Chapter 4

Lachlan Macfie had kissed her, and then he had swooned.

He'd kissed her well.

Kissed her too well.

Fartoo well.

And Madeline? She had liked it.

She frowned from her vigil at the window in her guest bedchamber where she had retreated after she and Lachlan had returned to the manor house. They'd been sodden, dirty, and, in his case, bloodied. Back at the castle, he had dropped like a tremendous tree being felled in a forest after he'd seen the blood from the gash in his head. She had roused him, cleaned his wound with a handkerchief, and together, they had walked away from the castle ruins. They'd arrived to a household in uproar, bedraggled and injured but alive.

"Something is bothering you," her sister, Lucy, said in that knowing way she had, startling Madeline from her ruminations. "Were you hurt in the wall collapse after all?"

Madeline had been bustled off to her room, and Lachlan had departed for his. A great, lumbering Scot who seemed bemused and perhaps even a trifle concussed, holding a bloodied scrap of linen to his head.

He'd saved her.

Saved her with his big, powerful body, placing himself at great peril so that she would escape unscathed. And afterward, when they'd emerged from the collapsing castle to the daylight beyond, he had lowered his mouth to hers and taken her lips in a way no man before him ever had.

"He kissed me," she blurted, her eyes trained on the bucolic landscape beyond the rain-spattered windowpanes.

But he hadn't just kissed her. He had moved her. He had made her feel things. Unexpected things. Things she didn't want to feel, particularly in relation to a fortune-hunting Scotsman who wanted to marry her for her dowry.

Had she learned nothing from Charles? It would seem painfully apparent that she hadn't.

"He kissed you?" Lucy repeated.

Madeline sighed and turned away from the window to pin her sister with a glare. "Did I say that?"

Lucy's brows were arched, and she crossed her arms over her bodice in a defiant pose that suggested she wouldn't settle for anything less than a full confession. "I'm afraid you did."

"I should have kept it to myself," she grumbled.

Her sister grinned unrepentantly. "If you had, then I wouldn't be able to tease you about it."

Sisters.Madeline supposed it was only fair that Lucy tease her, for she couldn't lie. She'd certainly done more than her fair share of prodding Lucy about her midnight tryst with the Earl of Rexingham, whom she'd mistaken for a footman. The interlude had ultimately led to Lucy and Rexingham's engagement, much to her sister's dismay, as Lucy and Madeline had both been hoping to avoid their mother's matrimonial aspirations for them.

And now, it seemed as if they were about to find themselves trapped. Sooner rather than later for Lucy.

Madeline huffed a sigh. "Precisely."

"I might remind you that you were only too pleased to crow about my impending nuptials with Lord Rexingham," her sister said tartly.

"Of course I was." Madeline winced. "And now I'm paying the price, aren't I?"

"Well, you would be paying the price if you were marrying Mr. Macfie."

The memory of his mouth, hot and hungry and demanding, rose to taunt her.

"Thankfully, I'm not," she added hastily.

"Of course you aren't marrying him," Lucy said agreeably, giving her a sisterly look that said far more than her words had.

Madeline's eyes narrowed. "What?"

"You're flushing."

Her cheeks were annoyingly hot.

She fanned herself with her hand in absence of a proper implement. "It's warm in here."

"It's actually a bit chilly," Lucy countered.

The day had become cool after the rain and thunderstorms had passed through. But never mind that.

She seized at another excuse. "I took a very warm bath."

"If you say so, darling."

It was Madeline's turn to cross her arms. "What are you implying?"

"It is only that I know you, dear. I haven't seen you this flustered over a man since?—"

"Don't say his name," Madeline interrupted, grimacing. "I prefer to call him Beelzebub."

Charles, that spawn of the devil. That devious, handsome bastard. That soulless confidence man who had almost proven her ruin.

"Beelzebub, then," Lucy finished, her tone agreeable. "It's far too nice a name for him, you know."

