That night Court sat in his chair outside her room with his head against the wall, staring at the hallway ceiling, imagining her only a door away. She would welcome him into her bed the second he entered her room. She wanted him and made no secret of it, and he was humbled that she desired him. He was also amazed he'd stayed away this long….

Waking this afternoon with her soft and trusting in his arms had nearly been his undoing—

"A lot on your mind?" Hugh asked, arriving then with coffee. A convenient break, as if he'd sensed how close Court was to crumbling.

"For certain," he answered as he took a cup.

"You stay outside?" he asked. "All night?" Hugh stared at the door, and Court knew Hugh was wondering what he himself would do if it were his Jane Weyland inside.

"Canna be near her."

Hugh slapped him on the shoulder. "You're a strong-willed man."

No, Hugh. No, I'm really no'.

When Hugh sat down against the wall with his own coffee, Court asked, "Do you ever think about defying it?"

"No. Da's death was warning enough for me." He looked lost in thought, no doubt remembering that day.

Leith MacCarrick, not yet forty years old and strong as an ox. The next morning dead and cold in bed with their inconsolable mother. And he'd known he was going to die. He'd believed. "It's no' your fault, sons. The book will no' be denied. I'm just glad I got tae see the men you'd be." Their mother, mad with grief, tearing at her hair and screaming, "I told you no' to read it! How many times did I tell you? It always wins!"

Yes, she'd forbidden her sons to read it, but she'd gone a step further to protect her husband after she'd failed to burn the book, or bury it, or escape it by casting it out to sea. She'd forbidden them to learn to read Gaelic. The clan cooperated, hoping their beloved chief wouldn't die before he was a glad old man. Everyone helped ensure that not one of them could read or write it.

Hugh and Ethan still couldn't. Court could but had only learned in the last few years, and mainly just for spite. Yet as their mother had said, "It always wins!"

Court had been twelve when it had happened, just old enough to answer her screams by bellowing back, "Then why in the hell did you have three sons?"

She'd answered that they'd tried not to…. At twelve years old, Court mightn't have been old enough to hear that.

"If that was no' enough," Hugh continued, "then Sarah's death convinced me."

No one knew how Ethan's fiancee had died, and since he wouldn't explain anything about her last night, many blamed him, which didn't seem to bother Ethan in the least.

Striving for a casual tone, Court asked, "Ethan's never gotten a child on any lass since I went away, has he?"

He shook his head. "Court, you ken he has no'. And no' from lack of opportunity."

Court exhaled. "Aye, I know." It was hard to believe that before Ethan received the scar on his face he'd been a favorite with the ladies—at least with those outside the clan who knew nothing of the book. Yet he'd not fathered a child. And though Court had worked tirelessly over the last decade and hadn't sown his path by way of skirts as Ethan had, there'd been ample opportunity. But nothing.

Court knew Hugh hadn't either—not that he expected him to since he'd partaken of women sparingly, which was understandable since he was always miserable afterward. Hugh didn't have an eye for the ladies—he had an eye for one lady, the English chit who used to torment him when he was just a young man. "Do you ever see Jane?"

"No' in years." He repeated Court's words, "Canna be near her."

Four summers spent with her and Hugh had never been right. He'd thought her too young for him, but from what Court had been able to discern, she definitely hadn't behaved like it.

After his days with that witch, Hugh would stumble home, hands shaking, out of breath, looking like he'd been beaten dumb. Court remembered one time he'd asked Hugh what was wrong. Hugh had answered in a low, dazed tone, "Jane swimming. In a wet shift. Refused my shirt to cover herself. 'Hugh, darling, 'she said, 'can you see through?'" He'd lurched off as though in pain, but Court had heard him grate, "And, Christ Almighty, I could…"

"I can take over here if you like," Hugh said.

"No. I'll stay."

"You look like hell. When was the last time you slept for more than a couple of hours?"

He shrugged.

"I'm going out of town tomorrow. Something I canna get out of. Be gone about a week or two."

"Weyland got a job for you?"

"Aye."

Court thought Hugh was an intelligent and brave man, but he must be one of those poor bastards who liked to be tortured. How else could he continue to work with Jane's father, continually hearing details about her life?

He rose and gave Court another slap on the shoulder. "I doona have anything to worry about here?"

"No' at all," Court lied, impressed by how convincing he sounded.

Yet it should be true—after all, he was supposed to be strong-willed. So much so that not ten minutes after Hugh left, Court opened her door. Just to check on her….

The hinge creaked.

"MacCarrick?" she whispered.

"Aye, it's me."

He heard her breathe a sigh of relief and his brows drew together. "Did you fear it'd be someone else?"

"No."

"Did you need something?"

"You."

"Besides me."

"Then nothing."

He gritted his teeth.

"I had the most awful nightmare." She was shivering. She'd never had nightmares when he'd stayed with her in the past.

"It's over now," he said, as he retrieved another blanket. At the side of her bed, he shook it open to fall over her, then pulled it to her chin.

When he turned to go, she caught his hand. "Courtland…"

He said nothing. Just stood, tensed.

She used his hand to pull herself to her knees at the edge of the bed. "Don't leave yet. Even if you don't want to touch me, I still don't want you to leave."

He was stunned when she pressed her face to his callused palm, showing him tenderness. "Woman, do you think I doona want to touch you?" He lowered his voice and admitted, "I crave it."

"Then why?"

"Because it will no' only be touching the next time." He wanted her, wanted the pleasure they would have, but the urge to take her, to make her his, was overwhelming. "I'll be just outside." The door represented a barrier. Outside he couldn't hear her soft breaths.

"Or you could sit there." She pointed to a chair that he could've sworn was closer to the bed than it had been before.

"I canna. I'm no' as strong as I'd like to be—"

"Yes, you are," she quickly interrupted, gazing up at him. "You are very strong. And brave."

Her comment made him frown. "I'm wantin' you all the time, and sooner or later I will no' be able to resist. Then there will be consequences."

"Yes, very well."

"Are you feelin' poorly?"

"No, I feel much better now. Ignore the chair, come to bed with me."

"Anna, do you no' ken what I'm saying? I'm no' the man for you. I doona have near the wealth you're used to." Nor the ability to afford his growing addiction to give her everything she wanted.

"I have my own fortune."

"Are you tryin' to insult me?"

She looked down, clearly embarrassed, and he regretted his tone. "I will no' ever be the Castilian gentleman you want. I will always be the rough Scot you think me."

"I want you."

"Why do you continue to argue when you ken what will have to happen if I bed you?" he asked in a deadened tone, struggling to understand her behavior. Then realization came. "You think you can talk me from it. You think we can enjoy ourselves and then you'll be able to walk away. It might have been like that before, but it is no' anymore. You'd be forced to marry me."

"Why do you think I want you in the bed?" she said in exasperation.