Chapter 3

Madeline wasn't dressed for rain or for an impromptu tour of castle ruins. But as the sky opened and began to unleash a fresh deluge around her, she conceded that she hadn't much choice other than to seek shelter in the long-abandoned castle nestled in the woods at Sherborne Manor. Catching her walking gown in both hands as she hastened through the overgrown bailey to the mossed-over walls of the centuries-old edifice, she slipped into the first area she could find that still bore a roof rather than a hole to the sky.

The walls were cold and dank, and the lack of light had her imagining all manner of massive spiders and other dreadful creatures hiding in the shadows, prepared to bite her. A shiver went down her spine as she walked into a wall of cobwebs, the sticky substance in her hair and on her face.

"Damnation," she cursed, frantically scrubbing at her cheek.

She was growing incredibly weary of this house party. It seemed that with each passing day, Madeline's own luck grew worse. With Lucy's imminent marriage to the Earl of Rexingham settled, Mother was not content to plan one daughter's wedding. Oh, no. This morning at breakfast, she had begun placing a great deal of pressure on Madeline to make a match as well.

Not just pressure either. She had issued an ultimatum that had come through telegram directly from Father. Madeline had two months to marry or her father would choose a husband for her himself from amongst the sons of his New York business associates.

To say she'd been horrified at the prospect would have been a vast understatement. Madeline knew those men. They were the sort who wanted a Chartrand on their arm for the social status, wealth, and connection it would bring them. Madeline herself didn't have a thing to do with it. Such a marriage would be every bit as cold as the one Mr. Macfie had proposed. No, she mustn't think of him as Mr. Macfie now, but rather as the Duke of Kilnross. Or was it Glenross?

She'd already forgotten.

Feeling grim, Madeline heaved out a sigh, watching the rain pelt the earth from beyond her sheltered haven. And that was when she heard the undeniable sound of something large moving toward her, the rustle rising above the loud din of rain and clapping thunder overhead. But it wasn't just movement she heard. It was also the menacing sound of something…snarling.

What could it be? A wolf? A bear? Did Yorkshire have bears and wolves? Was it a mountain lion or a deer? What manner of animal would produce such prodigious sound? She had no notion of what mysteries lurked in the wilds of England. Heavens, she didn't even know what lurked in the wilds of her home state, because she scarcely ever left the familiar city that had been her home since birth.

A tremor of trepidation went down Madeline's spine as she held her breath, waiting for the creature to venture into her line of sight. Although she had been on a walk with a gathering of many others from the house party, she'd become separated from them when she'd wandered off in the direction of the looming castle ruins in the distance, bored with the niceties and conversations surrounding her. Not even the lure of learning more about the Lady's Suffrage Society had proven sufficient impetus for her to linger. She'd been curiously inspecting the outer walls of the old castle just as a fresh storm had rolled over the horizon, effectively trapping her.

But as far as she knew, she was alone. No one had followed her to the castle, and she had no notion of how much time had passed since she had become separated from the others. It was entirely likely that they had all already returned to the main house, leaving her out here alone. In the storm.

With whatever lumbering beast was growing closer.

Good heavens, was that a growl she heard? What if it was some sort of ravenous wild animal, hell-bent upon tearing her apart and eating her for its dinner? What if it sank its massive teeth into her and she couldn't escape? She had to do something. To protect herself if she was able.

The sounds came nearer, and Madeline looked wildly about for something she might use as a weapon. In the dank shadows, she spied what appeared to be a large branch.

Bending, she seized it in her hands and swung around, heart beating fast and hard as the steps crunched ever nearer. Pressing herself against the wall, she held her breath, waiting until the right moment. Just as the footfalls grew close to the moldering interior room where she had taken shelter, she leapt into the doorway, swinging the heavy branch in her hands wildly, employing all the force she could muster.

Her branch connected with an impossibly large, shadowy figure that loomed in the doorway. Dear sweet heavens, it was a bear! Madeline knew a moment of instant relief at the satisfying thud of her branch meeting enemy flesh, along with the startled howl of pain. She'd likely done it at least a little harm, but she wasn't finished yet.

She pulled back the branch a second time, intending to beat the beast into submission if it was the last action she took on this earth. She, Madeline Chartrand of the New York Chartrands, daughter of Mr. William Chartrand, American heiress celebrated in the newspapers for her beauty on both sides of the Atlantic, was not going to become the unwitting supper of some English grizzly bear!

She swung her branch again, but this time, the shadow moved toward her, taking her weapon from her with ease and…fingers.

