She swallowed against the sudden lump in her throat. “I can’t leave you.”

Her mother’s clammy hands gripped hers tightly. “You must.”

She shook her head. “I won’t go—”

“You haven’t a choice,” her stepfather intoned, and for the first time she noticed the small bag of coins clutched tightly in his hand. “It’s already been agreed.”

She pointed to the money. “What’s that?”

He waved at her father’s man as if that were explanation enough. And it was.

“You sold me?” she demanded.

Her mother gasped. “It’s not like that. He’s your father!”

“Stop saying that. I’ve never even met the man.”

Roger jostled the bag of coins. “Call it whatever you like, but this will keep us for nigh on a year.”

She stared, unable to form speech as his words sunk in. Her mother, her brothers and sisters . . . none would go without. None would suffer a hungry belly for a year.

Her gaze slid over the room, colliding with several pairs of eyes peering out from beneath blankets. Apparently their voices had woken them. Their pallets were only feet away, but usually they slept through all manner of noise: their mother giving birth, Roger crashing around in one of his drunken binges.

It seemed almost fate that Bess would choose that moment to wake and peer at Cleo with her soulful, too-old eyes. Her mop of brown curls fell into her eyes. She shook the hair back to better see Cleo. Cleo knew that it would be a bear to untangle in the morning. The lump in her throat thickened. She didn’t want to lose Bess to the churchyard. Or any of them.

“I’ll go,” she said numbly, staring at Bess as she spoke. Without blinking, she motioned to the sack of coins Roger clutched and added, “For twice that amount.”

If she was doing this, she would make it count.

Her mother gasped as if she had just asked for the moon, but Cleo didn’t care. If her father wanted her, he would have to pay. It was only a token of what he owed her mother for abandoning her all those years ago.

Their guest stared at her with a steady, unflinching gaze.

Cleo lifted her chin, feeling very much like a businessman negotiating the agreement of a lifetime. She held his stare, determined that he see not the slightest chink in her armor.

With a nod, he reached inside his jacket and withdrew another pouch. He’d come prepared. “Very well.”

Her stepfather made a hissing sound between his teeth and extended his grasping hand. “Gor, Cleo! Aren’t you the cunning minx?”

Her mother beamed, clapping her hands together with happiness. Cleo bent down and hugged her, surprised at the strength in which her mother hugged her back.

“Take care of yourself. Find happiness,” Mama whispered against her hair.

And Cleo heard what she wasn’t saying. Don’t make my mistakes.

She nodded tightly, confident that she’d never let a man drag her through the misery her mother endured.

“Go fetch your things,” Mama instructed.

She scanned the room, her gaze settling on the small faces peering at her from their pallets. She’d miss them, but she was doing this for them. For all of them.

Perhaps if she played her cards right, she could provide for them well into the future. She could land them into proper schools away from this village. Away from their father. Perhaps she could secure a future for them.

“I’m ready,” she announced, not imagining she would have a need for her only other dress. It already bore too many patches to count. There was nothing she needed to bring with her. Again, the forlorn faces of her siblings drew her eye. Not yet at least. “Let us go.”

With a final farewell to her mother, she turned and left the cottage, determined never to set foot inside again.

Chapter Two

Eleven months later . . .

Logan McKinney stormed down the corridor and burst through the drawing-room doors.

His sister blinked up at him from the letter she penned at the dainty rosewood desk. “Feel better?”

“No,” he growled, dropping down onto an equally dainty settee much too small for his frame. The furniture groaned in protest, earning him a frown from Fiona. He glared back.

Nothing could make him feel better. Not if he had to abide another moment in this fog-ridden, overpopulated city. The only thing that made this visit tolerable was spending time with Fiona. She scarcely visited since she’d married. He supposed he understood. As was customary in his family, children soon followed the wedding vows. Three babies in five years made travel to the Highlands difficult.

Fiona set down her quill and pointed to the still shivering drawing-room doors. “Might I remind you that this isn’t McKinney Castle, with its five-hundred-year-old oaken doors?”

“Aye, puny English wood.”

His sister arched a carrot-colored eyebrow. “Might I remind you that I’m English now?”

He waved a broad hand. “Speak not such sacrilege. You’re not English. You’ve simply married an Englishman—a fine man even by that account, I’ll grant you, but an Englishman nonetheless.”

If possible, his sister cocked that eyebrow higher and leveled him a reproving glare.

“Don’t give me that look, Fiona Rosalie,” he said. “I’m still three years yer elder.”

“And I’m married with three children and a fourth on the way. Until you’ve accomplished as much, you’ll not be chiding me, dear brother.”

He sank a little lower in his seat, suddenly feeling like a lad again dressed down by his mother for one of his many boyhood mischiefs. With her snapping amber eyes, Fiona was the very image of Mary McKinney.

“May I remind you,” she continued, her faint brogue thickening, “that you’re here to find a bride? An English bride? Unless you know of any Scottish heiresses?”

