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meet his eye as she glanced quickly out the window when the carriage started forward with a lurch. The other one, however, neither shrank nor flinched from his look, nor did she so much as take a breath while talking. As she babbled on and on, she looked at him boldly through eyes that were hazel in color, touched curiously with gray. She snooped, she pried, asking inquisitive questions, all while taking in every inch of him just as keenly as he was taking in every inch of her.
    And then, perhaps in an afterthought of maidenly modesty, she finally glanced away, making at arranging her already tidy skirts more neatly about her. Douglas took the opportunity to study her more closely.
    She was a beauty, no question about that. In fact the first thing he noticed—the first thing anyone would notice about her—was the stunning red-gold of her hair. It fairly gleamed and she wore it dressed simply, pulled back from her face to fall freely down her back, tucked beneath the brim of her straw hat. Douglas found himself wondering how it would shine in the sunlight, that hair, if it would feel like burnished silk against his touch. Thankfully she hadn’t powdered it as was the current fashion in the south. That, Douglas thought, would have been a crime.
    Given the fineness of her gown, a dark wine-red silk, she no doubt came from a background of affluence. The dress itself was cut low and fitted tightly to her narrow waist over full skirts and striped quilted petticoats. She wore a sheer white fichu tucked about her neck andshoulders, but it did little to hide the fullness of the breasts underneath, breasts that were very nice, indeed.
    She was merely a lass, he told himself, a lovely one, aye, and he’d not seen one like her in too long a time. Perhaps never. Still, she was trouble. She was English and she was refined. And she was an innocent, of that he was certain, for she could have no earthly idea of the thoughts she was tempting with just the tilt of her head. That only meant Douglas needed to get as far from her as he possibly could. And he would, as soon as they stopped at the inn. Once he was away from the carriage, he reasoned, away from her, he’d not give her a second thought.
    Then she moved, just slightly, leaning toward him, and her scent, mysterious and herbal, nearly sent him to his knees. In that moment, Douglas knew this was no mere lass at all.
    “So, Mr. MacKinnon,” she said with a flash of white smile. “What can you tell us about yourself?”
    Douglas shrugged. “Naught to tell,” he replied, focusing on the passing landscape out the window, determined to be as tight-lipped as possible. “I’m but a simple Scotsman on his way home.”
    “On Skye, I believe you said earlier.”
    “Aye, my lady.”
    He didn’t say more.
    “What is it that brings you here, so far from home, then, sir?” Her eyes sparked. “Some sort of clandestine intrigue, perhaps?”
    Douglas looked at her, his eyes searching hers across the shadows of the coach. For a single moment he wondered if their meeting on that lone country road couldhave been more than pure coincidence. No, that wasn’t possible. He’d only just left London a week before and had told no one else his route. He was simply letting his uneasiness get to him. This slip of a lass could have no idea of what he’d been about in London.
    “Och, no, milady,” he said, thickening his brogue. “Just a simple drover, I am. Gone to have a look at the cattle market in the south.”
    Douglas would have thought his response would put her off. What possible interest could a lady of fashion and refinement like her have in a common Scottish cattle drover? Curiously, however, she pressed on.
    “A drover, you say? Like the outlaw Rob Roy? How fascinating. You must have some exciting tales to tell . . .”
    She really was quite good, he had to admit. She kept up the conversation for the better part of the next hour, making it seem as if cattle drover was no less