungry horse look fat. And a mucked-out stall tells more about a lord's husbandry than a clean dining hall."

Young and girlish and innocent she might be, but Jeanne Forbes was also smart and canny. They'd make an imposing team. He nodded.

"And do the stables tell you anything else about the laird of Barras?"

"Aye," she said. "The temperament of his horse tells me he would rather persuade than conquer. Am I right?"

He hesitated, uncertain if her words were meant as a compliment or a criticism. Many men and women considered intimidation the only way to see things done. "Force doesn't make a thing love you, only fear you, and it's the nature of things to try to destroy those they fear. You can only hold a thing to you through trust."

She regarded him silently. Her expression was impossible to read. "Are those your sentiments, Rob? Or the laird's?"

"We share like views," he said.

"Hm." The pup she carried had begun mewling, causing Paula to dance lightly before her mistress. With a chuckle, Jeanne pushed opened the door to an empty stall and carefully laid the pup on a bed of straw in the corner. At once, Paula flopped down and the pup began nursing.

Jeanne rose, dusting the hay from her skirts, and came back to him. The light filtering in from the open doors glazed her hair with a fiery sheen and the air in stables dusted her skin with a fine golden talc. He wanted very much to take her in his arms and lick the fine powder from her brow, her cheeks, and her lips ... She tipped her head back, eyeing him seriously and he realized she didn't have the slightest notion of the effect she had on him, or where his errant thoughts were taking him. Them.

"What sort of man is the laird, Rob?"

He started, unprepared for the question. He'd expected her to ask him about Barras's power, land, loyalties, even his faults but not something so all encompassing, so intimate.

"I am uncertain as to your meaning, lady," he said slowly.

"Is he a good man?"

"Well, now, paining me though it does to say, he's not much for church-going."

"No, no," she said impatiently, shaking her head. "Let me ask this ... what does he value?"

That was easier. "Honesty. Hard work. Peace."

His answer didn't appear to satisfy her. "But what of the man?" she insisted. Then an inspiration seemed to come to her. "What will he do with the pup?"

"He'll value him as a gift from his lady."

"He'll not have him fight? Or will he?" She was standing very close now, her expression worried. He could see the ruby sheen in the shadows of her red-gold hair, a sprinkling of gingery freckles across the bridge of her nose.

"No. That I can promise. He's no love of violence for its own sake." She smelled like sun and soap and she was regarding him so earnestly, so seriously and he wanted ... He wanted ...

He reached across the space separating them and tipped her chin up. Her lips parted in surprise and before she could react he'd bent down and brushed a kiss over her mouth. He heard her breath catch and he shifted closer, this time letting his lips cling. Her own were soft and plush and warm and sweet. So sweet. She swayed and he caught her wrists together, bracing her hands against his chest as his kiss deepened, his tongue sliding between her lips to taste- She shoved against him, hard, and he stumbled back, amused and aroused and pleased, because he wanted her and she wanted him. He had never imagined, never had the hubris to hope, that their union could be more than an expedience for both of them. But now ... he nearly laughed with the joy of it, the wonder and fortune of it. She would be his mistress as well as wife, and he would be her lover in addition to husband. Although she didn't know this yet. Indeed, at the moment she looked decidedly put out.

"Why did you do that?" she shouted.

"Well, Joan," he said in his most reasonable tone, "yer a lass and I'm a man and the stables are as private a place as a solar, and you looked willing and lord knows I am, so ... why not?"

Half of him hoped she would choose now to dispense with her masquerade so they might go forth in honesty. But the other half of him, that half that was still a boy, reacted to the girlishness of her blushes and stutters. That half liked not being cautious, politic, and wise beyond his years, and liked that for these moments she wasn't Jeanne Forbes, who held the future of his portion of the Highlands in her hands, but "Joan", a pretty, hot-headed, passionate girl.

Apparently, "Joan" didn't appreciate his answer. She gasped. "How dare you? I am not some tart to be tumbled in a stall!"

He gave her a lop-sided grin. "How about in a loft?"

Her eyes grew round and he decided to take her momentary silence as consent. Besides, he was in a lather to taste her again, to feel her hands on him. He scooped her up while she was still floundering for a reply. She was light and finely made but well curved and womanly.

He'd one foot on the ladder leading up before she managed to sputter, "Put me down, you great ox! I'm not some doxy! I'm ... I'm ..."

He didn't put her down, but neither did he start up the ladder, instead he waited, interested to see what she'd say, how far she'd take her masquerade.

"I'm ... I'm betrothed!" she blurted out.

"Aye?" he said, feigning surprise. He bounced her higher up in his arms and in response she flung her arms around his neck, clinging. He liked the feel of her arms around him and he bent his head down, nuzzling her neck. Her skin was velvety and smooth, like sun-warmed chamois. The pulse at the base of her throat trip-hammered beneath his lips.

Delicately, he nipped the tender skin and heard her draw in a startled breath. Her arms tightened. "Didn't you hear me?" she asked in a high and unnatural voice. "I'm to be wed!"

"No matter, lass. So am I."

And as quickly as he said the words, he found himself with a hellcat in his arms. With a strangled sound of fury, she pummelled at his chest, kicking her feet and flaying about so violently that he almost dropped her. Startled, at the last second she clutched hold of his leine, trying to keep herself from falling, but tearing his shirt open at the chest in the process. Taking advantage of her momentary stillness, he repositioned her in his arms, grinning wickedly down into her upturned face.

"Have a care, lass," he said. "I'm eager, too, but not so wealthy that I can afford to have one of my best shirts ripped."

He waited for her to start struggling again but instead she simply stared at him, her exotic eyes widening and then, before he understood what was happening, her arms wrapped tight around his neck and she was drawing herself fully against him, the soft roundness of her breasts crushed to his naked chest.

"Take me, then. Take me now!" she whispered huskily a second before her mouth found his.

"What?"

If she wasn't so furious at him, she would have laughed at the dumbstruck expression on Rob's face. Rob Macalduie's face. But she was furious, whether at him for leading her on or at herself for being so roused by his kisses that, for a moment there, before she'd tumbled to his true identity, she had actually decided to let him have a few more kisses. Because she'd never been kissed like that before, never had the tingling in her lips stretch in a taut wire of need to the very pit of her belly. And deeper.

Not that she would have ever sanctioned anything more and she would never have let him kiss her in the first place had she known what he'd been about, but once he had, oh, aye! It was amazing, stirring, and as potent as the brandy from the king's own cellar.

Even as she'd been anticipating another kiss, she'd been promising herself that she would not betray her husband once the marriage vows were spoken. She had also been telling herself that there was no betrayal in sharing a simple kiss with a would-be suitor before she'd even properly met her intended groom. It was a mere kiss. A simple thing to remember when she closed her eyes three nights hence on her wedding night and accept the laird's attentions. She wondered briefly who he was, the man she'd mistaken for her future husband.

"I said,'' she repeated patiently, "take me now."

"But ..."

Clearly, this wasn't going the way Rob had anticipated. Somehow, she managed to keep from laughing and feigned a confused expression.

"Don't you want me? Have you changed your mind?" she asked sweetly, arching her back, just a little, so that her bosom swelled against his hot flesh.

"God, no!" he whispered hoarsely.

She almost took pity on him. After all, she'd begun this game and she supposed she deserved his goading. How far would he go, she wondered? He assumed she didn't know who he was yet. Was he using this encounter as a test of her virtue? She thought not, mostly because he'd no more control of the desire raking his body than she.

His great chest rose and fell in a heavy rhythm, his breathing harsh and ragged. A strand of hair curled against his damp throat and his eyes were dark with hunger.