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truth at this late juncture of course, but somehow he hadn’t thought she would portray herself as someone’s wife. Perhaps because she looked so very young. Hoary tightened hard against his belly, so maybe his reasons tended to run more toward wishful thinking.
    “Mrs. Mulgrave,” he said.
    “Yes.”
    “And your husband?”
    She raised her chin again as if challenging the devil himself, which wasn’t a bad comparison. “He is dead.”
    “Really?” Cairn said. “Did you kill him?”
    “What! No! How—” she began, but he gestured toward the hole in his chest. It was seeping sedately into the fine fabric of his favorite tunic, widening a pinkish stain on the French linen. “Of course I did not kill him.” Her fingers tightened perceptibly in the scarf. They were slim and smooth and long for her small size. “And I would not have stabbed you if you had ceased—”
    Her words stopped. Her gaze remained frozen on his chest.
    “What are you doing?” she demanded.
    “I’ve known you less than a full day and already you’ve ruined more garments than I did during my entire voyage to Patagonia, including the capture of the Maiden .”
    She swallowed and he scowled as he tugged his shirttail from beneath his belted tartan. Strange how nervous she seemed around him. True, she was naked, and he had threatened to have her hanged, but from what he had heard of Magical Megs, she had been in tighter spots. It was said she once had the hangman’s noose tight around her neck and had still managed to escape without a trace. Like a shadow. Like a cloud of dust. Like magic. But she would not be so fortunate this time. Nay, Cairn the bastard had a tendency to get whathe wanted, and this would be no different. Tossing the spent shirt onto his desk, he scowled down at his latest wound. It was small, but Bert had assured him that a sovereign laird should be able to go a full week without losing blood. Thus far, that theory had yet to be proven.
    “How then?” he asked, glancing up.
    She ripped her gaze from his torso to his face. Was it his chest that fascinated her or the wound? It was really Hoary that wanted to know. He had an insatiable curiosity.
    “What?” she asked.
    “Your husband,” he said, and, crossing his arms against his chest, settled himself upon the edge of the desk. “How’d he die?”
    “Oh. He drowned.”
    “Drowned.”
    “Yes.”
    “What was his name?”
    “William.”
    “When did it happen?”
    “Last May. He was boating on the Thames.”
    “Tragic.”
    “Quite.”
    “What was his occupation?”
    “He was a tailor.”
    Cairn smiled. Damn, she was good. “And where did you and your beloved live, Mrs. Mulgrave?”
    “In London.”
    Clever. London. A sea voyage and a long journey afoot unless one were foolish enough to challenge one of those damnable carriages—not somewhere accessible where he might travel easily and thereby prove her lies.
    “Where in London?”
    “On Craven Road, just across from the gardens.”
    He paused for a moment, and she pursed her lips with regal disdain. “Might I have my clothes back now?”
    “No.” He said it without thinking. True, there had been no weapons hidden in her garments. Neither had there been any stashed away in that dark bundle of hair she’d had piled atop her head, but it had been a good excuse to see her unclothed.
    “Whyever not?”
    “Because…” He thought for a moment and realized that he needed no reason. “You’re my prisoner. I am the laird of Teleere. You’ll have your clothes when I see fit—Miss Megs.”
    “I am not Megs.” She could state the denial with absolutely no inflection of her voice.
    He bowed again. Old Bert had endeavored to teach him a host of things—from judging wines to tying a cravat, but bowing was what he excelled at. God knew, Cairn was never meant to be a laird. But his mother had been young and bonny, and the king had taken a shine to her. The old wick had no way of knowing that his only