Her mouth fell open.

The truth was blindingly clear.

Ewan was rich.

Very rich. He had to be. Her husband rode in a coach with twelve outriders. He was no improvident, penniless Scot along the lines of her father. Everything she knew about Ewan told her that he would not waste his substance on luxuries, unless he had so much that such luxuries were insignificant.

For a moment she just blinked at the pearly morning light. Of course Ewan was a wealthy man. It spoke in every movement he made, in the gleam of his boots, in the casual way in which he trusted Mac to handle everything, in the beauty of his carriages. She’d been blinded by her own fear.

A surge of pure joy washed over her, followed immediately by shame. But she shook the shame away. Just because she married a man who believed in God didn’t mean that she had to start worrying about her soul right and left. It was perfectly sensible to wish to marry a rich man. She’d never thought it greedy while in England, and she wasn’t going to turn into a Puritan just because she married one.

At that moment, Ewan woke up, in the same silent, contained way in which he did everything, moving straight from sleep to wakefulness.

“Tell me about your home,” she demanded.

“And good morning to you,” he said, giving her his lazy smile.

“Your home?” she asked again, batting away a hand that stretched over the bolster and seemed to have improper ideas in mind.

He gave up and rolled over, stretching. “It’s an old pile of stones that’s been the family seat for ages. Luckily for all of us, my great-grandfather was a bad-tempered fellow who stayed put when Prince Charles summoned the clans. Apparently he said that he didn’t give a damn who was on the throne, and a Hanoverian would be as witless as a Stuart.”

“It’s a castle, isn’t it?” Annabel said, knowing the truth.

“Of course,” Ewan said, yawning. “If you wish to make some changes, I’d be happy. No one’s touched the furniture since my mother died, and that’s over twenty years ago now. My grandmother’s not a very domestic type of woman.”

Annabel couldn’t think of a word to say. She was marrying a man who lived in a castle. She couldn’t help it. There was a grin on her face that had nothing to do with virtue, and everything to do with castles.

“Nana likes to be out and about,” Ewan was saying. “She’s not the type to sit around the castle and think about upholstery. She spends most of her day visiting the cottages.”

“The cottages,” Annabel repeated, congratulating herself on remaining so calm.

“Quite a few people live and work on my land. They’re the cottagers and crofters, or so we call them. And Nana runs about interfering with their lives and generally making herself a nuisance, but I believe they like her, for all that. She’s very good at birthing babies.”

Annabel tried to focus her attention on a sweet-faced Scottish grandmother, bringing everyone jars of homemade jelly and strengthening broth. “She sounds like a lovely person,” she said. “You were fortunate to have her when your parents died.”

“I was lucky,” Ewan agreed. “Although I’m not quite certain most people would describe her as lovely. She’s—well. She’s just Nana.”

He swung out of bed. “I’ll go downstairs to bathe and then meet you for breakfast, shall I?” he asked. Ewan was a very clean person: every morning he bathed at the sluice, and in the evening he had a full bath. Annabel liked that. She liked the way his shoulders tapered as he pulled on a clean shirt. And then there was the castle. She was a little afraid of just how happy she was feeling.

So she sat on the edge of the bed, watching as he moved around the room. Quite unusually for a man, he was swiftly putting everything into order, rather than waiting for the servants to do so.

Apparently her fears about this marriage weren’t true. She wasn’t marrying an improvident Scotsman who would gamble away their breakfast. There was—there was nothing to be afraid of when she was with Ewan. It made her feel as if she were light as air, almost as if she couldn’t breathe.

“You look very serious,” he said, pulling on his breeches.

“What are you most afraid of in the world?” she asked.

He turned about with a wry grin. “A serious question…Are you trolling for kisses, so early in the morning?”

She made a face at him.

Now there wasn’t an object out of its place in the room; the only unkempt thing in it was Annabel herself. So she picked up a brush from her side table.

“I’ll do that,” Ewan said, taking it from her. He sat down on the bed and began drawing the brush through her long hair.

“I’m most afraid of losing my soul,” he said a moment later. “ ’Tis easily said, and, I hope, easily prevented. And the fear of it certainly doesn’t keep me up at night.”

“What could cause you to lose your soul?” she asked, frowning at the wall. She was starting to think that perhaps a more thorough education in the church might be helpful in making her way through this marriage.

“Only a terrible fault,” he said, turning her face so he could drop a kiss on her lips. “I shouldn’t lose it for lust, for example.” His eyes lingered on her, and Annabel knew suddenly that it didn’t matter whether she was wearing a high-necked cotton nightgown or even a burlap sack. Ewan always wanted her. He lusted for her.

“Then?” she prompted.

“Oh, something terrible,” he said lightly. “I’m telling you, lass, I don’t worry about it. Perhaps adultery. So the marvelous thing is that by marrying you, I’m saving my immortal soul. I could never sleep with another woman after you.”

“Who’s to say that?” Annabel said, pulling back. “I’ve always thought that adultery was something that gentlemen practiced with some ease. And other types of men as well,” she added.

“Not all gentlemen.” He paused. “Did you think to practice adultery? And that’s a question, Annabel.”

“I thought to marry for practical reasons,” she told him, and only then did she realize that she was going to tell him the truth. “For comfort and ease. I thought to marry a man who desired me, and trade his desire for my security. And then, after I had fulfilled the obligations of marriage, I thought that he would likely turn to others and I might, someday, find pleasure for itself.”

“You actually planned to be adulterous,” he said, seemingly fascinated.

“It wasn’t like that,” she said crossly. “ ’Twas only a practical look at the way people truly behave. Imogen could afford to be romantic, but I never could.”

“Poor love,” he said, and gathered her into his arms. Her arms slipped around his waist as if they had always belonged there. She leaned her head against his chest and listened to the strong thump of his heart. “Obviously you haven’t been spending your time worrying about things as ephemeral as souls. What’s your greatest fear, then?”

“The kisses are piling up,” she murmured.

“Mmmm…tonight,” he said, and she shivered against him with the promise of it. “What does one fear if you don’t believe in the hereafter?” He sounded genuinely curious.