"Sweet Jesus, woman," complained the looming shadow in a smooth Scottish burr rendered hard around the edges by outrage. "That smarted."

The masculine growl was unmistakable.

Oh dear.

She pressed a hand over her racing heart, her fingers nerveless from her fright. "Mr. Macfie…Your Grace…is that you?"

"Och, of course it's me, lass." He dropped the branch he'd taken from her to the ground, rubbing his shoulder, the light from behind him and her scattered fear making her see him more clearly now. "Who did ye think I was?"

"A grizzly bear."

He laughed, the sound so loud that she gave another start, his levity echoing off the walls of the confined space. "A grizzly bear, ye say?"

And what did he find so amusing?

Madeline bristled. "You scared me half to death, you know."

He chuckled some more, which was vastly irritating to Madeline, because she found the sound of his laughter disturbingly pleasant. After the fear that had just set her teeth on edge and left her dry-mouthed and with her heart pounding, the discovery was a most unwelcome one.

"What is so funny?" she demanded as his laughter continued.

At her expense, she thought peevishly.

"We dinnae have grizzly bears here, lass," he said, humor lacing his rumbly voice.

"You don't?" She glared at him through the darkness as thunder roared overhead in an ominous crack and the rain poured down harder beyond their sheltered alcove.

"Nay, lass." He rubbed at his jaw with one of his large hands. "And I know I'm tall, but I cannae say I've ever been mistaken for a bear before."

"How was I to know what manner of creatures are running wild through your woodland?" she demanded, heat rising to her cheeks.

She felt unutterably foolish.

"Do ye have red-haired bears in America?" he asked, his voice softened with a teasing air.

"I wouldn't think so." She huffed out a sigh of irritation. "What are you doing here in the castle ruins? I thought I was alone."

"Actually, ye thought ye were with a bear."

His amusement made something inside her snap. Perhaps it was the vast changes unfolding in her life—her sister suddenly about to marry, so many of her friends getting engaged. Perhaps it was her mother's stubborn insistence that she wed, or her father's unsettling demand that she marry in the next two months or find herself forever bound to a man of his choosing. Or perhaps it was even her own unexpected, nettling reaction to the overgrown Scot who found her ignorance so dratted amusing.

Whatever the cause, Madeline needed time. Space. Needed to be alone.

So she whirled about without further word or thought and stalked deeper into the darkness of the castle, finding a narrow passage that led her away from the chamber where she'd sought temporary shelter from the storm.

"Lass?"

His voice trailed after her, still tinged with amusement. But Madeline ignored him. It didn't matter that it was dark and she could scarcely find her way. Or that more cobwebs plastered themselves to her hair and face. Or that the ceiling was sloped and dreadfully low overhead. She was escaping his maddening presence, his laughter, his…

Him, damn it. She was escaping him.

"Lass, dinnae go any farther," he cautioned. "The castle likely isnae stable enough."

"It's been here for centuries, has it not?" she asked dismissively over her shoulder. "I'll be fine. And besides, I distinctly recall telling you to refrain from calling me lass."

"Miss Chartrand, then," he corrected, the sound of his booted footfalls crunching after her, exasperation now lacing his Scots burr. "Come back, if ye please. 'Tis dangerous."

The only thing that was truly dangerous was lingering in his overly large presence a moment longer than necessary. Because she liked the way her name sounded when he said it with his deep, velvety voice. Because she liked the way his massive height, broad chest, and masculine strength made her feel small and dainty in a way other gentlemen of her acquaintance never had.

Because some part of her was desperately attracted to Lachlan Macfie, despite the fact that he had spilled champagne on her gown, trampled her train, offered her a marriage in name only, and now laughed at her lack of knowledge when it came to England's fauna. Truly, how was she to have known they didn't have grizzly bears here?

The sheer daring of the man! He was maddening. Irritating. Infuriating.

Handsome.

No, not that. Lengthening her strides, she stomped forward, allowing her displeasure free rein.

"Miss Chartrand, wait."

He was still following her, curse the man. Madeline went faster. Deeper into the darkness. Following the narrow, dank-smelling passageway despite her own misgivings about the lack of light and the wisdom of traveling into the heart of the dilapidated castle. Grimly, she wondered if this was what his castle in Scotland looked like. And then she promptly banished the curiosity, foolish as it was.

