Highland Rogue, London Miss. Margaret Moore

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      With his hand on the latch, he paused and looked back at her, his expression enigmatic. “Good night, little plum cake.”

      After he was gone, Esme sat on the bed and rubbed her temples. Even for Jamie’s sake, how was she ever going to endure this untenable situation with the most insolent, infuriating man in Britain?

      Who tempted her beyond reason.

      It seemed MacLachlann might be regretting his revelations, for he apparently had no more desire to converse than she did as they continued their journey north to Scotland. Unfortunately, she couldn’t easily ignore him. During the day, when MacLachlann hunched in the corner of the carriage, either asleep or staring moodily out the window, she could fill her mind with legal precedents and possible scenerios that could explain the earl’s financial distress; at night, though, when they stopped at an inn and had to play their roles of husband and wife, it proved more difficult to pretend he wasn’t there.

      At least MacLachlann never again made a fuss about sleeping on the floor. Every night, he went below while she prepared to retire, then returned when she was already in bed and presumably asleep.

      But she only feigned sleep to avoid another confrontation. More than once she’d been rewarded—or cursed—by the sight of MacLachlann’s naked back, all hard muscle and sinew, with a few scars marring his marble-smooth skin. His shoulders and bare arms were likewise muscular, as if he’d spent several years at the oars of a boat. Or boxing. Or fencing.

      The rest of him was equally fit, muscular and well-formed.

      So now during the day she was too often aware of his body beneath his fine new wardrobe, even as she reminded herself that he was still Quintus MacLachlann and they had a job to do that required her utmost attention.

      At last, however, Edinburgh Castle appeared in the distance and the city beneath it came into view. She wasn’t surprised when the carriage went toward the New Town, where all the gentry and aristocracy lived since the Great Flitting at the end of the previous century, when they’d abandoned the older, inner part of the city for fine new houses.

      MacLachlann continued to stare out the window, a deep, disgruntled frown darkening his features. Either he was annoyed with her, or as concerned about their purpose and their ability to achieve their goal as she, or else Edinburgh held no happy memories for him. Given what she’d learned of MacLachlann, she wouldn’t be surprised to discover all three reasons brought that expression to his face.

      The carriage came to a halt outside a large, imposing three-story stone house with a huge fanlight over the door. She’d assumed that the town house of an earl would be a large and fine one; even so, she was not quite prepared for a house as big as a palace, with an abundance of windows and black double doors that gleamed like liquid pitch. No doubt there was an enclosed garden at the back and a coach house and stables off the mews for horses and carriages, too.

      “Home sweet home,” MacLachlann muttered with an absence of anything remotely like joy as the doors of the house opened and a butler appeared on the threshold, looking suitably austere and grave.

      MacLachlann hissed a curse and before she could ask what was the matter, he said, “It’s McSweeney. Been with the family forever.”

      “Do you think he’ll recognize you?” she asked, trying to hide her own dismay at this unforeseen turn of events.

      “If he does, we’ll just have to brazen it out. If he doesn’t, he’ll probably go out of his way to avoid me. He never liked Augustus.

      “And remember to act vapid and stupid,” he added. “I daresay all the servants will be more curious about you than they will be about me.”

      That wasn’t exactly comforting, Esme thought as a liveried footman came out from behind the butler, trotted down the steps and opened the door.

      MacLachlann got out of the coach, then held up his hand to help her down.

      She tried to ignore the warmth of his touch, and his expression that could be encouragement as she stepped onto the pavement.

      “McSweeney, you old dog!” MacLachlann cried as they started up the steps. “I thought you must be dead by now.”

      “As you can see, my lord, I am not,” the butler replied, sounding exactly like an undertaker in a house of bereavement.

      “Nor hired by another family?” MacLachlann asked.

      “I was, until your solicitor inquired about the possibility of my return to Dubhagen House, my lord.”

      “He offered you a pretty penny, too, I don’t doubt. That’s a solicitor for you, always ready to spend a client’s money.”

      Esme’s grip tightened at the insult, but MacLachlann ignored her as they continued into the house.

      MacLachlann glanced over his shoulder as the butler ordered the coachman to drive around to the mews, then whispered with obvious relief and delight, “McSweeney didn’t bat an eye. If we can fool him, we can fool anybody.”

      She was relieved, too, but she couldn’t share his confidence. For one thing, he’d been raised to his role. She had not.

      Nor had she grown up in such opulent surroundings. A round mahogany table with an enormous oriental vase full of roses stood in the center of the marble-tiled foyer, their scent lost amid the stronger odors of beeswax and lemons. Pier glasses hung on sea-green walls decorated with ornate white plaster work.

      Two middle-aged maids holding brooms and dustpans were in the corridor leading to the back of the house, a hall boy with an empty coal scuttle lurked by a door that probably led below stairs, another footman in scarlet livery waited by the door to what was likely the drawing room and three more maids peered down from the landing above, reached by a wide hanging stair.

      “See that our baggage is unpacked at once,” MacLachlann ordered with a casual flick of his hand. “I’ll show her ladyship to her bedroom myself. I trust it’s ready?”

      “Absolutely, my lord,” the butler replied. “Your solicitor has hired a most excellent housekeeper, so all is quite prepared despite the lack of time.”

      MacLachlann turned on the butler with a speed that was shocking. “Are you presuming to criticize me, McSweeney?” he demanded.

      The poor man took a startled step back. “No, my lord. Of course not, my lord.”

      “Good.” MacLachlann addressed Esme as if that confrontation had never happened. “Come along, my dear.”

      He gave her that … that Look. She stiffened, waiting for a kiss. He pulled her close—and squeezed her bottom.

      It took every ounce of self-control Esme possessed not to slap him, especially when she saw the sly look of amusement on his handsome face, and his bright eyes gleaming in a way that sent the blood rushing through her veins.

      Then, without a word or even a look of warning, he scooped her up in his arms and started toward the stairs.

      Appalled and afraid he was going to drop her, Esme threw her arms around his neck. She was going to demand he put her down at once, until she saw the butler’s shocked expression.

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