"It is." Madeline sighed again, even more agitated than she'd been at her return to the house. Not because of those kisses or that brawny, too-handsome Scot, she told herself firmly. "Did I tell you that he's a duke?" she added before she could think twice about it.

"Beelzebub?" Lucky asked, wrinkling her nose. "I thought he was American. How can that be? Are you sure he isn't lying, dearest? You know that if he's speaking, chances are, it's a prevarication. Did he send you a letter, trying to win you back with more of his scheming lies?"

"Not Beelzebub. Mr. Macfie," she elaborated. "He's apparently just inherited a Scottish dukedom and a decrepit castle. He's looking for a wife. Don't tell Mother."

"I won't tell her. She'll be determined to see the two of you wed. She'd have the duke she's been vying for and an earl as well. It's her dream come to life." She paused, frowning. "How do you know Mr. Macfie is looking for a wife?"

"Because he asked me to marry him."

Lucy's eyes went wide. "Was this before or after he saved your life and kissed you?"

Madeline plucked at her skirts, frowning. "Before. Does it matter? I've told him I won't marry him, in no uncertain terms. He's looking for a marriage in name only, and I'm not looking for a marriage at all."

"But Mother and Father are pressing you to wed now that I've become betrothed to Rexingham," Lucy said, frowning thoughtfully.

The reminder of her conversation with their mother filled Madeline with apprehension. "I've been ordered to choose a husband before you marry the earl, or Father will select one for me."

"Good heavens, he intends to choose someone for you?" Lucy looked horrified at the prospect.

And Madeline knew why. Their father didn't pay much attention to anything that wasn't related to either his businesses or his money. He doled out his affections sparingly to his children, but there was no denying that their brother was his favorite child. Their father would do anything for his only son, who would one day inherit his empire. Lucy and Madeline, however, were relegated to the status of pawns. Their marriages were meant to complement their father's wealth and power. To achieve the ultimate social status their mother had longed for her entire life. She wanted to rule over not just elite New York society, but London as well.

"I hope he is blustering," Madeline said. "I can't truly believe Father would force me into marrying someone of his choosing."

"I can," Lucy said grimly. "Is allowing our father to select your husband a risk you want to take?"

Madeline shook her head, trying not to shudder at the prospect. "Allowing him to choose my future husband would be horrible. He would probably expect me to marry someone just like him."

Someone who buried himself in his own wealth and concerns. Someone who scarcely noticed she existed. No, she couldn't bear it. The future loomed before her, terrifyingly somber and unwanted. If she didn't want her father to choose a husband for her, however, she was going to have to do something about it. To find a potential husband of her own. And her time was already dwindling.

"You're going to have to choose someone yourself, my dear," Lucy said gently, echoing Madeline's own thoughts. "Otherwise, you're consigning yourself to a lifetime of misery."

These were not the words Madeline wanted to hear from her sister, even if Lucy had reached the same conclusion Madeline had. Not now, particularly after those earth-shattering kisses she had shared with Lachlan Macfie. And not after that same man had proposed a cold, heartless union to her.

"I won't marry a man who only wants me for my fortune," she vowed firmly, for she had already suffered enough heartache at Charles's hands.

He had claimed to love her, only to later disclose his true motives. Thankfully, he'd done so before it had been too late and she had bound herself to him inextricably.

But then she thought again of the tall, rugged Scot who had spared her from being crushed beneath the castle wall. He couldn't be more different from Charles. First, he'd been open and honest about what he wanted from her. Second, he wasn't driven by greed; he had seemed concerned with the responsibilities weighing on him as the new duke. He'd mentioned the people depending upon him.

And his kisses…

"Maybe you should give Mr. Macfie a chance," Lucy urged. "You seem rather smitten with him."

"I'm not smitten," she denied instantly. "I'm merely…grateful to him for saving me."

"As you should be. Vivi said the weight of the castle wall would have decimated most men."