His ramshackle Scottish castle meant less than nothing to her. She'd never see it. And after this house party, she'd never see him again. Another ominous clap of thunder sounded overhead, followed by a flash of lightning that briefly lit up the passage. Nothing but stone walls and a dirty stone floor. For some reason, she had always imagined that castles were enchanted fortresses, filled with lovely furnishings and handsome knights.

But she'd likely been reading too many novels that swept her away to fanciful settings.

A crack sounded suddenly, loud and just overhead.

"Lass, dinnae go?—"

His worried call was abruptly drowned out by a crashing sound. Everything happened at once. Something struck the outer castle wall with tremendous force. Stones rained overhead. A portentous quiet filled the air as she stood, panicked, not knowing what to do next, the fear that she had so recently chased off rising to prominence once more.

And then, the passageway began to cave in on itself.

Rocks tumbled around her, atop her, darkness truly descending. She screamed and huddled into a ball, throwing her arms over her head.

By God.

The castle was crumbling around Miss Chartrand.

Lachlan didn't think twice. Didn't spare a thought for his own welfare. He charged forward through a hail of raining debris and threw himself atop her cowering form. In the darkness, he managed to find her somehow, the soft, pliant body beneath him trembling with fear. Lightning must have struck a nearby tree, felling it. And the tree had fallen into the castle wall, which had, in turn, collapsed into the passageway.

Everything made sense as stone rained down around him, atop him, burying them. It was as if an avalanche had been unleashed. But instead of snow, it was centuries' worth of castle rock giving way. He grunted beneath the weight and strain of it, pain slicing through him as rocks hammered his back and skull. But through the onslaught, he remained determined and strong, using his massive frame to shelter Miss Chartrand.

Until at last, all was quiet again, save for the rain continuing to fall and the rumble of thunder fading into the distance.

"Lass," he managed to grind out, balanced atop her as if he were a table, on his hands and knees. "Are ye hurt?"

"I'm… No. I don't think so." Her voice was muffled and small.

And the tremor of terror he heard within it made something inside him seize.

"Stay where ye are," he ordered her. "Dinnae move. I'm covered in rocks, but I'll do the best I can tae get us both out of here."

"D-did the wall fall on you?" she asked.

Och. He had what felt like the weight of the entire bloody castle on his back, and she wanted to ask questions.

"We'll talk later, lass," he growled out. "For now, what matters most is seeing ye out of this rubble safely."

And himself too. The challenge would be to find the strength to move without further dislodging the stones surrounding them. He'd be damned if he would send any to fall atop her after managing to protect her from the worst of the collapse.

"Yes," she said, agreeable and meek for the first time since he'd met the stunning American heiress.

He missed her fire.

"Remain still," he reminded her, tamping down a groan at the strain on his aching back. "I'm going tae shift and see if I can get some of these blasted rocks pushed tae the side. Tell me if anything falls on ye or if ye're hurt in any way."

"I can help," she offered, shifting beneath him, her knee connecting with his thigh.

"Dinnae. Move," he ground out sharply.

"O-of course."

Carefully, he shifted the burden of his weight to his left arm, slowly freeing up his right. He hefted a stone, moving it along the pile so that it rolled away from them. Sweat trickled down his brow, running into his eye and making it sting. He blinked it furiously away and carried on, stone by stone, systematically removing the weight that had piled on the right side of him, until his arm trembled from the weight of the rocks yet upon his back.

Grunting, he braced his right palm flat on the stone floor again, then transferred his weight so that he could use his left arm to begin clearing rocks from that side as well. With painstaking concentration and sheer determination, Lachlan hefted them one by one, taking care to make sure that the rubble didn't roll back atop them or further cave in. He was keenly aware of the precariousness of their position. They were still flanked in shadows and darkness, the portion of the castle wall that had crumbled atop them keeping them sheltered from the rain but also keeping them in danger of being buried by a fresh wave of rocks.

Thank God the entire castle wall hadn't given in, or they would have been crushed to death. As it was, they were both in desperate peril of being trapped, severely injured, or worse. Grunting against the twinges of pain in his back, he worked more stones free, carving out a space that enabled him to move while keeping Miss Chartrand safe beneath his big body. For once, his tremendous size had proven a boon.

After what seemed a lifetime of careful, slow movement, of rolling rocks away and making certain to keep them from falling back atop himself or her, Lachlan had freed himself enough that he could move to the side, giving Miss Chartrand a path to safety.

"I'm going tae move tae my right, lass," he told her. "When I tell ye tae go, ye'll need tae move out of here with as much haste as ye can manage. Are ye able tae move?"

"I… Yes," she said. "I believe so."