Smug wench. She knew there were no Scottish heiresses to fit his pressing financial needs. He snorted. “Reminder unnecessary. You remind me every chance you get.”

She thinned her lips until they practically disappeared and shook her head in disapproval. Holding out her hand, she began counting off on each of her fingers. “Abigail’s come-out is in one year. Josie’s in four. And Simon needs funds for university next year. I’m also certain Niall would like to join him there soon. He is the most scholarly among us, after all . . . and only at the tender age of fourteen. Or did you not wish your brothers to take their studies beyond what the governess can provide?”

Logan scowled. “I’m well aware of the situation. This is what brought me to your doorstep, after all.”

She nodded, sending the carroty sausage curl draped artfully over her shoulder bouncing. Since she’d married, his sister had become quite the fashionable lady. Her husband, the owner of a shipping line, provided her with a beyond-comfortable existence. “Now. Shall you get about the business of finding a dowered bride instead of finding fault with every candidate thrust before you? Honestly, Logan, you’re running out of choices.”

He bit back the retort that burned on his tongue. Every heiress he had met was as appealing as Nan’s day-old porridge. All were vapid girls who pelted him with silly questions about his castle in the Highlands.

Is there a drawbridge? La! And a tower? I always imagined myself a princess in a tower.

If he could find a bride who at least made his pulse race, then he could perhaps overlook a less than scintillating personality. Or simply a lass with something more substantial than feathers in her head would be palatable. If he had to live with the female for the rest of his life, could she not at least possess some aspect he found desirable? Was that asking too much?

Fiona stared at him, waiting, her expression one of forbearance.

Logan gave a terse nod and sighed. His desires bore no significance. He had a duty. And little time in which to perform it. He’d tried to find a bride he wanted. Now he simply must select the bride he needed.

Using her husband’s connections, Fiona had gone out of her way to see he was properly introduced to the ton. He couldn’t blame her for being so vexed with him.

Her features softened. “Logan, perhaps you need to simply adjust your . . .” her nose wrinkled as she grasped for the right word, “expectations?”

He shook his head. His sister married for love. He knew she felt guilty that he could not consider his own heart in the matter of matrimony. But then he’d never been a romantic. When he’d considered marriage—a rarity, to be sure—it had always been with practicality in mind. A female he respected . . . who would be a good mother to their children. He’d never wished for more than that. No point in getting sentimental now.

“What is tonight’s agenda?” he asked, clapping his hands once and forcing an air of efficiency.

He’d suffer marriage to an Englishwoman he felt nothing for just as he’d survived everything else in his life. The deaths of his parents and eldest brother. The sudden obligation of finding himself The McKinney, responsible for countless lives.

After all that, he could easily stomach wedding a woman for whom he cared nothing.

With a considering look, Fiona murmured, “You and Alexander are attending the opera with Mr. Hamilton. Alexander bumped into him at his club. They attended school together as boys. Mr. Hamilton was kind enough to invite us to join him for the evening.”

“You’re not joining us?”

“There are only two additional seats.”

Logan eyed her as she patted her barely budding middle. Shrouded beneath her gown, the bulge was beyond notice except when she called attention to it. “Alexander shall merely explain that I was not feeling quite myself, but he decided to bring his delightful brother-in-law instead.”

Delightful. Logan snorted and crossed his long legs. “In the time I’ve been here, members of the ton would hardly agree with your description.”

Fiona sniffed and straightened where she sat—as though the suggestion affronted her. The sunlight filtering into the room lit her hair afire. “Then you shall prove them wrong tonight.”

“All in one night? Indeed? What is so special about tonight that so much shall be accomplished?” he asked suspiciously.

A glint flashed in her eyes and she suddenly took on the air of a general entering battle. “Listen well. The box is already occupied by Mr. Hamilton’s cousin, Lady Libba, and her grandfather, the Earl Thrumgoodie. And there are two other guests, I believe.” She waggled her fingers and shrugged as though those were of no consequence. “Lady Libba is your quarry. She is quite the lauded heiress. “And”—she paused for emphasis—“quite looking for a match.”

“Ah.” He sighed with understanding. “And yet that does not mean she will take a liking to—”

“Oh, Logan. Posh!” Fiona cut him off, waving a hand in his direction. “Be serious, will you?”

He shook his head, mystified.

She gave him a sobering look, motioning to his person. “You’re every girl’s dream. Every inch of you is a feast for the female eye. How many village maids did you bed back home? I can’t recall a time Mama wasn’t on her knees praying for your wretched soul.”

“Er, thank you?” he murmured wryly. “Yet I wouldn’t take it as a certainty that she’ll fall at my feet.”

“Oh, she’ll happily fall. Trust me. They all would . . . if you would only choose one.” Fiona pinned him with her gaze, her amber-hued eyes direct and faintly accusing. “ ’Tis the reason you came here, after all. Let’s not dally about it further.”

He gave her a sharp, two-fingered salute.

She returned her attention to her letter. “I’ll send Alexander’s valet to help attend you this evening. I’ll not have you looking like the barbarian everyone claims.”