Yes, he was delightfully broad and tall, his body hewn of powerful muscle that she couldn't help to not only appreciate, but admire. To say nothing of his pleasantly deep voice that was rich as butter or his Scottish burr that never failed to have an effect upon her.

Lass.

She liked when he called her that.

Heaven help her, what was wrong with her?

"I'm not marrying Lachlan Macfie," she said, as much to herself as to her sister. "Or the Duke of…drat. I still can't recall his title."

"Ask him," Lucy urged her, giving her shoulder a gentle, sisterly pat of reassurance. "I think you should consider him, dearest. Grant him a chance. You may be surprised by what you find."

"As you did with the earl, you mean?" Madeline asked archly.

For they both knew that Lucy had done everything in her power to avoid marriage as well. In the end, it had been yet another clandestine tryst with Rexingham and the untimely arrival of the gossiping Lady Featherstone that had made the decision for her.

"My circumstances are different from yours," Lucy said, her frown returning. "My lack of discretion with the earl left me with no choice. I want better for you. I want you to be able to choose the husband you want for yourself, rather than to allow Mother and Father to browbeat you into a match that will make you miserable."

"Do you think you'll be miserable with the earl?" Madeline asked, searching her sister's gaze, wondering how the two of them had found themselves in this position so suddenly.

Two sisters determined not to marry. One destined to wed an earl in two months and the other forced into finding her future husband in that same amount of time.

"I hope we'll make each other happy," Lucy said, sighing heavily. "But it's you I'm most concerned about at the moment, dearest. The die has already been cast for me. I want you to find contentedness with someone who deserves you. I saw the way Mr. Macfie was looking at you earlier when the two of you returned. And seeing your reaction now…there's something between you. Don't tell me there isn't. I'm your sister, and I can read your face as if it were a book."

Madeline wanted to deny it. But then she thought about those kisses.

"You know it's true," Lucy pressed.

Madeline made an indelicate sound and moved back to the window, vexed with her sister for seeing so much.

For seeing too much.

"I don't think I even like the man," she murmured without conviction.

Lucy laughed. "Trust me, dearest. Liking a man doesn't necessarily have a thing to do with enjoying his kisses."

She slanted another glare in her sister's direction. "Who said I enjoyed them?"

"Your face did, darling."

Madeline surrendered to her inner childishness and stuck out her tongue at her sister. It was hardly an appropriate response, but in her current state, it was all she could manage.

Lucy laughed delightedly. "If I had a pie, I'd throw it at you."

Their food fights in the massive nursery of their Upper Fifth Avenue mansion were the stuff of legends. Until their mother had caught wind of their antics and put an end to all their fun.

"If I had an aspic, I'd toss it back," Madeline countered. "They looked the silliest when they sailed through the air before landing with the most satisfying splat."

"Poor Nurse." Lucy shook her head. "We were truly hellions, were we not?"

"We were dreadful children," Madeline agreed, thinking back on their childhood fondly.

She and Lucy had always been close. And suddenly, reality struck rather like the lightning that had hit the tree. When Lucy married the earl, she would be remaining here in England. If Madeline returned home to New York City with Mother, she'd find herself tied up in a loveless high-society marriage. She'd scarcely ever see Lucy.

"What is it, darling?" Lucy asked, her brow furrowed.

She was remarkably adept at understanding Madeline's thoughts. Sometimes before Madeline comprehended them herself.

A wave of melancholy washed over her. "When you marry Rexingham, you'll be staying here in England. But if I don't find a husband before the next two months are at an end, I'll be forced to go back home and marry someone of Father's choosing. We'll never see each other."

Lucy sobered as the undeniable truth of their circumstances settled upon her as well. "We can write each other letters."

"Letters!" Madeline shook her head, staving off a rush of tears. "Letters can never compare. I won't have anyone in New York City without you."

"You'll have Mother and Father and Duncan," Lucy offered, the tone of her voice suggesting she knew what a lackluster offering the three of them were.

