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silk handkerchief. A moment later, he peeled the fabric from her face. She went to speak, and discovered her lips and mouth were bone-dry.
    â€œWait.” Stuffing the handkerchief into his pocket, he unpicked the knot in the shawl about her hands, then leaving her to free them, he crossed to a cabinet along the wall, a feminine version of a tantalus. He poured a glass of water and brought it to her. “Here.”
    Laying the shawl over the chair’s arm, she took the glass in both hands, raised it . . . and stopped. She considered the liquid inside the cut crystal, then looked up at him.
    His lips thinned again. He took back the glass, drained half in one gulp, then held it out to her. “Satisfied?”
    His tone made her lips want to twitch, but she kept them straight and with a regally gracious inclination of her head, accepted the glass, sipped, and nearly sighed.
    â€œMy feet.” She held them out. They were still bound.
    He crouched beside her to work at the knot.
    She hadn’t intended “my feet” to be her first words, but having him remove the restraint gave her an extra minute to marshal her thoughts. If he needed her help . . . she couldn’t imagine how, but if that was what this kidnapping was about, then perhaps he wasn’t so far from her hero-ideal as she’d thought.
    Courtesy of her struggles, the knot in the kerchief had tightened; while he concentrated on loosening it, she studied his face, closer and better lit than before.
    What she was looking at was a mask, a rigid, uniformly uninformative shield. Whoever Debenham was, he kept his emotions, his self, locked away, completely concealed behind that distractingly attractive screen.
    The binding about her ankles fell away. He fluidly rose.
    â€œThank you.” She clung to the graciously civil, sensing it pricked him; she was a long way from forgiving him for treating her as he had.
    Glass in one hand, she settled into the comfort of well-padded luxury.
    He considered her for a moment, then, crossing to the other armchair, he sat, effortlessly achieving an ineffably graceful, elegantly masculine pose.
    She sipped again and stared at him over the rim of her glass. She’d grown up surrounded by large, graceful, physically powerful men, yet Debenham put all those others to shame; he was undeniably the most gorgeous male she’d ever seen. It wasn’t just his face—so harshly handsome and framed by that black mane that suggested barely restrained wildness—nor was it merely the coldly sculpted planes of his cheeks or his fascinating eyes and lips that riveted her. It was all that he was—all the above coupled with a body that was perfectly proportioned, his long legs those of a man who rode frequently, his shoulders almost impossibly broad, yet all of a piece with the width of his chest and the heavy muscles of his upper arms. His hands were large, blunt fingered, and strong, yet she knew he was capable of using them gently; she got the impression he was a man very aware of his strength, and used to being careful with it.
    If she’d thought to physically design her hero, she wouldn’t have done as well. He sat in the armchair, his gaze on her face, his expression impossible to read—a dark Adonis with changeable eyes, and he was hers.
    And she might as well start as she meant to go on. Her eyes on his, she demanded, “Who, exactly, are you?”
    A frown passed behind his eyes, but he answered. “Dominic Lachlan Guisachan, eighth Earl of Glencrae.” Her eyes widened. He searched her face. “Do you recognize the title?”
    â€œNo.” She frowned. “Should I?”
    Slowly, he shook his head. “I just wondered if you did.”
    â€œAnd Debenham?”
    â€œOne of my lesser titles.”
    She frowned more definitely. “Why be the viscount rather than the earl?”
    â€œBecause the earl is from the highlands, while the viscount is