Chapter 12

If Lachlan had learned anything, it was that fortune was fickle, and just when it handed him a good turn on the wheel, the bad turn was coming. In this case, the bad arrived in the form of a petite, tawny-haired, blue-eyed ghost from his past.

Nay.

To be fair and precise, it had initially arrived in the form of a missive bearing familiar flourishes he could have seen in his sleep for all the times he'd read love notes written to himself in that fair hand. And aye, he was ashamed to admit he'd kept some of them, rereading them in his darkest days before pitching the lot of them into the fire and watching them burn. This missive, unlike the others, hadn't been turned to ash. It was crisp and clean and scented with perfume he'd once thought intoxicating but now found strangely cloying as it wafted from the paper to wrap itself around him.

Dearest Lachlan,

For so many years, I've longed for your return. Imagine my surprise at learning the new Duke of Kenross is here in Edinburgh at long last and that he is, in fact, you. Words cannot convey how deeply I have regretted what passed between us long ago. In my foolish youth, my heart was ruled by fear that only time and experience has banished. It is to my everlasting sorrow that I learned my lesson too late.

It's my fondest hope that you would meet with me at your earliest convenience so that I may make my apology to you directly rather than via the exceedingly insufficient means of pen and ink.

Please know that I've kept you near to my heart since we parted and dreamed of the day when we would meet once more as friends.

Ever and fondly yours,

Rose, Countess of Kelley

His first thought,upon reading the final line of the letter, had been that the old Earl of Kelley must have died, leaving her husband to inherit the title and making Rose a countess in her own right. His second thought had been to wonder if he would have received such a loving note from Rose if he had returned to Edinburgh as Mr. Lachlan Macfie instead of the Duke of Kenross. His third thought had been to instantly send a return missive—a resounding denial of her request.

The original missive had arrived while Madeline was asleep, hand-delivered to Lachlan by one of the hotel porters. He'd felt instantly guilty as he paced the room while she slumbered, innocently unaware of the storm brewing within him. Receiving the missive from Rose felt akin to a betrayal. Responding had felt wrong. And yet, what choice had he? None—he wanted Rose to leave him alone, and he'd made that clear.

Within half an hour's time, however, it was apparent that Rose had either mistaken the intent of his answering note, or she was unwilling to accept his refusal. A porter had returned, indicating there was a guest awaiting Lachlan below in the lobby. One who was most insistent that she await him. He'd known instantly who it was. Grimly, he had thanked the porter and informed him he would be below directly.

By that time, Madeline was beginning to stir, no doubt roused from her sound slumber by the knocks at the door and Lachlan's ceaseless pacing. He'd gone to her, kissed her softly, and told her that he had some unexpected business to attend to, but that he would return forthwith.

"I'll come with you," she had protested sleepily, the bedclothes sagging to reveal her luscious breasts and berry-pink nipples.

Her hair had been unbound and streaming down her back in riotous waves as it did whenever she bathed and then allowed it to dry free of the encumbrance of a plait or chignon. He found its wildness charming; she found it exasperating. And Lachlan had wanted nothing more in the world than to climb into that bed beside her and make love to her again until everyone and everything else ceased to exist.

He smoothed a stray tendril of hair from her silken cheek instead, admiring how deliciously rumpled and well-fucked she looked and trying to quell his rampant cock, who, as usual, had a mind of his own. "I'll be back in a trice. Ye neednae concern yerself with it. The matter is a trifling one. Ye should relax before we have tae leave for Castle Kenross later this afternoon."

She'd turned her head and pressed a hot little kiss to his palm that did nothing to persuade his prick that Lachlan wasn't going to shuck his trousers and join his beautiful wife in bed. "But I don't want to be here without you."

Her protest had filled him with warmth. He took her lips in a slow, lingering kiss before forcing himself to withdraw and straighten away from her, lest he remain. He needed to meet with Rose and put an end to her desire to seek him out. And the sooner he did so, the better, for he had no intention of allowing her to interfere in his new marriage.

"I'll only be gone for a scant few minutes," he promised. "In the time it'll take ye tae gather up yer gown and underpinnings, I'll already be back at yer side where I belong."

She'd made the sleepy sound he adored and snuggled back into the bedclothes, looking like a goddess he longed to worship. And would worship. Just as soon as he completed this lingering business with Rose and returned to her.