Not that their brother wasn't a caring brother. He was, to the extent he was capable. Father had cast him in his own mold, and Duncan would be taking the reins of his empire one day, wearing his crown. Duncan knew it.

"They'll never hold a candle to you," Madeline said sadly. "There's no hope for it. I'm going to have to find a husband here in England. I'll marry him and stay here, and one day, our children can throw pies and creams at each other in the nursery, carrying on our family tradition."

Lucy's smile turned wistful. "That would be lovely, wouldn't it? I would adore it if you stayed here with me, dearest. The notion of marrying Rexingham and being left here without you is rather daunting, even with our coterie of friends."

"Our friends," Madeline echoed. "They need us. The Lady's Suffrage Society needs us."

"I need you, sister." Lucy reached for her hand, giving it a loving squeeze. "It's settled. You'll find a husband at once. Why not Mr. Macfie…er, the duke?"

Somehow, they'd come full circle and were back to him.

Lachlan Macfie.

Madeline recalled again the way he'd kissed her. The way she'd felt in his strong arms. So protected and secure. He was devilishly handsome. He'd been honest about his intentions. Which reminded her…

"He wants a marriage in name only, Luce," she said, reverting to the childhood nickname she'd had for her sister. "If I do wed, I think I'd like children."

"A marriage in name only? Not even Rexingham wants that. I'm to be his broodmare for his heir and spare." Lucy paused, frowning. "But Mr. Macfie kissed you, did he not? He couldn't be entirely frigid."

Oh, how he had.

Warmth crept over her cheeks. "It could have been an aberration. An instinctive reaction to the danger we'd just faced."

Lucy raised a brow. "There's only one way to be certain if it was."

"What's that?" Madeline asked, fearing she already knew the answer.

"Kiss him again," Lucy said matter-of-factly. "And then you'll know not just if it was an aberration but also if he's the man you want to marry."

"Wouldyou care to take a walk in the gardens?"

Lachlan blinked at Miss Madeline Chartrand, thinking he'd misheard her. Had the lass just invited him to accompany her somewhere? Mayhap that vicious knock he'd taken to the head was worse than he'd believed.

"A walk," he repeated as she stared up at him, her countenance bearing a pinched expression.

It was how he imagined she might look if she'd accidentally seated herself in a puddle.

"Yes." She smiled brightly, her cheer appearing forced. "A walk, Your Grace."

He looked around quickly to see if anyone had overheard. But everyone else in the great hall, coming and going from the breakfast room, was distracted by conversation or flitting to their next entertainment. The servants moved about with silent precision. No one was watching them.

"I havenae shared the news with most people just yet, lass," he told her quietly.

And he wasn't entirely sure why he hadn't. Years ago, he would have loved nothing better than to inherit a title and all the clout and power it would bring. Rose would have wanted him if he'd been the Duke of Kenross, and he had no doubt about it. But now, the title almost felt like a secret shame he wanted to keep hidden. He didn't feel like the Duke of Kenross. He felt like Lachlan Macfie, just as he'd always been and forever would be.

"Forgive me. I'd forgotten it was a secret," Miss Chartrand was saying. "What is the title again, if you please?"

"Kenross," he said grimly, not liking the way it sounded, the way it felt.

It didn't feel like him.

"Kenross," she repeated.

And damn him, but he did like the way it sounded in Miss Chartrand's crisp, clear American accent. In her sultry voice. Heat curled around him, and he found himself thinking about the way her lush lips had felt beneath his.

"Aye, that's me," he agreed grimly, banishing those unwanted musings. "And tae be certain, lass, ye wish tae take a walk in the gardens?"

"Yes."

"With me?"

She smiled, her eyes suddenly twinkling with suppressed mirth as some of the stiffness fled her posture. "Aye, with ye."

She was mimicking his Scots burr. And he liked that too. Far more than he would have expected.

"Ye might make a passable Scot yet, Miss Chartrand," he told her, keeping a teasing air.

Likely, she wanted to thank him for his efforts in the castle ruins the day before. Nothing more.

