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snapped. “And she is leaving on the morrow.”
    “So was I right?”
    Aidan frowned. “There are times, Deacon Gunn, you are a pushy bastard.” He was tempted to wipe the blue paint from his face with the silk, but he couldn’t do it. Instead, with studied casualness, he tossed the garment over his saddle and removed his rolled shirt and a scrap of homespun he’d brought for the purpose.
    “And?” Deacon prompted, indicating with curve of his finger there was more Aidan needed to say.
    “And you were right.” Aidan pulled his shirt on before adding, “But not in the way you think. She has stirred old memories. Things I’d thought I’d long put behind me.”
    “We never escape our past, Laird Tiebauld, you should know that.”
    Hugh and Anne approached, their arms full of personal belongings. “You can use my hunting sack for your clothes,” Hugh offered.
    “Thank you,” Anne said. “I didn’t find as much as I’d hoped—” Her voice broke off. She stared at Aidan.
    “Is something the matter?” he asked.
    “Your face,” she said. “You look—”
    She hesitated and Aidan caught himself waiting for her answer. Most woman found him handsome in a rugged sort of way. Her dumbfounded reaction was not completely uncommon. After all, he was the laird.
    “—Almost normal,” she finished.
    So. The kitten had claws. Worse, Aidan—who usually had a good sense of humor—didn’t like her answer. He was tempted to fire a salvo back, but she’d begun stuffing her clothes in the hunting sack, her attention turned completely away from him.
    Unfortunately, Hugh didn’t know when to leave well enough alone. “Is it a good or bad thing, my lady?”
    Anne appeared a bit befuddled, as if she’d forgotten what they were discussing. Then she swung an assessing glance toward Aidan. “I haven’t made up my mind. Although he needs a haircut. Desperately. Long hair is not in fashion.”
    Aidan almost snarled at her off-hand comment. An unusual reaction from him. He wasn’t a vain man. Or at least, he tried not to be. But then, he hated debutantes. He gave a proud toss of his hair. He didn’t have time for frivolities like haircuts.
    Deacon came to his defense. “You realize,” hesaid to Anne, “Hugh uses his bag for dead birds while he’s hunting. They are usually covered with dirt and lice and all sorts of vermin.”
    She paused in her packing, then continued, pointedly ignoring him.
    Aidan’s gaze met Deacon’s. She leaves tomorrow, he silently promised his friend.
    Deacon grunted skepticism and put his heels to his horse. The cat’s carcass was tied to the back of his saddle. He took off ahead of the others. Aidan said to Anne, “You’ll ride with me.” He started toward Beaumains, expecting Anne to follow. However, Hugh’s animal sidled forward, and before she’d taken a step, she was confronted with the grim face of the dead coachman draped over the horse’s rump. Rigor mortis had not yet set in.
    Anne paled. Aidan waited, anticipating a bout of hysterics and a plea to return to London…but it was not meant to be.
    She released a shaky breath, and then, to his surprise, raised her hand and lightly touched the coachman’s grizzled jaw. “He was such a kind man. A good man.”
    “We’ll bury him at Kelwin,” he said. “Did he have family? They should be notified.”
    Anne gave a small, sad laugh. “He had a multitude of wives. He claimed one in every county. I’m certain your sister will know who to contact.”
    “You can talk to her about it when you reach London,” Aidan answered decisively.
    Her gray eyes—yes, the fine ones—darkened. He read mutiny in their expressive depths. Apparently, so did Hugh, because he decided he’d best follow Deacon and urged his horse on.
    Aidan waited until they were alone. “You are leaving tomorrow,” he assured her.
    “And what of our marriage?”
    “We have no marriage.” Was she daft? “It hasn’t been consummated—and it won’t be.