"The bed is quite comfortable," Madeline had said, smiling from her pillow. "Hurry back, husband."

He'd stolen one last, lingering look at her, promising, "I will."

And now, he was standing with the woman he'd once loved in a small salon, all the better for circumspection. The clever hotel clerk had seen to their privacy; Lachlan wouldn't have thought of such a thing. But like it or not, he was the Duke of Kenross now, and he had a duchess to protect from wagging tongues and painful gossip.

Rose was as he had recalled and yet more elegant and refined than when he had known her. No doubt, she was dressed the part of the countess, wearing a gown of formidable navy silk that set off her golden hair and her sky-blue eyes to perfection. But she wore her hair as she always had, in high curls piled at her crown, tiny blue silk flowers that matched her gown tucked into the elaborate coiffure. She still looked like a fairy, her stature small—he'd been able to carry her about as if she weighed no more than a bird. But now, he rather found he preferred the long, lissome legs of his wife.

"Lachlan," Rose greeted him warmly.

Too warmly.

He offered her a curt bow. "Lady Kelley."

"Ye called me Rose once," she said, regarding him solemnly as she moved toward him.

"I called ye a great many things once," he said wryly, refraining from adding that some of those names hadn't been polite or kind.

"Ye're angry with me," she said, stopping before him, her perfume making his nose itch.

She was lovely as ever, scarcely any change in her, save the airs she possessed, the jewels at her throat and hanging from her ears, and the faint hint of lines at the corners of her lively eyes. He stared at her, trying to summon up even the faintest hint of emotion for her.

And couldn't.

There was simply…nothing. Not anger. Certainly not love. Not resentment. Not sadness. Not regret.

"I was angry with ye," he corrected. "But that was a long time ago."

He'd been devastated, in truth. It was almost impossible to believe how thoroughly destroyed he had been by her defection.

"I'm thrilled ye're no longer angry," she said, smiling at him in the way that once would have made his heart leap and had him desperate to kiss her. "I feared that was why ye refused tae see me, that ye hated me for what I'd done."

"Hate is a strong word, my lady," Lachlan said. "Ye left me brokenhearted tae be sure, but in the end, I'm in yer debt for making the decision ye did."

He read the startlement on her expressive face; that much hadn't changed. He could see what she was feeling without her saying a word. He recalled how mournful she had looked on the day she had come to him, making love with him a final time before saying her farewell. He had sensed something different about her then, but he'd been too caught up in his mad lust and love for her to question it until she had shocked him by revealing she intended to wed another.

I've made my decision, and I'll be marrying George, she'd said after she'd finished dressing herself and restoring her hair. This is the last time we can see each other this way.

Rose had been a young widow when they had first met in Edinburgh. She'd been clever and charming, and despite his obvious lack of genteel polish and his massive form compared to her diminutive one, she'd hung on his every word. She'd asked him to become her lover. He'd begged her to be his wife.

He ought to have understood what she had truly meant when she'd said that she couldn't marry again so soon after her first husband's death, that it would be unseemly. She'd meant that she was looking to marry a proper lordling, not someone like Lachlan. That she'd had her heart set upon a husband with greater wealth and a noble family instead of a brawny, charmless fool whose ducal cousin was merely on a distant branch of a tree, far out of reach and unknown to him.

What she had meant was that she could no longer take the risk that she might be carrying Lachlan's bairn if she went to another man's bed. That she'd enjoyed his body with no intention of ever giving him her heart or her hand in matrimony.

Rose laid her hand on his coat sleeve. "Lachlan, I never wanted to break yer heart. Ye were my only love. What I felt for ye—what I still feel for ye—never faded or changed. Not in all the years we've been apart."

He didn't want to hear declarations from her. Not only did he suspect they were false, but his heart no longer yearned for this woman. It yearned for another. A mysterious-eyed American hellion who had seen past the brash, graceless oaf he was to the man within. And had liked him instead of hiding him and wanting to change him.

"I wanted tae make ye my wife," he reminded Rose now, not willing to allow her to cling to pretense. "Ye told me ye needed time. I gave ye time. I pledged my love to ye. I would have given ye everything I could have, done anything tae make ye happy. But ye didnae believe a man like me could ever make enough of himself tae give ye the comfortable life of a lady ye wanted to lead."