"Thank you." She eyed him searchingly, as if he possessed a secret she dearly longed to know. "Some fresh air would be just the thing, don't you think?"

The day beyond the windows was bright and cheerful. Nary a hint of rain.

"As long as we avoid castles, thunderstorms, and grizzly bears," he returned easily.

That earned him a chuckle and a true smile. God, she was breathtakingly lovely, Miss Madeline Chartrand. He wanted to kiss her again. But that was just the head that wasn't atop his shoulders thinking for him.

The lass refused ye, he reminded himself sternly.

Lachlan offered her his arm, and she took it. They stopped to retrieve hats and a wrap for her. And then, together, they moved through the great hall to the door that led to the sprawling Sherborne Manor park.

"I have it on good authority that England hasnae any grizzly bears," she said as they rounded the path and approached the garden maze.

Her continued attempt at a Scottish accent was nothing short of adorable.

He had to tamp down a rising urge to tell her so and cleared his throat instead. "Aye, yer authority is a wise man."

"A wise and brave man." She cast a glance in his direction, her hat casting a shadow over her eyes, rendering their depths more mysterious. "A strong one as well. I'm not sure I thanked you properly for saving me yesterday."

"Yer safety is all the thanks I require, lass," he said.

If anything had happened to her yesterday—nay, it didn't bear contemplation. Miss Chartrand was here on his arm, the sun was shining overhead, and the day promised to be a glorious one. Even if he was a penniless duke without an inkling of how he would restore the estate he'd inherited and care for all the people who would be looking to him.

"If you hadn't chased after me when you did, and if you hadn't taken the brunt of that wall collapsing, I wouldn't be here," she said solemnly. "Thank you."

"Och." He scrubbed at his jaw, uncomfortable with her gratitude. "It's my fault ye went down that corridor. I did what anyone else would've done."

They proceeded along a straight portion of the boxwood maze, effectively swallowed by the large labyrinth, out of sight of their fellow houseguests. She kept up with his long-limbed strides with the same ease that she had before, and he found himself once again admiring her height. She was what his dear mother would have called a Long Meg. He hadn't realized that a woman's height would be so potent an aphrodisiac for him until this moment, this woman. Rose had been petite and fair-haired. Like a wee fairy.

But Madeline Chartrand was tall, gorgeous, chestnut-haired, and delectable. She had the sort of mouth a man couldn't look at without thinking about how it might look wrapped around his cock. Taking him deep.

Ah, damnation. He had to stop this utter madness where she was concerned. He didn't need to be lusting over her. He needed to find a wealthy wife and get his estate in order. But his vow to remain celibate had never been so tested.

"Not everyone would have saved me as you did," Miss Chartrand insisted, blithely unaware of his lewd thoughts. "Your size and your strength combined to make it possible. So I must thank you."

"If you must," he allowed, feeling heat creep up the back of his neck. He didn't deserve her praise. He was allowing his weak, base instinct to take control of him. "Just as I must apologize for what happened after we made our way out of the castle."

The kissing, he meant, unable to bring himself to say the words.

"I liked it," she said softly.

He drew to a halt, sure this time that he'd misconstrued what she'd said. "Lass?"

She faced him on the path, holding his gaze. "The kisses. I liked them."

He swallowed hard. "As did I, lass. Verra much."

More than he should have. More than he'd believed possible after all these years. After Rose had stolen his heart and then trampled on it, leaving him with nothing but his honor and his pride. Both had served him well. Until yesterday.

"I was wondering if we might try it again," Miss Chartrand said.

And Lachlan was so shocked that she could have knocked him onto his arse with nothing more than a feather.

"Try it," he repeated dumbly, even as his cock rose to attention, thickening and straining in his trousers.

"Try kissing," she elaborated, then caught her lower lip in her teeth as if she wasn't certain she should dare to say more.

"Ye want me tae kiss ye?" he asked, his voice husky and low with desire that was suddenly roaring inside him like a blazing fire.

