Being Edie, she didn’t seem to care. She lived for her music . . . and he wanted her to live for him.

“You’re mine,” he growled, the words coming out with all the force of jealousy and possession that he felt.

Her eyes widened and then she did an unexpected thing. She put her arms around his neck. She hadn’t touched him voluntarily since the first days of their marriage.

And now . . .

She rose up on her toes and brushed her mouth across his. “Then you are mine, as well,” she breathed, a smile dancing on her lips.

He was at her feet and had been since the moment he saw her. She knew it; hell, the whole world knew it, at least those people who had attended Chatteris’s wedding. Still, there was a trace of uncertainty in her eyes. So Gowan kissed his wife, pouring everything into that kiss: his love, his obsession, his dominance, his uncertainty, his ruthlessness, his . . .

Everything.

Edie murmured something unintelligible and tightened her arms around his neck. Her tongue met his and set his heart pounding at a hectic pace in his chest. Her hair fell from its bun and slid through his fingers as if it was water from the river outside. For a moment he was perfectly happy, as if merely by holding stands of her hair he could keep her close.

Then Edie pulled away. “Oh no!” Her hands flew up a second too late; loops of hair began tumbling down below her shoulders.

“I love your hair,” he said, satisfied with life for the first time all day. “Even in this dark room, it shines like moonlight.”

“You’ve pulled it down again,” she said, wrinkling her nose at him. “I had to sit still for nearly forty-five minutes this morning, and I am not patient when it comes to my toilette.”

“I’m sorry,” Gowan murmured. He captured her mouth again . . . but then he realized dimly that he was trying to impress his seal upon her by kissing her, as if that would make the difference.

It wouldn’t, and he pulled back, his soul filled with disappointment. She made a little sound of protest. He’d kissed her lips until they were cherry red and swollen. Just two weeks ago, he would have caught fire at that sight, imagining her lips caressing his body. But now he couldn’t quite imagine her on her knees before him.

It wouldn’t happen. She wasn’t present enough for that sort of love play. She wasn’t . . .

He was missing her, even though she stood right in front of him, though he wouldn’t be caught dead voicing such a half-assed idea. That ache in his chest? It was idiocy.

“I must talk with you,” he said abruptly.

Edie swallowed, and his heart sank. Some small part of him had hoped that it was all in his head, and that in reality she was perfectly happy with him.

But that tiny convulsive movement in her throat told its own story.

“We’ll have a private dinner in my bedchamber,” he said, rapidly turning over the possibilities. “I’ll banish all the footmen.”

Her eyes clouded. “We can’t, not on Layla’s first night here. Bardolph mentioned that he believes Susannah’s French tutor would be able to teach her music, and he eats with us as well.”

“Tomorrow evening, then.” He couldn’t stay with her now, or he’d make a worse fool of himself by falling on his knees and begging her to love him. “I must return to work. I am late for an appointment.”

Far above them they could hear little squeals of laughter as Edie and Layla explored.

Edie nodded. Her eyes were the green of the wild heart of a Scottish forest. He gave her the key, turned, and walked away.

In that moment, he hated the fact that men waited in his study. He wanted to scoop up his wife and carry her somewhere, to a place where there wasn’t a little sister to make him feel guilty.

He wished he could swing his wife into his arms, set out on the path to the river, and find some curve in the riverbank where they couldn’t be seen. He was rock hard and so lustful that he felt as if desire leaked out of him like mist.

But his instincts had never led him astray. It was best to wait for the morrow. If there was anything Gowan hated, it was going into battle half-cocked.

That was such a bad joke that he didn’t even bother to grin.

Twenty-nine

Edie plodded up the tower steps. Being with Gowan—being married to Gowan—was like finding herself mated to a tornado. A centrifugal force spun her about until she couldn’t think, and she just wanted to cling to him and gaze into his midnight eyes.

And then she would wake up and realize that she was merely another appointment in his life. Not important enough to justify any of his time, it seemed, other than at dinner. She felt a surge of anger, followed hard on by a moment of clarity: neither one of them was willing to give up their time. She guarded her practice hours with as much intentness as he did his working hours.

She continued up the stairs, thinking about that. The first level was completely empty, but just as Gowan had promised, much less dim. The tower had charming mullioned windows, with little diamond panes. She paused for a moment to look out over the river below.

It was hard to imagine the Glaschorrie in full flood; at the moment its lazy current was barely perceptible. Small bubbles rose to the surface, but otherwise it was as flat as a dinner plate.

She heard another burst of laughter and went back to the narrow, uneven steps and kept climbing. She reached another room, large enough for four people at the most, that might have once served as a dining room. Its table was blackened oak but there were no chairs. She looked at its battered surface for a moment and then checked the legs: sure enough, there were water stains.

She climbed higher still and emerged in a bedchamber, identifiable by a wooden bed frame off to the side. Layla was sitting in a rocking chair before the unlit fireplace, pushing off with one toe to keep the chair in constant motion.

Susannah was in her lap. She was curled up, facing away, so that she couldn’t see Edie. Layla put the index finger of her free hand to her lips, and Edie sank onto a stool at the side of the room. Her legs were tired after that climb.

“Probably lots of people have died in the castle,” Susannah was saying sleepily. “Cats, too. Lots of cats. The whole courtyard is probably full of graves, and we walk over them all the time.”

“I think,” Layla said, quite seriously, “that people and cats turn back to the earth after a while. So what you walk over is just earth, Susannah.”

Susannah had her thumb in her mouth so Edie couldn’t understand what she said next.

But Layla said, “I don’t think so. Their souls went up to heaven.”

Then there was silence, but for the creaking of old wood rockers against the stone floor.

After a while, Layla raised her head and said, quite calmly, “She’s mine, Edie.”

“I can see that,” Edie said, feeling a little tug at the heart. “She’s had a hard time of it, hasn’t she?”

“Not particularly. She was warm and fed, and I think the maids were quite nice to her. She’s dramatic because that’s her personality.” Layla smiled faintly. “I know all about that.”

With her penchant for drama, Layla was exactly the right person to bring up Susannah. Of course she was.

“I wish your father were here,” she added. “He will love Susannah.”

Edie wasn’t so sure. Her father turned from merely stiff to downright rigid when it came to improprieties. How would he feel about a child who may or may not be illegitimate, who didn’t seem to have a baptism record?