Her fingers tightened on his sleeve. "And do ye blame me? I had no notion of where our lives would lead then. I'd already found myself close to penury from my first husband. I was too fearful to marry ye, Lachlan. George was the heir tae an earldom. His family was wealthy. He told me he loved me." She paused, emitting a bitter little laugh. "Of course, I discovered that was a lie. He never loved me at all. No man has but ye."

He pulled his sleeve from her touch, disliking the familiarity she displayed, which was wholly unwarranted. He didn't want another woman's hands on him, even with the barrier of cloth between them. There was only one woman's touch he desired, only one woman's touch he needed. And it was Madeline's.

"A fine time for ye tae realize what ye had, Lady Kelley," he said coolly, taking care to continue his formal use of her title. "I'm afraid that particular ship has set sail, never tae return."

Her brow furrowed, and although she clasped her hands at her waist, she didn't move away from him, remaining far too near. "But ye're back home in Scotland where ye belong now. Ye're the Duke of Kenross. Ye have duties tae attend. Surely ye'll be here in Edinburgh. Our paths are destined tae cross. Dinnae try tae tell me ye cannae feel the pull between us, even after all these years."

"If ye're feeling aught, it's likely because ye've realized I'm a duke now and I'm no' beneath ye any longer," he said grimly. "Tell me, what would the earl think if he were tae learn his wife had paid a call upon another man at his hotel whilst that man's wife was awaiting him upstairs?"

At his mentioning of Madeline, Rose flinched. "So, it's true then, that ye've married the American heiress."

His mother had always been fond of saying that gossip traveled faster than a fart in a chapel. She hadn't been wrong.

"I have," he confirmed. "But I'll thank ye tae call her my duchess instead of the American heiress. She's worth far more than her fortune."

"Ye married her for her dowry," Rose said. "Dinnae pretend otherwise."

"I'll no' pretend anything. Nor will I pay my wife disrespect by lingering here with ye," he said, trying to keep his voice as gentle as possible.

He was beginning to think that Rose did indeed regret her decision to marry her husband as she had, instead of Lachlan. There was no contentment in her eyes—only a somber acceptance of her fate. But as he thought of the life he was beginning with Madeline, he could only feel relief and gratitude for the past.

It had made him stronger.

And aye, it had left him embittered and unwilling to trust anyone with his heart.

But it had also made it possible for him to find his own way. It had set him on the path that had led him to Madeline. And ultimately, it had shown him what true love felt like.

Love.

Aye, that was it, that feeling that had been growing inside him, burning hot and bright, refusing to be dimmed or tamed, ever since that picnic back at Sherborne Manor.

He was in love with his wife. Only, it had taken this moment, being confronted with the past and seeing Rose for who she truly was, to make him reach that astonishing conclusion.

He turned to go without even bothering to say another word to Rose. Let her think of him what she would. She'd certainly had no qualms about leaving him in the dust years ago, and he would do the same for her now.

But she wasn't ready for him to leave. Rose hastened after him, planting herself between Lachlan and the sitting room door. She pressed her palms to his chest, staying him as she looked up at him with wide, glistening eyes that gleamed with unshed tears.

For herself? For him? He couldn't be sure, but likely the former.

"Don't go yet," she pleaded. "I'm begging ye, Lachlan. Let me explain. This is the moment I've been dreaming of for so long. It's not over between us. It never was, and it never will be. I've missed ye desperately. I think of ye every day. When I learned ye'd returned tae the city, I was overjoyed. I never stopped loving ye. I did what I felt was right because I was afraid, but I always loved ye and only ye. Grant me a chance to show ye, tae make amends for all the time we've lost."

He'd spent years believing the greatest danger he faced was allowing himself to be vulnerable again, only to realize that the true danger had been in never opening his heart to love. And now, the sole future he envisioned for himself was one with Madeline in it. Madeline at his side, in his bed, the mother of his children. His everything. Not Rose. Not anyone else.

"Rose." He took her wrists in a gentle hold, intending to pry her hands from him as he heard a gasp and caught a sudden flurry of movement in the door, which he'd somehow failed to realize had been opened a crack.

Madeline.

He'd recognize that flash of purple silk anywhere. Purple was one of her favorite colors, for it complemented her chestnut hair and dark-gray eyes perfectly.

