She struggled against this—against him. He was a brick wall. Immovable. Overwhelming. She was again reminded why virile, muscular men were so repellent to her. She loathed this sensation of being somehow fragile and easily broken. Prey for a man who could use her and crush her if she left herself vulnerable. Her mother’s face flashed before her eyes, older and more weary than her actual years, broken and defeated.

Not me. Never me.

“Hold still,” he bit out.

She ceased her struggles and glared up at him. A lock of hair fell into her face, waving like a flag in the wind before her eyes. She blew at it and shook her head, trying to force it back.

His gaze scanned her, devouring her face, missing nothing. “What are you so afraid of?”

The question landed like a perfectly targeted arrow, quivering throughout her body.

“N-nothing,” she quickly denied.

“You’re lying. I see the fear in your eyes.”

“Perhaps your unwanted attentions alarm me.”

“I alarm you, but not because you don’t want me.”

“Your arrogance knows no bounds.”

“Are you afraid of getting hurt? Is that it?”

Was she that transparent then? Blast! She clamped her lips shut, determined to say nothing else that confirmed his suspicions.

His eyes narrowed on her face. A muscle feathered tensely across his tight jaw. He looked dangerous and she was reminded how little she knew of this man.

Mentally, she recounted what little she knew of him that she could call fact. He hailed from the Highlands. He possessed a crumbling castle. He used a knife to cut through the stays of ladies’ gowns.

And she trembled with desire in his arms. Fact.

“Has someone hurt you before?” he pressed, his eyes darkening.

Her eyes widened. He thought someone had ravished her?

“No,” she quickly assured, mortification sweeping over her. She hadn’t lived the perfect childhood, but no one had hurt her in that manner. “Nothing like that.”

“But there is something that puts fear in your eyes.”

She silently cursed her slip and the implication that she was frightened. “What you call fear is modesty and good sense.” She moistened her lips. “I’ve set my cap for the earl and ask that you respect that.”

“Why? Is it his title? I know a Scottish title isn’t the same as an English one, but a life as my wife would—”

“Wife?” she echoed. He’d only spoken of courtship. This was the first time he had dared utter the word wife. And blast her defiant heart if she didn’t experience a small thrill . . . if her blood didn’t rush just a little bit faster in her veins.

“I’ve a mind to wed you.” His deep voice shot through her like a bolt of lightning. His eyes studied her intently, watching her reaction.

Masculinity rippled off him in waves. Altogether he presented no minor temptation. The same trap her mother and countless other women had fallen into yawned before her. Would she be strong enough to resist?

He stared at her for a long moment, his hands flexing over her arms. “I came to London to find a wife.”

“An heiress,” she quickly corrected.

Something shuttered over his eyes. He didn’t like the reminder, which was why she’d made it, determined to wedge a wall between them. He didn’t want her. Not fully, at any rate. If she weren’t in possession of a dowry, he wouldn’t be discussing marriage with her.

“Very well. I came to Town looking for an heiress. You’re the first one I’ve met who so much as piques my interest.” He swallowed, the cords of his throat working. “I’ll have you, Miss Hadley.”

I’ll have you.

Her skin prickled. As though she were a possession to be claimed. A female to be conquered and crushed beneath his will. Not just once but every day of her life. The words were just what she needed to hear to regain her senses and shake free of her mother’s curse.

“You can’t have me.” No man ever would. Even as she worked to fulfill her arrangement with her stepfather, she would still see to that.

“Why?” he asked, his voice maddeningly calm. “Give me one reason.”

Her mind searched, grasping for anything but the truth. She wouldn’t confide that to him and risk him empathizing with her plight. His wanting her was bad enough. She didn’t need for him to like her. Then he might pursue her with more fervor than he already was. “I can’t do that to Lord Thrumgoodie.”

His look turned skeptical. “Oh, you care about him that much?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t want to crush him.” She bit her lip at the lie. “He means a great deal to me.”

He snorted. “You can come up with a better excuse than that.” His lips quirked in a half smile. “Come now. A blood oath, is that it? He’s holding your kitten hostage?”

She started to smile and then caught herself. “Just take my words to heart. You and I can never be.” Wrenching free, she hastened away, experiencing the strongest sense of déjà vu. She was fleeing him again, the weight of his stare heavy on her back. She hardened her heart and didn’t stop. Didn’t look back.

If she must, she would keep repeating this moment. However many times necessary, she would run. She’d never stop running from him.

Eventually he’d give up. He had too much pride to chase her forever. And she wouldn’t be free that long anyway. If all went her way she’d soon be married to Thrumgoodie. A bitter taste rose in her throat that she fought to swallow. McKinney needed money. He needed an heiress. He’d have to find that in another female.

Logan watched her flee with a curse hot on his lips. That hadn’t gone as he’d hoped. He dragged a hand through his hair. A boy of ten and five could have handled that with more finesse.

He’d never fumbled with the fairer sex before. Cleopatra Hadley was the first. He clasped his fingers behind his neck and looked up at the ceiling. Like Antony, he intended to win her heart, too. Hopefully, it wouldn’t take him as long though—nor would it end as tragically.

