"Don't let him near the bed." Beitris shook a finger at her.

"If he wishes to sleep in the bed, I can sleep in that chair or on the floor."

"I'm happy to hear you plan to be a virtuous lass."

"Of course. I always have been. Why would that change now? And please don't say anything to him. Men will sometimes do the opposite of what someone tells them out of spite." Not that Dirk would. But she didn't want Beitris embarrassing her with talk of what they shouldn't do. She was certain he knew.

But some wanton, rebellious side of her wished he would be very wicked tonight.

***

Hell, what was Dirk going to do now? Spending the night with Isobel, alone in a tiny cottage? How would he survive the night with his sanity intact? Already, arousal simmered just beneath the surface.

Rebbie and Lewis indulged in a dram of whisky as they sat before the fire. Dirk had refused the drink. He needed to keep a clear head. The men's conversation was an annoying murmur that Dirk couldn't pay attention to no matter how hard he tried.

His imaginings of Isobel preparing for bed would not leave his mind. No doubt her maid had already helped her remove her outer clothing. If the cottage was warm and the bed had several blankets, there would be no need to sleep in all her clothes as she had last night. He shut his eyes, picturing her in naught but a linen smock, the undergarment that most all women wore. Though he knew he was mad, he yearned to see her bare and generous curves.

"Laird Rebbinglen, I have a bedchamber for you." Lewis rose to show Rebbie to his room.

"I bid you goodnight." Rebbie sent Dirk a smirking grin as he by-passed him.

Smug bastard. "Goodnight," Dirk muttered.

He rose and paced, knowing he had to go to the tiny cottage or be seen as suspect. Of course, if he truly had been married to her for less than six months, he'd be eager to get her alone. That was the role he must play.

Lewis returned moments later. "I'm certain you're wanting to retire too. As I told your wife, the water in the bucket is fresh, just taken from the well. Should you need anything else, let me know. I hope you sleep well." The man winked as he opened the door.

"I thank you," Dirk forced himself to say, though he was certain he wouldn't sleep at all.

Carrying his bedroll, pack and lantern, he proceeded outside and along a stone walkway. The cottage was only a few dozen feet from the main house.

His wife. Och. What a grand lie. He had never before considered marrying, but when he one day inherited the role of chief of his clan, he would have to marry. 'Twas what the clan expected… that the chief sire an heir as soon as possible. Without doubt, his father—if he was still alive—would arrange a marriage for Dirk. One that would benefit the clan in some way, either by bringing in land and wealth, or new allies. But he could not think on a real marriage now. 'Twas too much to consider. He would focus on one step at a time—getting himself and his party safely to Durness.

He paused before the cottage entrance, his stomach knotting, then tapped a knuckle against the oak door. Moments later, Beitris opened it, gave him a warning glare, and rushed past. Before he could assure her he would not take advantage of her lady, she was gone, returning to the main house.

Upon entering the cottage, he glanced around the tiny room with a warm fire already burning. The lone candle on the mantel revealed Isobel standing by the box bed.

In the flame-light, her face appeared flushed, and her eyes were dark seduction with those long lashes. Arousal rushed through him. Saints! What was he supposed to do now? His instincts urged him to tear off his own clothing and lay her upon the bed while consuming her lush mouth. Nay, he could not follow his errant instincts; that was a certainty.

Depositing his bedroll on the floor and the lantern on the table, he distracted himself by running his gaze over the odd pieces of furniture, but his mind kept drifting back to the one box bed, large enough for two people at least. Most crofting families squeezed as many people into a bed as would fit in winter to stay warm. Sometimes that included the parents and two or three small children. But he would not be sharing a bed with Isobel this night, no matter how cold it was outside.

"You sleep in the bed and I'll take the floor." He lifted his bedroll of blankets.

"That wouldn't be fair." Her husky, sensual voice sent waves of warning and lust through him.

"Of course, 'tis fair. You're a lady." And since we're not really married… "I had no inkling he would do this. I certainly never meant to put you in a compromising position with the ruse about your identity."

"I ken it. You're an honorable man, Dirk MacKay. And I thank you for protecting me."

His face burned at her compliment. Was he blushing? Hell, he never blushed. But Isobel easily knocked him off kilter. She was lovely in the firelight, her midnight eyes bewitching. Her body was well concealed beneath that thick wool blanket she had wrapped about her, but he knew she was curvy in all the right places.

He enjoyed women as much as any man, but this was no time for a tryst… and certainly not with a lass betrothed to another man.

"You must tell me why you gave me such a sharp look when Lewis MacLeod mentioned the rumors about your death," Isobel said.

Dirk frowned. Had he done that? He'd have to guard his expressions more. "No reason." He didn't wish to speak of Maighread now. The fewer people who knew about his situation, the better. Anything he said, Isobel might run and tell his stepmother, being that the witch and Isobel's mother had been fast friends.

"I heard the rumors that you'd died," Isobel said. "But I didn't start them or spread them, if that's what you're imagining."

"Nay. I never thought so."

"Good. So… you were giving me a pointed look for some other reason. What was it?"

He tried to recall what she was talking about. "I was not aware of giving you a pointed look." He dropped his blankets before the hearth, knelt and prodded at the fire with the poker. Likely, he had exhibited a harsh expression, imagining Isobel telling Maighread he knew of her attempts at murdering him.

"Sometimes your lovely sky blue eyes are remarkably expressive," Isobel said. "Other times, you are like a stubborn granite cliff."

Lovely? What the devil? His defiant body responded to her compliment in ways it shouldn't have, a torrent of arousal simmering in his blood. 'Haps she'd drunk too much ale at the meal. He didn't know whether to thank her or disagree.

"I see." Though daft, that was all he could think to say. He had to change the subject and fast. Besides, he needed to learn more of her situation. "I wish you would tell me why Nolan MacLeod broke your finger and bruised your face."

She remained silent for a long moment and he felt her gaze on him. Needing to look into her eyes and compel her to tell him the truth, he set the poker aside, rose from the hearth and faced her. He tried not to stare at her wrapped in that blanket. Likely, she only wore a thin smock beneath. Although he didn't want to imagine her bare body under the delicate garment, he couldn't help himself.

"Very well," she said. "If you must know, he is a brute and a beast. And he tried to… to force himself on me."

"Damnation," Dirk muttered, the heat in his blood turning to fury. "He didn't succeed?"

"Nay."

Still, the bastard should be strung up by the neck. "How did you escape?"