His stomach tightened into a knot of dread. How much had she overheard? Where was she fleeing to?

He dropped Rose's wrists as if they were live coals, for they might as well have been. "Listen tae me, for I'll no' say it again. I dinnae love ye any longer, if I ever did. Now that I ken what true love is, I'm persuaded what I felt for ye was more of a youthful infatuation. I love my wife, and I have every intention of being faithful tae her and making her as happy as I'm able every day of my life. Go back tae yer husband, Rose. Dinnae seek me out again."

Her mouth fell open. Likely, he'd shocked her with his blunt speech. But he didn't give a damn. All Lachlan did care about was finding Madeline.

Before it was too late.

Madeline fledfrom the tableau she had unintentionally witnessed, tears burning her eyes, sick to her stomach as she stumbled through the lobby of the hotel, trying not to retch.

The woman Lachlan loved was here in Edinburgh. Not just here, but in their very hotel. In a private room alone with him. Touching him. Telling him she loved him.

She was beautiful. Of course she was flaxen-haired and diminutive, soft-spoken with the same lush Scottish brogue Lachlan possessed. What a couple they had made, his broad shoulders and tremendous height, his red-gold hair the perfect foil to the lustrous curls piled high on her elegant crown.

In comparison, Madeline was a gauche American who was too tall, too brash, too bold, whose dark hair was nondescript and unexceptional. Whose accent was far from lilting. She was the woman he'd married for her fortune, and the woman proclaiming her tender emotions to him in the hotel sitting room was the one he loved.

The very woman he had loved so strongly that he had not touched another woman since she had chosen to marry another man instead of him.

"Your Grace, is something amiss?" the helpful desk clerk, a pleasant young man eager to be of assistance, somewhat in awe of the duke and his American duchess who had spent the last week here in his midst, called as she passed.

She wondered if her emotions were written on her face. Lucy always told her she was far too expressive. That everyone could see plainly what she was thinking. That she could never win at a hand of poker.

Madeline summoned a smile for the clerk's benefit, aware of how painfully tight her cheeks felt. Likely, it was more of a grimace than anything else.

"Nothing is amiss at all, sir," she assured him, sailing past to the stairs beyond that would take her to the rooms she had been keeping with Lachlan.

She didn't want to see anyone. To speak to anyone. She wanted to be alone in the depths of her misery. To retreat to her den like a wounded fox and plan what she might do next. Because one thing was certain. She couldn't remain here.

Not if Lachlan returned to his former love.

She sailed on, taking the steps two at a time, nearly bowling over another guest in her haste to reach the privacy of her room so that she could burst into tears without an audience.

"Forgive me, Yer Grace," said the gentleman she had nearly collided with, bowing in deference.

He knew who she was. But then, of course he did. Everyone knew she was the Duchess of Kenross, half of the pair of wealthy American heiresses who had arrived on the shores of Great Britain. One of the daughters of Mr. William Chartrand, railroad and property magnate.

What he didn't know was that she was the other woman who loved Lachlan Macfie, Duke of Kenross. That her heart had shattered into a thousand tiny shards, like a priceless crystal goblet tossed from the lofty heights of a roof, only to smash on the pavements below.

"The fault is mine," she told the man, inwardly applauding herself for keeping her tears at bay and allowing nary a hint of a quaver into her voice.

She continued on, breathless by the time she reached the floor where her lavish rooms were located. Stifling a sob, she stuffed her key into the lock and burst over the threshold as a wave of tears threatened to overtake her.

Madeline slammed the door at her back and leaned against it for purchase, feeling as if she were a mountaineer climbing a steep slope and that, at any moment, she would slip and fall to her doom. Her heart was beating faster than she could recall it ever beating. Her mouth was drier than a desert. Her stomach was threatening to rebel, and a cold sweat had broken out on her brow.

How had everything been torn asunder with such astounding haste and ease?

The day had begun with promise. She and Lachlan had made love until the early hours of the morning when she had drifted into a dreamless, sated sleep. And she had overslept, one of her many flaws, according to Lucy. Madeline slept soundly. Thunderstorms never woke her. Commotion on the street didn't perturb her. Nothing dragged her from slumber's grip.

