The skin around his eyes tightened as he rapped the huge ornate knocker. "I can."

Just as she was going to tell him to let her speak for them, one door opened to show a dour-looking butler, whose expression creased into a smile when he saw MacCarrick. "Master Courtland!"

"Erskine, it's good to see you."

As Erskine led them in, Annalia frowned at MacCarrick.

"Is this your home?"

"It's my family's. My home's in Scotland."

"Oh." And precisely why would the mercenary's family home be beautiful and luxurious? "Is yours as nice as this one?"

He gave her an unreadable expression. "Do you like me better now that you know I come from money?"

She poked her chin up. The nerve. She wasn't exactly a pauper. "No, to like you better, I would have had to like you some." Though her answer was dripping disdain, her words seemed to please him.

"Then no, my home is no' near to being this nice."

In the next room hung a large portrait of a woman, clearly the focal point. Annalia inspected it, fascinated with the beautiful redhead. "Who is she?"

"Fiona MacCarrick." He said the words as though reluctant. "My mother."

"She's beautiful."

He nodded tightly, giving her the impression that he wasn't close to her. She lingered, noting the quality of the work. The woman was posed in front of a piano, making Annalia wonder if the family had musical talent. "Does she play?"

"Aye, even a Scottish woman can learn to play the piano."

"MacCarrick! Don't take meaning from innocent questions. Pianos are rare in Andorra and denote wealth. A family would be proud to have one and would pose in front of it whether they played or not."

"Then I apologize."

Still piqued, she muttered, "It's not as if I questioned her posing with a book in her hand," then continued her examination of the home. As he guided her into another spacious area, she recognized that something in the house was…amiss. "Are there any women here?"

"No sisters. I have two older brothers."

"Any wives?"

His expression tightened again. "No wives."

"Your brothers are older than you and still not married? What do you people have against marriage?"

"This subject's ended."

She hated when he said that. How dare he? We are not kissing anymore. We are not touching. We are not talking about this subject. She stopped and refused to follow him, weary of his orders and of his coldness today. "Fine, I shall try to determine answers to my own questions. They won't be as factual or flattering as yours would have been. For instance, I shall say that none of your brothers are married because they are like you—thick-skulled, ill-mannered barbarians. Mal educat Escoces! Rude Scots who couldn't hope to get a mate without a club—"

"Appears you've brought a guest, Court." A deep voice interrupted her.

She whirled around, then craned her neck up. And this would be one of the brothers she'd just been insulting. Yes, his brother was very like him, with the same black hair, the same dark watchful eyes.

"Aye, Hugh, this is Lady Annalia Llorente. She comes from Andorra and has no' yet been convinced of all my charms. Annalia, this is my thick-skulled brother, Hugh MacCarrick."

If he intended to embarrass her, he'd have to do better than that. She was a master at social situations, even uncomfortable ones. She glided over to his brother and held out her hand, smiling demurely. He took it and kissed it perfectly. "Delighted."

She turned to MacCarrick. "No, I would say he is nothing like you." When she smiled back at the brother, she saw the tight lines around the man's mouth relax for a moment and suspected that was the only indicator of amusement you'd see from him. She'd wager her Limoges collection that this one hadn't smiled in years. What an odd, solemn family.

She wondered if she'd imagined the subtle easing in his expression, because now he was all sternness. "We'll talk later?" the brother asked MacCarrick.

"Aye," he answered with a grim nod. "Later."

If she were fanciful, she'd swear there was some undercurrent between them, some unspoken…warning?

After their intense exchange, she and MacCarrick continued on. The rest of the house was just as lovely and spacious, the room she was to stay in stylish. MacCarrick had grown up amidst wealth. So what had driven him to become a mercenary? And why would his family tolerate such an occupation, even for the youngest son?

She'd eaten, she'd bathed, and now that she'd met him downstairs in the parlor, she was pacing, trudging back and forth across the plush carpets. Court sank back in a chair, knowing this wasn't a good sign.

"I need to go shopping," she informed him as she passed his chair. "For clothes."

"I just bought you clothing in the village."

"You know I can't go like that here."

He stared at her skirts swishing too high above her ankles and knew she was right. He also knew she wasn't leaving this house. "It's too crowded and too dangerous."

"Surely the assassins who want to murder me haven't caught up with us yet. And I'm not asking you to pay for them. I could finally sell a piece of jewelry."

"The hell you will." Did she think he fought her on this because of money? Did she believe she needed to sell her irreplaceable jewelry because he was unable to clothe her? "I'm no' letting you sell your things."

"Then I could go to my English friend's home and borrow from her."

He'd read some letters from that one, too. How many times could she drop that she was fifteenth from the throne? The idea of Anna asking for anything from that snob made his hackles rise—and his pride suffer.

While Anna was with him, it was his due to provide her with things she needed. He gave himself an inward shake when he realized that if she were his, he'd go into hock making her happy. "Forget it. I'm trying to protect you," he snapped. And hock it would be. He didn't have wealth like she saw here. This house was to be Ethan's. His eldest brother was laird and chief of the clan, and the title, the estates, and the family money were all his. On the opposite end of the spectrum, Court had returned to England with no income, no contracts, and no crew.

"Please let me send a note to her—"

"I said no."

She changed tactics. "I appreciate all you've done for me, MacCarrick, but I need to know that if I wanted to walk out that door and have my friends help me, I could."

"Damn it, Anna, no you could no'." He stood, catching her arm. "The only way you're leaving this house is when your brother comes for you. I estimate a week or two, so you'll just have to put up with me until then."

"Why? Our bargain doesn't seem to count anymore." She lowered her voice. "You said we can't be lovers. What exactly am I to you?"

What did she expect him to say? Did she want him to admit he desired more from her, when she only wanted to repeat the night before? "I made you a promise—"

"I'm a promise to keep?" she asked, giving him an expression as though she were disappointed in him.

"Aye. No." He made some growling noise. "Christ, I doona know. Then what am I to you?"

"Honestly, I don't know either." She twined her fingers in front of her. "But you won't let me find out."

When she turned for the stairs, he sank back to his chair again, dumbstruck by their exchange. Could she want more from him? And what did it matter since he couldn't give it?…

"A word, Court?" Hugh intoned from the doorway. He turned for the study, expecting Court to follow.

How bloody much had Hugh heard? Court stood and pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, walking without energy toward the study, but when he passed Erskine on the way, Court said, "Find a dressmaker or seamstress who will come here. A good one."