Her voice still held the undeniable tone of fear.

He hated hearing it. But he had no time to linger on that thought. More rocks gave way from the wall that had partially crumbled, sending another hefty stone rolling down. Lachlan caught the brunt of it with his shoulder. He had to act quickly and get her out of this blasted corridor before the rest of the wall caved in on them both, sealing them in their tomb.

He shifted, creating a safe space, using his body, his weight, and all the muscle he possessed to hold the rocks at bay, giving her access to the corridor that had yet to collapse.

"Go now, lass," he ordered. "Dinnae hesitate."

"But what about you?" she asked, scrambling under him.

"Dinnae worry about me. Just get yerself out of here before one of these rocks crushes yer pretty heid. Tell me when ye're in the main room."

"But—"

"Go," he interrupted roughly, not sure how much longer he could withstand the pressure of the rocks that threatened to crumble around him.

The sound of her scraping and crawling across the stone floor reached him. He waited what felt like an eternity, praying he'd sufficiently freed her so that she could escape, until she finally called to him that she'd made it to the more secure area of the castle. And then carefully, with excruciating torpor, he moved himself. Inch by inch, slowly leveraging his body away from the partially fallen wall. As he went, more rocks caved in, filling the space where Miss Chartrand had been. With the last strength he had, he heaved himself backward, landing with a painful thud on his back as the walls of the corridor shifted and slipped, caving in on each other.

"Mr. Macfie! Your Grace!"

Miss Chartrand was there, hovering over him, her hair having come loose from its confines to trail down over his cheeks, tickling him. Lachlan lay there for a dazed moment, scarcely aware he'd just saved them both from imminent death, his muscles weak and on fire, his back aching from where he had absorbed the blows and the weight of the falling wall.

They were still within the narrow corridor she'd disappeared down in her fit of pique just before the lightning had felled the tree. It wasn't safe.

"We need tae get ourselves out of this corridor, lass," he managed. "It isnae safe."

As if on cue, the rattle of more stones coming loose echoed around them.

"Can you stand?" she asked, desperation in her tone. "Are you injured?"

"I'm spent, is all," he said, heaving himself into a sitting position and then standing, hunched over to keep from hitting his head on the low ceiling. "I used every bit of my strength tae keep those blasted rocks from crushing us both."

"You saved my life."

Her voice bore a hushed reverence steeped in gratitude. Lachlan couldn't lie. He rather liked the sound of it. Liked being the recipient. Liked the notion of the lass who had turned down his marriage proposal yesterday suddenly thinking him her savior.

But now wasn't the time to bask in the glow of her adulation. They had to get their arses out of this damned corridor before the rest of the walls came tumbling down, making a mockery of the disaster they'd just narrowly averted.

"Come, lass," he said, grasping her hand in the shadows and pulling the both of them from the hall.

Just in time.

The roof of the area that had been standing collapsed behind them, almost as if it had been suddenly turned to dust. They scarcely escaped through the door into the outside world, where the sun was attempting to make an appearance from behind the dark gray clouds. It was still raining lightly, but they could see. They had escaped from certain death.

They faced each other, their breathing mutually ragged. Miss Chartrand was missing her hat. Her chignon was partially undone, and her chestnut locks were falling wildly around her face. Her cheeks were covered in dust, and as the drizzle continued to fall, it kissed her cheeks, gently cleansing them of the dirt. He knew he likely looked akin to the grizzly bear she had originally believed him to be. He was probably mussed and dirtied, covered in dust and sweat. But he didn't care. Lachlan had never been happier to see the leaden Yorkshire sky, to feel his heart thudding in his chest.

He stared down at Miss Chartrand in new wonder, a potent surge of relief washing over him like the rain. She was beautiful. And they were alive. Relatively unscathed. But alive. Aye, his back ached, his arms would likely be bruised on the morrow from his endeavors. But they hadn't been crushed to death beneath the weight of the castle walls.

Somehow, they'd survived.

It was a miracle.

Shewas a miracle. A gray-eyed, bedraggled, beautiful, stubborn, sharp-tongued, sultry-lipped American siren. Their hands were still linked. Her fingers tightened on his. Something changed in the air around them, between them. He pulled her into his chest before he could even properly think about the ramifications. With his other hand, he cupped her cheek, using the pad of his thumb to trace her cheekbone, swiping at the raindrops that were clinging to her dewy skin.

