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enough."
    "And if not?"
    He frowned slightly, his great brows bending. "You could force her."
    "Aye. But I won’t. She either will come with me willingly, or we have no contract."
    "But I promised to make this worth your while, and I shall." The old man reached into the opening of his shirt and pulled out a key attached to a chain he wore about his neck. The key was still warm when he handed it to Ian and pointed to the chest against the wall.
    "There is two hundred and fifty pounds, as promised. The rest will be waiting for you the morning you arise hale and hearty from your marriage bed."
    Ian stared at the trunk. Brother. Money. France. Would taking the lass be worth it? Two hundred and fifty pounds was a fortune it would take him years to earn. All for one night’s tupping. So why did this make him feel queasy, when taking coin to fight had not? "That should be enough to make any man want to awake in the morning." Any man without a conscious, he added silently to himself.
    "Aye. Just be sure that you do, and that you do your duty by my niece."
    He speared MacIver with a glance, that brooked no argument. "I shall. And she shall do hers as my wife, and accompany me on my journey."
    MacIver rubbed his beard and shook his head. "If there is anyone who can bend her to their will, I expect it would be you."
    * * *
     
    The prenuptials were all he had expected, and worse. Ian had seen his bride appearing and disappearing like a wraith about the keep, her face hidden behind a translucent linen veil. She must truly be offensive to the eyes to warrant a shroud , he mused.
    Lord MacIver had wasted no time in arranging the marriage. By nightfall, he would be wed.
    Ian rubbed his jaw, glad for the chance to have shaved. He’d not worn a full beard since leaving home and detested when it grew in. Lord Hunterston wore a fashionable beard, and he be damned if he’d choose to look anything like the bastard. While he’d slept, his clothes had been mended and washed. Truth be known, he’d slept too long, but the bed was the first he’d seen in well over three months and had felt heavenly.
    After charming an oatcake from a willing maid in the kitchen, Ian made way for the stable to check on the only thing he could count upon, his horse. He found young Douglas dutifully brushing Merlin’s jet coat to a shine. Ian leaned against the rough-hewn doorframe, watching the lad.
    The boy clearly had an appreciation for good horseflesh. It was a pity it would not be developed into a profitable vocation for the boy. He would eventually need someone with the talent for horses. He would need a whole staff of people he could trust once he’d established his own holdings. Perhaps he could talk Lord MacIver into letting the boy come to France with him once things were settled. Ian coughed, trying not to startle him.
    The boy turned, his smile brightening. "Good morrow to you, sir."
    "Good morrow, Douglas. Has Merlin been a gentleman for you?"
    "Oh, aye, sir." He gave the stallion an admiring pat.
    "Well, seeing as you two get along so well, perhaps you wouldn’t mind takin’ Merlin out for a wee bit of a run."
    The boy’s mouth flew open. "Tru-truly, sir?" he stammered, his eyes bright.
    "Aye. ‘Tis not everyone this horse takes to." Douglas beamed at the words of praise.
    Ian led Merlin from the stall and fitted the bit and reins to his head.
    "Tell me, Douglas, what ken you of the MacIver’s niece?" He hoisted the boy onto the horse’s back.
    Douglas looked at him, his eyes big and round. "I’d not talk of her if I were you, sir. I’ve seen for myself the poor men who died in the widow’s bed."
    Ian could tell that the rumors of death and whispers of witchery had the boy visibly shaken.
    "But have you ever seen her, Douglas?"
    "Aye, sir. She’s bonnie. But me mam says she keeps her beauty by magic potions made of men’s blood."
    Ian merely nodded. Clearly he wasn’t going to get much more than second-hand woman’s prattle from the