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but think such a wee lass as yerself canna have many."
    She was quiet again, her pale hands folded reverently, but when she spoke finally her tone was sharp, her eyes bright. "You think your sins more important than mine?"
    Leith shook his head, carefully quelling the grin that threatened to lift the corner of his mouth. Without a doubt she was the most interesting and contrary nun he had ever met. "Shall we move to the fire, lass, and compare sins?" he asked, his voice low.
    Her mouth was a firm, puckered mound of disapproval above her peaked little chin. "I see nothing amusing about sin."
    "I meself find most sins to be quite disturbing." He leaned closer, resting a broad wrist on his knee. "But yers, now, lass—they seem most... entertaining."
    Her eyes, if possible, became even larger in the darkness. "Dare you speak so lightly of my sins?"
    "Dare ye tell me what they are?" he challenged smoothly.
    He was close. Far too close, Rose thought. And he was large, with each feature sharp and arresting. His hair was dark, like shining sable, and pulled back at the nape of his neck, which was broad with muscle and sinew. His eyes were brown, the color of rich tea. His nose was not straight or perfectly formed but bowed slightly outward in the center. His cheekbones were high, his mouth full. And at his hip he wore a sword now, a long, scroll-handled weapon that seemed almost a part of his very being.
    He was not a pretty man. So why did her hands sweat when he was near? Why did her heart race like the skittering hoofbeats of deer at dawn? She was to be a nun. A nun! Pure. Unlike him—a man who would hold the object of a poor postulate to gain his own ends.
    Despite the circumstances, however, she would return to the abbey with the little cross in its rightful place about her neck. She had made a vow, and she would keep it, regardless of Satan's temptations.
    Oh, yes. He had been sent by Satan. She had no doubt, for no man had ever stirred her desires as he had. All day, she'd refused to allow her gaze to stray to him, for the sight of him was too disturbing. And yet many times during the journey she had admired him—sitting straight and tall on his white stallion, looking for all the world like a romantic statue carved of stone.
    Now, in the darkness, she admitted that he did not look like stone, but like warm flesh. She watched him silently, feeling breathless. She'd always been a strong girl, and though small, she'd assisted her father in his work better than many a young man. But this Scot... Her eyes fell to his hand. It was sun-browned and strong, and his wrist, resting on his knee, was broad and flat. Her gaze slipped downward, over the thick, lean muscle of his lower leg, shown to perfection through his dark-colored hose.
    "Like what ye see, wee nun?" he asked softly.
    Rose gasped, both at his words and at the realization that she'd been staring at him quite boldly, and with more than chaste interest.
    "What would cause ye to believe yerself destined to waste yer life in a convent?" he asked softly.
    "You dare call the holy life a waste?"
    "Na for some." He shrugged lazily. "But a woman like yerself needs sommat more."
    "What do you know of my needs?" she asked raggedly, her breath coming hard now as a blush heated her cheeks.
    "I know only what I saw at the lochan," he admitted finally.
    Rose felt the blood drain from her face in a cold rush. God's toenails! He had been there. "What did you see?" she whispered weakly, nearly unable to voice the question, but surely unable to remain unknowing.
    "I found sommat ye'd lost," he hedged softly. "And I asked meself, how did the wee nun's possession come to be here in this quiet place outside the walls of the nunnery."
    Rose blinked once, a slim ray of hope finding its way into her being. It seemed he had not witnessed her shameful disrobing after all, for surely he would boast of seeing such an act. Hardly was he gentlemanly enough to keep such knowledge to himself. But did he