"I don't want to sleep with you!" She rose to her knees, haphazardly marching on them to the edge. "This, MacCarrick, is my fifth condition."

He caught her makeshift nightgown in his fist, reeling her back. At her mutinous look, he took her in his arms once more to shove her under the covers.

When she shimmied to the side of the bed, tugging against his hold, he said, "Stay, and I'll buy you new clothes tomorrow." He needed to anyway. There was no way they'd go about in public with her dressed shabbily compared to him. Already people were going to wonder what a woman like her was doing with him. Money would be the natural conclusion, but he'd be damned if he handed others that answer.

She froze, shoulders tensed. "But not…notevery night, MacCarrick?"

She sounded so horrified at the proposition of sharing a bed that he said, "Every…single…sodding one."

"I want this sacrifice remembered," she muttered, hitting her pillow before lying down on the far edge of the bed.

Sacrifice?Good, she wouldn't prove to be a clinger. He was pleased. Of course.

But an hour later, once she'd fallen asleep, he remained awake, watching her. He found two things interesting about how she slept: silently, and curled up with her knees pulled tight to her chest—the position people took when receiving blows they couldn't defend against.

Ethan understood that her harsh life had made her guarded, but now he wondered specifically what had happened to her once she'd left England. He hadn't known she'd been in a fire, and by the look of the scar, she'd been young when she'd received the injury. She was obviously resilient, even as she appeared so delicate and vulnerable to him.

Surrendering to the urge, he lightly grasped a handful of the blonde glossy curls drying over her pillow. As he rubbed his thumb over the silky texture, he began to ponder what the mysterious appeal was of holding another in sleep.

Some men genuinely seemed to like it. He remembered Hugh coming home from a day spent with Jane when they'd been younger. He'd had that moonstruck look about him, even more pronounced than usual after meetings with Jane. Ethan had thought he'd finally tupped her, but Hugh had been disgusted with Ethan at the idea. "No, Iheld her. While she slept," Hugh had said, then he'd exhaled with pleasure. "For over anhour ."

Now, Ethan eased out his hand to feel the enticing warmth of Madeleine's body. Willing her not to wake, he edged closer to her, stretching out behind her, only wanting to test this out for a minute. But she woke and tensed. Well, if the dam was breached…He ran his hand under her side and tucked her against him.

He waited for her to relax. Minutes passed, and still she was stiff. He could be contrary, too, and he forced her to remain in this position. He even dragged her tighter to him, which put her pert bottom in his lap and his face against her neck, sending him awash in the scent of her hair. Not surprisingly, he shot hard against her. He looped his other arm under hers and around her chest so that he completely enfolded her.

He ached to be inside her, so why was he feeling that perplexing sense of satisfaction again? As if he was where he was supposed to be?

He'd been exhausted for days, and soon her warmth lulled him. The last thought he had was that if the little witch would relax a bloody bit, sharing a bed might not be the burden he'd thought it.

Men just aren't built like this anymore, Maddy thought with a sigh. Like gladiators, like warriors.

Tilting her head this way and that, she studied him sleeping in the muted morning sun. He lay on his back with an arm raised over his head, the cover precariously positioned low at his waist, displaying his broad chest and muscular torso. She flushed when she saw that his morning erection elevated the heavy cover.

Maddy had awakened without hunger in a warm, soft bed after a full night's rest uninterrupted by nightmares. And apparently, now that the critical needs of food, safety, and shelter had been met, her body had an entirely different need to contend with.

She was aroused, and his clean, masculine scent and the warmth emanating from his body were making it worse. She had to struggle not to run her fingers over his skin as she recalled the scenes from the night before—how her breasts had rubbed against his unyielding chest in the tub, or later when his hard body had wrapped around hers. Though she didn't want to sleep that way each night, she'd felt surprisingly safe with him. His erection had pressed against her bottom, but he'd kept his promise, never making an advance.

She'd never thought she would enjoy intercourse again, but now she was beginning to believe she could tolerate sex with him—and if he could do it as splendidly as he kissed her, she might even enjoy it once she grew accustomed to his size.

Of course, this didn't mean she planned to let him take her before their wedding. She had to hold firm on that—she knew too many women who'd been promised marriage only to return to La Marais big with child and utterly destitute.

Yet after they'd wed…what would a second attempt be like? She might not be looking forward to it, but she was definitely curious.

In fact, everything about him made her curious. For instance, why was he so skilled with a pistol? And who'd shot him so recently? She'd noted at least one other scar that looked like a bullet wound and would bet there were more on his back. What did he do that was so fraught with danger?

Who'd cut his face so terribly, leaving that bone-deep scar?

Already she had a good idea of how intensely it troubled him. But the truth was that even an aficionada like herself could see past it. Indeed, MacCarrick's face was still captivating to her, his features pleasing and even. He had a strong, straight nose, firm lips, and a square jaw shadowed with the night's growth of beard.

The good was so exceedingly good with this man, that it far outweighed the bad.

Maybe in the gentrified Grosvenor world he knew, people were flawless, but that was no longer Maddy's world. She was so used to seeing Crimean soldiers returned from war with parts of their regimental uniforms empty and pinned up that MacCarrick's scar was mild in comparison.

In the hierarchy of characteristics she needed in a potential mate, unmarred skin was not a contender compared to virility, strength, and wealth—all of which this Scot had in spades.

She mentally catalogued his good points: He was rich and seemed generous with his money. He was a sinfully skilled kisser and possessor of the most gorgeous, sculpted body she'd ever beheld. He was fierce—this Scot was no gentle giant—which suited Maddy fine.

The bad points: He was selfish, stubborn, rough, aggressive, and untrustworthy.

Would Ethan MacCarrick be difficult to manage? Absolutely. She had no doubt that she was going to have to draw on every man-managing skill she'd ever learned—and then call on every ounce of patience she could muster.

But she could do it to say good-bye to debts and her hardscrabble existence, andbonjour to a new life with a mysterious Scot who'd made her blood burn with both passion and fury.

Finally surrendering to the urge, she trailed the pads of her fingers down the underside of his raised arm, watching, enthralled, as the muscles lining the side of his torso briefly flexed. She gently brushed the skin around his wound, feeling unaccountably saddened that someone had sought to hurt him—or kill him. Why did the idea of him in pain bother her so much? At heart he was still a stranger.

She shook her head, deciding then that she wasn't going to lie to herself anymore. Something about him had attracted her from the very first—attracted her as no man had before. She'd been overwhelmingly drawn to him before she'd seen his face and scar—she still was after.And last night, his unpracticed, awkward smile as he'd cuffed her bottom had shown her a different side to this Scot, softening her anger toward him….