And so, she had risen after her husband to find him fully dressed, seeming preoccupied, a tightness in his jaw she hadn't liked. But he had reassured her that he had a small matter of business to attend to, and she had taken him at his word, thinking it must be more ducal nonsense she didn't understand that made him so pensive. She had believed him, of course. He had never given her cause to believe he was anything other than eminently trustworthy.

If she hadn't accidentally brushed against a folded missive as she dressed and sought to pick it up, she likely never would have known where he had truly gone. She certainly wouldn't have guessed. But the moment she had picked up the carefully folded note, she had been curious. The only correspondence Lachlan had been receiving had been from his solicitor and the steward at Kenross Castle. But this note had borne the flowery script of a woman—Madeline had recognized the flourishes of a feminine hand even through the thick paper.

And when she had retrieved it, even with the slightest hint of suspicion and curiosity, she had fully intended to restore it to its former place atop a Louis Quinze table.

But then it had reached her.

Perfume.

Cloying and sweet, like too many flowers in a garden all blooming at once.

No man of business would have perfumed his letter.

Dread clawing at her, she had opened it. And with a sinking heart, she had read it. Or read enough of the letter to comprehend that Lachlan's lost love had discovered he was in Edinburgh. Worse, that she had sent him a note telling him that she'd kept him near to her heart. Even worse, that she had signed the letter ever and fondly yours. But worst of all, that Lachlan had not just kept the missive a secret, he had left the room.

He had kissed Madeline tenderly and told her he had business to attend to. Ye neednae concern yerself with it, he'd reassured her easily in his charming brogue. The matter is a trifling one.

Trifling, indeed.

He'd lied.

Madeline had known it the moment the missive had fluttered from her nerveless fingers, resuming its place on the floor. She had known instantly, too, that he had gone to meet this Rose of his, the woman who had won his heart. Without even a thought for the rest of her toilette, Madeline had madly rushed from the rooms, descending to the lobby where she'd inquired after her husband with as much sangfroid as she had been able to command. Precious little, she had no doubt. The clerk had told her she might find His Grace in one of the private sitting rooms available for the use of guests of particular note.

And like a fool, she'd gone.

Not just gone, but eavesdropped, sick as she opened the door just enough to see the two of them together. Lachlan and his Rose. To overhear her dismissive words.

Ye married her for her dowry. Dinnae pretend otherwise.

A bitter laugh stole from Madeline's lips, and she clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle it. Rose, Countess of Kelley, as she had signed her name and as it would forever be emblazoned on Madeline's mind, had been quite correct in her assessment. And Madeline had been more than aware of the reason Lachlan had wanted to wed her. He'd made no secret of it.

But still, she'd been so shocked to hear a stranger baldly dismiss their marriage, and particularly after the honeymoon they had shared thus far, that Madeline had failed to hear her husband's response.

What she'd heard instead had been Rose's confession of love.

I never stopped loving ye, she'd said tenderly.

And then, the words that had been a death knell to Madeline.

Grant me a chance to show ye, tae make amends for all the time we've lost.

And instead of denying her, instead of telling her he was a married man, Lachlan had reached for Rose's dainty wrists, taking them in his big hands. And he'd called her by her given name.

Rose, he'd said.

A name Madeline would forever hate. She hadn't been able to bear another second, knowing what would happen next. Knowing that Lachlan wasn't even to blame for his feelings. He'd been clear from the start. He needed Madeline's dowry. He wanted a marriage in name only. He'd surrendered his heart to another.

And Madeline had accepted that, because at the time, she had been too prideful to realize she was already falling in love with him. But not just that, she had needed him as well. Her scheming parents had left her with precious little choice in the matter of her future. She'd had no option but to wed to save herself from her father's draconian decree and whatever dreadful spouse he would have arranged for her. No, she'd thought it better to choose a husband of her own. One she was already drawn to.

One who had been destined from the start to break her heart.

Her vision blurred. Hot tears escaped her eyes, scalding her cheeks. She bit her lip, trying to contain them. To find her composure. But she couldn't. Her misery went marrow-deep. If she had come to Scotland thinking she was falling in love with her husband, the time she had spent with Lachlan in Edinburgh had proven to her without a doubt that she hadn't merely been falling.

She was already in love.

And she loved him so much that she knew, with soul-searing despair, that she would set him free. He could return to the bosom of the woman he loved. Madeline would free him to be with his Rose. The matter of her dowry didn't concern her. She could return to London. To her mother. Or to Paris, if that was where Mother and Lucy were by now.