"Yes. I do. That is, if you don't mind. I was thinking that perhaps… I suppose it doesn't matter. Maybe this was a terrible idea after all, and I should?—"

"Lass," he interrupted her sudden stream of words.

She blinked. "Yes?"

"Hush."

His head dipped, and he took her mouth with his. Her lips were as soft and supple as he remembered. The angle was perfection. She was perfection. Sheer, womanly, decadent perfection.

His hands found her waist, drawing her nearer to him. How right it felt, the low sigh she made into his kiss, the way she melted into him, her curves pressing into his hardness, arms twining around his neck. She kissed him back, her lips responding to his with an ardor that made his cock go painfully rigid.

The sweet scent of flowers wrapped around him like Highlands mist. The scent of Miss Chartrand. Madeline. That was her given name. They were certainly beyond formality now. He groaned because he couldn't help himself. He was fast coming undone, and it was all her fault. He had to have another taste of the honeyed warmth of her mouth. She opened for him, her tongue tentatively meeting his.

And everything else ceased to exist.

The manor house presiding over them, their fellow guests, birds flying above and trilling from the trees, the sky and clouds, earth and heaven and hell. There was nothing but Lachlan and the firebrand in his arms. She made a throaty sound. The sound a lover made when she wanted more, her lips seeking his with more determined pressure. She was, he realized, every bit as ravenous for him as he was for her.

The discovery sent his restraint crashing down like the centuries-old castle wall that had threatened to bury them alive. But Lachlan didn't care. He had never been struck by such an urge—to claim, to take, to consume. To ravish her lips and leave his mark on her. Their mouths fused, their tongues glided in sinuous tandem, and their bodies wound together naturally, as if they had been made for this moment of passion in the garden maze.

It was unsettling, the potency of the effect she had on him. But he was helpless to do anything other than feed her kisses. To give her his tongue. To nip her full lower lip until she whimpered and then ease the sting with another kiss. Sweet like a ripened summer berry, that was what she was. Something to be savored. Lachlan's mouth left hers to rain a trail of kisses along the creamy smoothness of her jaw. He inhaled sharply, basking in the scent of woman and roses and lily of the valley. Like a garden in bloom.

A growl tore from him. He felt like a rampaging warrior on the battlefield, emerging victorious from amongst his fallen foes. He felt alive. His hands flexed on her waist, his fingers thwarted by the harsh boning of her corset and layers of silk and undergarments. He longed for bare skin, for curves, for softness.

The brim of her hat was in the way.

So was his.

He reached up, plucking first hers and then his away, not caring where they fell. Better. He kissed her temple, his lips grazing her skin, then her sleek chestnut hair, which had been pulled away from her lovely face and into an elaborate knot of sorts. His hand settled on the small of her back, that natural cove, aligning her more fully with him.

His body was roaring with need the likes of which he hadn't experienced in as long as he could recall. He wanted. God above, how he wanted. He was aflame with need, every part of him yearning to back her into the boxwood hedge behind them, grasp a handful of her skirts, and lift them to her waist. To reach beneath and find the slit in her drawers. To part her folds and see if she was wet for him.

He kissed her throat, openmouthed and desperate. It was as if some door inside him had burst open, and now he couldn't keep all the raging lust within from pouring forth. Even her skin tasted sweet. He ran his tongue along the sensitive cord, gratified when she shivered, her fingers digging into his shoulders as if she feared her knees would give way and she'd fall to the ground if she didn't hold tightly to him.

Suddenly, a bird called out as it passed low overhead, the sound jolting Lachlan back to the present abruptly. He lifted his head, setting Miss Chartrand away from him as if she were a venomous snake poised to strike. Because as dangerous as she was to him—to his sanity, his honor, his celibacy—she may as well have been. He didn't ravish women in gardens. He didn't kiss them until he was breathless and then contemplate lifting their skirts in the midst of a maze where anyone could happen upon them.