His every instinct told him the best way to go about winning her was to seduce her. Or perhaps his mounting desire for her pushed him in that direction. Either way, it was a strategy he would very much enjoy employing.

Feeling refreshed with purpose, he strolled from the gallery, hands locked behind his back, whistling an old ballad from home under his breath.

He wouldn’t be nearly so confident if he weren’t positive she wanted him, too. Only fear held her back. A fear he was going to have to defeat . . . once he figured out what provoked it.

So intent on his next move with the complicated and fascinating Miss Hadley, he never noticed the shadowy figure watching him from the corner of the gallery, or that those eyes glowed with an unholy light, the calculating purpose there unwavering and determined enough to rival his own.

Chapter Ten

Over Cleo’s protests, Jack insisted on entertaining Lord Thrumgoodie and his family. It wasn’t an evening spent with Thrumgoodie that bothered her so much—she’d already determined to increase her efforts with him and garner that proposal she so desperately needed—but rather the prospect of an evening with the others on her father’s list of guests. She supposed she couldn’t get around Hamilton—he was Lord Thrumgoodie’s houseguest after all. But Lord McKinney?

“He is a nobleman,” her father had explained when she’d asked why they must invite him. “And he’s courting Lady Libba. Why should you care one way or another if he attends, Cleo?”

She held her tongue in the face of her father’s inquisitive stare. How could she explain that the man provoked her? That, incredible as it seemed, he wanted to marry her?

She couldn’t. And that’s how she found herself in her father’s drawing room, suffering through a musicale. Normally, she would have enjoyed such a diversion, but not sandwiched between Thrumgoodie and Hamilton. Nor with McKinney’s warm gaze heating her back.

The conversation with her stepfather replayed itself over and over in her head, and she knew she must extend every effort at encouraging Thrumgoodie. Not an easy task with Hamiltion there, interrupting and insinuating himself between them at every turn.

Cleo looked up as Berthe slipped inside the room and motioned for her to step outside. She eagerly rose and murmured her excuses, skirting around Thrumgoodie and Hamilton.

The soprano her father had engaged for the afternoon sang beautifully, but Cleo was not sorry to leave. It was altogether draining, pretending to ignore Hamilton’s scathing looks . . . pretending the sound of Libba fawning over McKinney didn’t nauseate her.

“Berthe?” Her slippers fell silently over the marbled floor as she approached the maid. “What is it?”

Berthe smiled anxiously. “This missive came for you, miss.” She extended the letter toward Cleo. “It’s from your mother. I knew you would want to read it at once.”

Cleo grinned. “You know me well, Berthe.” Clasping the missive to her chest, she hurried into the neighboring library for a private moment, the smell of books and leather comforting.

As often as she wrote home, her mother had only managed a few letters. Cleo hadn’t let it dismay her, well understanding how busy her mother must be—especially without Cleo’s help.

Excitement pumped through her as she settled onto the settee before the fire and tore open the missive. Her mother’s familiar scrawl leapt off the page. As she scanned the parchment, the smile slipped from her face. Her excitement vanished. Cold washed over her, prickling her flesh.

She pressed a hand against her chest, over the sudden painful pounding of her heart.

“No.” She shook her head and read the words again, hoping, praying she’d read them wrong . . . that she misunderstood somehow.

Pain blossomed in her chest and spread throughout her body as the letter fluttered to the ground. She pressed her chest harder, pushing against the tightness at its center. Her breath came fast and hard and she still couldn’t breathe, couldn’t take enough air inside her constricting lungs.

She slid on her side onto the settee, gazing blindly into the crackling flames until they blurred in front of her.

This couldn’t have happened. It didn’t happen. Bess wasn’t gone. She wasn’t dead.

Logan watched the doors, waiting for Cleo’s return. As the minutes ticked by, he began to suspect that she wasn’t coming back.

The soprano finished yet another song. As everyone erupted into applause, Logan excused himself, lifting Libba’s clinging hand from his arm and freeing himself. Libba was a taxing creature, and he could only feel sympathy for the man that married her. Thankfully that would not be him. As soon as he persuaded Cleo to marry him, he could dispense with this farce of a courtship.

Free of the drawing room, he expelled a deep breath. He leaned back against the wall and rubbed his forehead. Hopefully, he’d win over Cleo soon.

A small sniffling sound caught his attention. He looked to the right. The double doors leading to the library were cracked. Firelight spilled out into the corridor. He turned and stepped into the path of light, pushing the doors open wider with the flat of his hand.

Cleo lay curled on the settee, her face buried into a cushion. He approached silently, the sound of his steps deadened on the carpet. Her shoulders shook, heaving with silent sobs. Her hair had fallen partially undone, the rich dark waves falling down her back.

He blinked and looked around him, as though he might find the answer to her present condition somewhere within the room. She always came across so composed, prickly and invulnerable. The sight of her weeping left an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. He’d been around females before. All his life. His sister, even his mother, the strongest woman he’d ever known . . . all had cried on his shoulder at one time or another.