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heart. He must have taken refuge in the garderobe, aware her reputation would be sullied were he discovered alone with her in the chamber—naked.
    Despite his rough edges, he was a gentleman.
    She gave brisk instructions to the servants as to the placement of the escritoire , fervently hoping they wouldn’t pay attention to the fierce blush she was certain reddened her face. It was unlikely the sharp-eyed Simone hadn’t noticed.
    As the footmen exited, she cleared her throat. “Our guest must have risen early and gone for a walk,” she mumbled, realizing the moment she said it how unlikely it was Braden would wander around the castle.
    Simone frowned. “But ‘is clothing—”
    Charlotte took the maid’s arm and hustled her out of the chamber. “We’ll return shortly, after you’ve done a better job with my hair.”
    The French girl scowled, pouting all the way back to Charlotte’s chamber.
    She’d avoided disaster, but it wouldn’t take much to alienate the maid. She would have to tread lightly.  
    ~~~
    Braden emerged from the garderobe. He’d taken care of his ablutions, but the pleasant morning erection he’d awoken with had quickly become an insistent need when he’d seen the lust in Charlotte’s eyes. It refused to abate.
    She was an enigma. Her normally perfect, if rather severe, hair was dishevelled today, as if she’d spent the night tossing and turning. But the wayward curls and the fierce blush made her even more appealing. He was becoming accustomed to the revealing style of dress women apparently wore. It wouldn’t take much to—
    He growled, shrugging into his shirt and pulling on the trews.
    The situation piled lunacy atop incredulity. He was sure now he wasn’t dead. If his arousal wasn’t proof enough, then the irritating itch where he’d been shaved was—and he doubted there was an inch of his body Daniel’s razor had missed. The snug trews wouldn’t help.
    But he was a man of the fifteenth century, which Charlotte probably wouldn’t believe. And they had nothing in common. Except lust.
    He eyed the little table. She’d mentioned interviewing him, whatever that meant. There were quills and ink. Evidently she intended to write down whatever he said, like the Duke’s lackey. But for what purpose?
    He hadn’t known any women able to read and write. It appeared Charlotte expected more out of life than marriage and motherhood, though she’d look splendid growing fat and round with his bairn.
    However, such senseless visions weren’t helping the arousal problem.
    He ran his fingertips over the sheaf of papers. Smooth, much finer than in his day, but then Oban was a port and most of the paper from there was made of old sails and ropes.
    His heart lifted when he removed the cloth covering the tray next to the paper and discovered a bowl of oats. He scooped it up gleefully and went in search of the leftover chicken.

THE WIG

    Charlotte washed her face, donned a fine silk gown and had Simone reapply her rouge and eyebrow kohl. There was nothing to be done with the impossible hair, therefore she opted for the elaborate powdered wig she normally wore on formal occasions.
    She peered at her reflection in the hand mirror. “It’s not too much?”
    “ Non ,” the maid replied, but the smirk on her face said otherwise.
    The powdered wig with its pouf at the front wasn’t suitable and tended to get heavy after a while, but she had to appear dignified when she interviewed Braden.
    She smoothed the creases from her skirt and set off for his chamber, confident he’d had time to dress.
    She tapped on his door and entered, astonished to see him sitting cross-legged on the end of the bed, his back poker straight, knees touching the bed. How had he folded those incredibly long legs?
    He stared at her as if he’d seen a ghost, a spoon halfway to his lips. Anyone would think he’d never set eyes on a woman in a wig. She hoped the lead weight was still properly in place. The beginnings of a