His eyes traveled over her, drinking her in. God. She was beautiful. Temptation incarnate, with her chestnut hair coming loose in wavy tendrils around her face, her lips swollen and painted cherry-red from his kisses. Her lashes low over her eyes, her breasts rising and falling with her ragged breaths. And the red blossoming on her throat from where he had kissed and sucked on her delicate skin.

He had done that. He was responsible for the way she looked, rumpled and delicious and overwhelmed by passion. His heart was thundering in his chest, and lust was boiling through him like hot lava. He desired this woman.

Badly.

But then, as if they hadn't just shared a kiss that had singed him into a smoldering pile of ash, she smoothed her skirts calmly, her expression serene.

"That will do." She nodded as if she were at a shop, considering which pattern of fabric she ought to purchase.

For a moment, he struggled to find words. To find a damned language. His wits were beyond addled. Another deep breath, and sanity slowly began restoring itself.

"It will?" His brows crashed together. "What will do, lass?"

"The kisses." A smile curved her pretty lips. "You will do, in fact. I accept your proposal."

"Ye accept?" He was dumbfounded.

What was she talking about? Had he missed a vital part of their conversation thus far? Had her lips beneath his completely ravaged his memory?

She frowned, still smoothing away at the gathered fall of her skirt. "That is, if the offer is still available?"

The offer.

His proposal.

Understanding dawned. Miss Chartrand was speaking of his proposal of marriage. The one she had so summarily dismissed.

"My proposal, ye mean tae say?" he asked, his voice roughened with lust he still had yet to completely quell.

"Yes." She smiled, those full, well-kissed lips drawing his attention again. "Your proposal of marriage. You still need a wife with a fortune, do you not?"

She wanted to marry him? Perhaps she was the one who had taken a blow to the head yesterday and he'd failed to realize it. Christ, she was speaking as if it were a business proposal instead of an offering of marriage. But then, he hadn't been particularly romantic about it when he'd asked for her hand, had he?

"Aye," he managed. "I do still need a bride with a sizable dowry."

"Good." She nodded again. "It seems we're in agreement, then."

"We are?" Lachlan raked a hand through his thick hair, not caring if he left it standing on end.

He didn't think he'd ever been more bemused or befuddled, all at once.

"I find myself in need of a husband after all," she explained. "And I have a fortune. You require a wife who has a fortune. Your kisses are agreeable to me. I needed to be certain, given the possibility you might change your mind about the marriage being in name only."

"I willnae change my mind," he denied swiftly, even as his body suggested otherwise.

The desire flooding his veins and pulsing in his cock said he would have changed his mind right there in the maze, making a liar of him.

"Oh," she said, looking taken aback. Perhaps even insulted. "I suppose that's just as well."

"Why, lass?" He eyed her suspiciously, his masculine pride smarting. "Did ye no' like the kiss? I thought ye said it would do."

"I liked it too much," she said earnestly.

Her admission hit him in the chest with the force of a blow. Because he felt the same way. Some part of him instantly, instinctively knew that he should find a different woman for the role because this one was dangerously capable of causing him pain. And he couldn't help but think that surely there would be an heiress out there who wouldn't nearly bring him to his knees with a few mere kisses, that he should find her and beg her to become his bride instead.

But he didn't do that.

Because he was running out of time. Because he had the weight of an estate and all its people on his shoulders. Because kissing Madeline Chartrand had been the best damned thing to happen to him in what felt like forever.

And because he wanted to kiss her again.

This was a bad idea. A terrible, horrible, no-good idea. He was going to do it anyway.

"Ye'll marry me, then?" he asked stupidly.

Her smile faded, and he mourned its loss. "I will, Your Grace."

"Call me Lachlan," he said gruffly, disliking the formality and reminder of his unwanted title more than he could convey.

"Lachlan," she repeated, and then she held her hand out for him.

Lachlan accepted her hand, and she gave it a firm shake. What a peculiar woman she was. He felt as if he'd just made a deal with the devil.