She was a Chartrand. Madeline would find her way. She hadn't any other choice, had she? Her other option was to remain here in Scotland as Lachlan's wife while he fell into the arms of another woman. And she knew instinctively that she wouldn't survive it. No, she had to go. To flee as fast and as far as she was able. It was the only solution for everyone involved.

Suddenly, the door rattled at her back.

Someone was trying to enter, but she must have locked it upon her return without realizing, so caught up in her anguish. Likely, it was one of the porters or perhaps even one of the maids, intent upon serving the Duke and Duchess of Kenross.

She swiped at her tears, taking a deep breath as she struggled to compose herself. "I don't require any assistance, thank you."

"Madeline."

It was Lachlan's voice, low, velvet-soft, and far too beloved.

She closed her eyes. "I'm indisposed."

A lie. She would have felt remorse for it, but he'd clearly felt none at deceiving her earlier so that he could meet his love.

"Madeline, I need tae speak with ye."

The door gave another shudder.

"I don't want to speak at the moment," she said with as much calm as she could manage.

"I saw ye at the door," he said, with grim meaning. "I know what ye think ye heard. But I can explain. Let me in, lass."

Lass.

She loved when he called her that.

Once, it had caused her great consternation. She'd thought him irritatingly familiar. How quickly her opinion of him had altered. How easily she'd fallen beneath his charming spell.

"No," she said, steeling herself against his appeal.

The door shook with greater force. "I'll break it down. Is that what ye wish?"

"I wish to be left alone."

"Stand back." The door rattled again. "I'm going tae kick the bluidy bugger in."

"Lachlan."

Surely he wouldn't? This was a fine hotel. The finest in Edinburgh. He was a duke. He?—

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The door was jumping now. Oh dear Lord.

"Move away, lass," he warned.

Finally comprehending that he did indeed intend to do as he had promised, Madeline fled across the room.

"Have ye moved?"

"Yes," she called.

It was almost comical. She ought to have simply unlocked the door for him. But her mind was scattered. She wasn't thinking properly.

Crack.

Crash.

Thwack.

The door opened with a violent burst, bouncing off the plaster wall behind it.

And there her husband stood like an avenging Scots warrior of old, wild-eyed, tall, muscled, and unfairly handsome. She had to swallow hard against a rush of longing and ball her hands into fists at her sides, digging her nails into her palms to distract herself from the tears that threatened to fall.

"I'm sorry, mo gràidh. Can ye forgive me?" He was breathing heavily, his broad chest rising and falling, his blue eyes on her. Searing. Asking.

"You lied to me," she said.

"Aye, I did by keeping who I intended tae meet from ye." He crossed the threshold, closing the damaged door behind him, and started across the room to her. "I should have been honest. I was shocked tae receive a note from her. I wasnae thinking clearly."

He stopped before her, towering over Madeline, more intense than she had ever seen him, nary a trace of the humor so often sparkling in his eyes and tipping up the corners of his sensual lips.

"Of course you weren't thinking clearly," she forced herself to say. "The woman you love sent you a letter, wanting to meet you. Naturally, you ran to her."

"Nay." He shook his head, jaw clenched as he scrubbed a hand over it. "I told her I wouldnae meet her, but then she arrived at the hotel and a porter came tae tell me a guest was awaiting me below. I knew I needed tae see her, but I didnae want tae trouble ye with it. I realize that was a mistake."

"It wasn't a mistake." A rush of sadness hit Madeline, so overwhelming that it nearly robbed her of the capacity for speech. She forged on, needing to get the words out. "You were torn between me and the woman you love. But you needn't be. I won't stand in the way of your happiness, Lachlan."

His brow furrowed. "What are ye saying, lass?"

"I'm saying that I overheard what she told you. That she loves you." Madeline stopped and swallowed hard, tamping down the hot rush of tears before continuing. "And I know you love her too. I'll take the train back to York. Perhaps we can have our marriage annulled. I know you need my dowry for your castle?—"

"Ye're leaving me?" he interrupted, looking as shocked as he sounded. "Ye want tae end our marriage?"

She never wanted to leave him. But she loved him too much to stay. Loved him too much to force him to remain trapped in a marriage with her when he loved someone else.

