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brogue as the rhythm of the tale swept her. “She would have none of him, so he did what any full-blooded MacNachtan would do.”
    â€œKidnapped her?” he ventured, because right now kidnapping seemed a right and clever course to take.
    And her reply delighted him. “Aye, kidnapped her as she wandered the hills. But she was no frail flower. She fought so much, he stripped away his kilt and flung it over her head to blind her, and wrapped her up so she couldn’t strike him, and thus carried her away.”
    She sat, holding a folded, tattered tartan in her hands and smiling at it.
    Walking up behind her, he asked, “What is the ending of the story?”
    â€œThey were very happy all their lives together.” She craned her neck to look up at him. “And this is it. The Mac-Nachtan marriage kilt. In our family, it’s a tradition that the groom throw it over the bride’s head and sweep her away. It’s said that every union thus blessed will be a happy union.”
    Leaning over, he took the kilt and spread it wide over his hands. It was old, so old that the black and red and blue of the plaid had faded to an almost indistinguishable blend. The stitching had given way, and the hem was more fringe than cloth. But along the middle, the wool was well woven.
    He smiled at it, then at her.
    She saw his intention in his stance, in his amusement, and because she knew him better than any other living person knew him. Standing, she eased away.
    â€œI already kidnapped you once. It was one prime day that lives in my memory—but apparently not in yours, and now I know why. I was too pleasant, too kind.” He lifted the tartan. “I failed to follow tradition. I didn’t cover you in the marriage kilt.”
    She bolted for the now-closed trapdoor.
    â€œNo use, my lady,” he said. “You’re mine.”

Six
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    Grasping the handle on the trapdoor, Andra tugged.
    Nothing budged.
    She tugged harder.
    It was solid, unmoving. She glanced behind her, and still Hadden stalked onward, coming relentlessly for her. She gave one last desperate yank—and the handle came off. She tumbled backward, and the marriage kilt floated over her head.
    Hadden wrapped her in it and in his arms, and his deep voice crooned, “Surrender, darling. Your loyal servants have locked us in.”
    The musty old cloth leaked light like a sieve, and she could have grabbed it and ripped it off her head, but reverence for the MacNachtan past restrained her, and Hadden had no compunction about taking advantage. He lifted her from behind, and she bucked like an unbroken filly, twisting, trying to escape from an embrace that felt too right.
    He placed her on a hard, flat surface, high enough above the floor that her feet dangled. He swept the kilt away, and her face was level with his. She sat on the narrow square of the lamp table, her back against the wall, Hadden pressed between her legs.
    â€œKidnapped. Kidnapped as surely as the first MacNachtan kidnapped his bride. I have fulfilled the conditions. I am your groom.” His blue eyes sparked as he spoke.
    If she could have, she would have shot flames from her eyes. “You are not my groom. I’m not living my life guided by some wretched old superstition—”
    â€œWhy not? You’re living it guided by some wretched old fears.”
    Her breath caught in her throat. Did he know? Had he guessed? Or had someone told him something they should not? The thought of such a betrayal grated at that private part of herself, the part even she never dared to face, and she accused, “You planned this.”
    He matched his nose to hers and in a low, intense tone, said, “Not I, lady. If I wanted to take you where you could not escape, I know of lonely places on the moor better suited to our kind of loving. No, for this, blame your own trusted servants.”
    Relief mixed with indignation. He didn’t know.