And then he did the unthinkable. His head dipped, his mouth sealing over hers. He kissed her. Swiftly, soundly. Chastely at first. Victory over death was roaring through his veins, overwhelming his mind. All he knew was that he needed to celebrate. To revel in their shared survival. He needed her lips.

They were soft and lush and full.

And hot.

Wet from rain.

Forbidden.

He shouldn't be kissing her. This was an aberration. His rudimentary instinct taking command of his faculties and making him do things he ordinarily wouldn't. But then she made a sound from low in her throat. A sound of need, of surrender. And he was lost. He parted her lips with his, kissed her more fully.

Their tangled fingers fell apart, and she wound her arms around his neck. She pressed herself against him, sending the lush give of her curves into his hardness until his cock was somehow throbbing, springing stiff and erect, burrowing into her skirts. He'd never in his life managed to get a cockstand in such circumstances. But then, when had he ever cheated death before?

And when had he ever kissed a woman who responded the way Madeline Chartrand did?

Never.

The answer spurred him on. He was weak; he was the beast she'd believed him to be. He wrapped her in his arms, holding her tightly, and drank from her mouth as if it were his life source. She made another sound, and when she opened for him and his tongue slipped into her mouth, her tongue glided against his in answering welcome.

She tasted sweet, like sugar and tea with a hint of cream. Mysterious. Clean, like rain, and earthy too. He sank his fingers into her hair. It was silken and long and heavy, slightly damp from the rain, and, despite the way she'd just been buried in dusty rubble, still smelled delightfully like roses and fresh soap and woman.

He was lost.

He was found.

Lachlan could kiss this woman forever, and it would never be enough.

Nay, what was he thinking? He couldn't kiss her forever. He shouldn't even be kissing her now. Shouldn't have kissed her at all. She'd turned down his proposal. And he didn't dally with women. He'd been celibate as a monk since Rose had thrown him over. He had no intention of changing that. No intention of allowing a woman to get past his defenses and lay him low ever again.

It was raining.

His prick was harder than marble.

Heaven and hell and all that was holy. This was wrong. What was the matter with him?

Lachlan lifted his head, tearing his mouth from hers, staring down at her, struggling for breath, but for a different reason. One that had less to do with their escape from the collapsing castle walls and far more to do with the woman in his arms.

She looked up at him, eyes glazed with passion, rain still falling all around them, and he couldn't help himself. He lowered his head and took her lips again. Softer this time. With greater care. And she kissed him back as if she were ravenous for him, pressing herself nearer, so that her breasts crushed into his chest, trapping his rampaging cock against the hard boning of her corset. He didn't know if it was lust that was making him dizzy with longing, if it was relief. Or if it was something about Madeline Chartrand that was innately and uniquely capable of making him desperate for her.

But whatever it was, it was potent.

And it was dangerous.

He broke the kiss again, stepping back, extricating himself from her.

"Forgive me, lass," he managed, his voice rough and ragged. "I didnae intend tae take advantage of ye. It was merely my emotions getting the better of me."

"Yes." She inhaled sharply, her shoulders rising and falling, her gaze flitting from his. "Of course that was what it was. And you must forgive me as well. It wasn't my intention to…" She waved a hand, her expression as befuddled as he felt.

This was new.

He took a deep breath himself, willing his cockstand to abate. Hoping his senses would return to him. And yet, nothing changed. He still longed to haul her back into his arms and kiss her breathless.

Or better yet, to take her in his arms and carry her all the way back to Sherborne Manor. To take her to his bedroom, lay her in his bed, and…

He shook his head.

What maggot had found its way into his brain? Clearly, his wits had been addled by those damned rocks. Perhaps he'd been hit by a falling stone and he hadn't realized it. Yes, that was the reason. He was likely concussed.

"Thank you," she said, still sounding breathless. "For saving me."

He flashed her a half grin, trying to calm his runaway ardor. "Think nothing of it, lassie."

"Oh dear." She frowned, catching her lower lip in her teeth and nibbling on it. "You're bleeding."

Aye, that explained it. Thank Christ.

"Where?" he asked, just as he felt a trickle of something warm and wet and decidedly not a raindrop rolling down his temple.

Instinctively, he raised a hand and wiped at it, examining his fingers to discover it was, in fact, blood. Now that he thought upon it, part of his head was aching something fierce, and he felt decidedly dizzier, curse it all.

Because Lachlan Macfie, present Duke of Kenross, rescuer of American heiresses, and proud Scot, was afraid of blood.

His vision went black around the edges.

And then, every blessed thing else went dark too, and the abyss claimed him.