"Yes," she said, her voice breaking on the lone word as tears slipped down her cheeks. "I'm leaving you."

"Nay." He took her hands in his, his grip firm but tender. "Ye're no' leaving me. I won't let ye."

She tried to tug her hands free, but he was stubborn and stronger than she was, and she gave up for the moment. "I have to. I can't stay and watch you with her. It will break me."

"Lass, I dinnae love her, and I verra much doubt she loves me. I dinnae think she kens what love is." He gave her hands a gentle squeeze. "And as for ye taking a train tae York, ye had better secure two tickets. Because ye're no' going anywhere without me."

Madeline blinked furiously, trying to clear the tears from her vision. Lachlan was a beloved blur before her. "You…you don't love her?"

Suddenly, nothing made sense.

"I cannae love her," he said softly. "Because my heart already belongs to someone else."

Her knees threatened to give out. "What do you mean by that, Lachlan?"

The tears had stopped, and she blinked again, his handsome face no longer indistinct but clear. His bright-blue gaze burned into hers.

"Mo gràidh,"he said tenderly. "Ye asked me what it meant before, and I lied tae ye. It doesnae mean wife. It means my love. I love ye, Madeline. I love ye, and I'm the world's biggest arse for no' telling ye until I'm about tae lose ye."

My love.

Mo gràidh.

I love ye.

Madeline was dizzied as the words sank into her mind. Lachlan loved her?

"But that's impossible," she protested weakly.

"On the contrary," he said softly, smiling down at her. "It's very possible. I dinnae ken when it happened. All I do ken is that I was wrong tae think the greatest mistake I could ever make was falling in love. Wrong tae think it was more important tae guard my heart than listen tae it. I love ye more than words can possibly express, lass. I love ye so much, it terrifies me. I love ye, no' anyone else, and if ye leave, I'll follow. I'll follow ye tae New York or London or Paris or wherever ye go. Ye dinnae have tae love me in return. Heaven knows I dinnae deserve it after all this. But please, mo gràidh,please dinnae leave me."

As he finished his fervent declaration, new tears were stinging Madeline's eyes. Not tears of sadness, however. Tears of pure, unadulterated joy welling up inside her.

"Do you mean it?" she asked, blinking again so that she could see his expression.

And all the love reflected there.

For her alone.

"I've never meant anything more, lass." He brought her hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to each one. "Please tell me ye'll forgive me and that you willnae leave me."

He still thought she would leave him? Taking a train anywhere was the furthest notion from her mind.

"Of course I won't leave you. I thought it would be what you wanted after I saw the two of you together."

"I'm a fool." He pulled her into his chest, and she went willingly, burrowing into the solid strength of him. "I'm so sorry I made ye think, even for a moment, that I would choose anyone else over ye. Ye're all I want, lass. All I need. I love ye."

She wrapped her arms around his neck, happiness bursting inside her like the sun reappearing after a terrible storm. "I love you too, Lachlan."

"Ye do?" He stared down at her, looking astounded.

Madeline smiled, overwhelmed with emotion. "I do."

"Ye love me." He was grinning at her now, boyish and unabashed in his joy.

And she was grinning back. "I love you."

She wanted to shout it from the rooftop of the hotel. To let all Edinburgh know. To tell the world. She wanted everyone to know that he was hers, and she was his.

Forever.

Lachlan kissed her, fast and hard. "I'm going tae carry ye across this room tae the bed and make love tae ye, lass."

Warmth pooled between her thighs. "Yes." Briefly, she thought of the damage he'd done to the door, the broken lock. "What will we tell the hotel staff about the door?"

His grin deepened, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "I'll tell them the truth. That I'm a great big, hulking beast and I dinnae know my own strength."

"You are big and strong," she agreed, rising on her toes to press her lips to his in a swift kiss. "But not a beast. Never that."

"I'm glad ye dinnae think so, mo gràidh." He swept her into his arms with ease, as if she weighed no more than a sack of flour.

"How could I?" She caressed his cheek as he made good on his word, carrying her across the room to the bed. "You saved me."

"Nay, lass," he corrected, looking down at her with such raw, naked love that it took her breath away. "It's ye who saved me."

He lowered her to the rumpled bedclothes, and when he flipped up her skirts and began kissing a path of fire along her inner thigh, Madeline decided not to argue the point.

For they'd saved each other, in more ways than one.