His thin face indicated aristocratic disdain as he stared stoically into the distance. But shadows darkened the hollows around his eyes and a muscle jerked spasmodically in his cheek.

She'd regret relenting. Even as she placed the candle on the ugly oak side table and climbed onto the mattress, she knew she'd regret it. But common sense had lost all authority over her actions.

"Verity?"

When she didn't answer, he shifted to make room for her.

She didn't want to touch him. Although she might be a fool, she wasn't that much of a fool. But while he was a lean man, lying apart from him on the narrow cot meant she only just balanced on the edge.

She was close enough for the heat of his body to curl out and beckon her nearer. She waited for him to haul her to him and spread her legs so he could rut over her, but instead, he lay still and tense beside her. It was as if somehow the rules of engagement between them had changed.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Verity became more and more uncomfortable. His musky scent was everywhere, reminding her cruelly of how she'd responded to him earlier.

What was the duke to make of her rebuffs when she came willingly to his bed now?

This was wrong. Terribly wrong.

"I should go," she said shakily, starting to rise.

"No."

He surged up and lashed his arms around her to drag her down so she lay with her back pressed to his chest. Through the silk of her robe, she felt him tremble. It vividly brought back the memory of how she'd found him. Hesitantly, knowing she was making one of the worst mistakes in her life, she turned and very gently embraced him.

"Sleep, Your Grace," she whispered. "It's not long until morning." It was the same tone she'd used to soothe Ben and Maria when they'd woken frightened in the night.

She waited for mockery or triumph. After all, what credence would her claims that she hated him have when she lay here cradling him like the most precious thing on earth?

But for once, Kylemore's cutting tongue was silent. Instead, he pulled her fully against him and relaxed with a great sigh. His bare flesh under her hands gradually lost its worrying coldness, and his breathing became deep and even.

The Duke of Kylemore slept in her arms.

Kylemore stirred from the sweetest sleep he could remember in years. The capricious Highland sun poured through the humble chamber's uncurtained windows. It was warm. It was late. And he held a fragrant bundle of slumbering femininity within the shelter of his body.

Or actually, she held him. His head rested on Verity's breast and her arms encircled him as though she protected him from every threat. Curious and rather sad to reflect that no one had ever held him like this before.

And even more curious that he should feel so safe in the arms of someone who detested him so virulently.

Detested him with good reason.

The unwelcome thought had no power to disturb him. He'd slept deeply and well. He'd woken with the woman he wanted above all others.

Literally. He was hard and ready.

But most curious of all, he made no attempt to seek relief. Although relief, asleep and defenseless, lay at hand.

He wished he were pitiless enough to take advantage of having her in his bed. He could be inside her before she woke. Before she set up any barriers. And after last night's astounding inferno of pleasure, those barriers would be dangerously weak.

So why did he hesitate?

Perhaps because she'd conquered her fear and abhorrence to come to his aid. She'd joined him of her own free will and had offered solace where he'd deserved only loathing. She'd seen his pain and risked herself to ease it.

Altogether, last night had been a revelation.

He'd been a brute, forcing her to flee from him into the night. He'd caught her and manipulated her into surrender. He'd schemed and blustered and bullied. And his reward had been the best sexual experience of his life.

But now her gallantry had changed everything between them.

The anger driving him for the last three months was absent this morning. His craving for revenge had retreated.

But though he no longer wanted to punish her, he couldn't let her go. She was his only hope for peace. If nothing else, last night proved that was truer than ever.

Verity was his shield against the demons that pursued him. So her fate was sealed. She must stay with him forever.

The sun was warm on the back of Verity's neck as she tugged relentlessly at the weeds infesting the flowerbeds behind the house. Kate Macleish, Hamish's wife, kept a forbiddingly neat kitchen garden to supply the household, but she had no time left over for growing flowers. Verity had noticed the untidy beds yesterday, and the Yorkshire farm lass who still lurked within her had itched to create order.

She hadn't seen Kylemore all day-he'd been mercifully absent when she'd awoken. She had no idea what she could have said to him.

Actually, she was astonished she'd remained unmolested. Good heavens, she'd slept the night cuddled up to him, for all the world as if she'd wanted to be there. A better man than the duke would have made use of the woman so conveniently at hand.

For the thousandth time, she berated herself for a fool.

What had possessed her to go to Kylemore? Her only hope of prevailing against him was continued resistance. Yet how convincing would refusals sound after she'd crept into his bed without a murmur of protest?

She'd survived and prospered as a courtesan because she'd used her head and not her heart. What if that heart she repudiated ached for his misery? The duke was nothing to her.

But if he was nothing to her, why had the sight of his tears, tears he wasn't even aware he shed, cut her so deeply?

Some old sorrow plagued him. Some old sorrow that taught him to hide his true feelings behind a mask of ruthless autocracy and perfect control.

She growled her exasperation. With him. With the situation. And with herself most of all. Why should she fret over him? All she wanted was to be free of him, immediately, utterly and forever.

She began to worry at a particularly stubborn root.

Last night, he'd given her sexual pleasure such as she'd never known. She'd never forgive him for it.

But worse, he'd opened a chasm in her heart. She could fight his strength and perhaps even win. But she had no defenses against his need.

She must get away before she did something really stupid.

Like fall in love with the oppressive tyrant who believed he owned her, body and soul. Damn him.

She gave the root a vicious tug, but still it didn't budge.

"Whisht, lassie! You'll do yourself a mischief!"

She looked up from her turbulent thoughts to find Hamish Macleish staring at her in consternation. In the outlandish local costume, he looked large and capable, and his bare legs under the kilt were straight and strong.

Earlier, Angus had been on guard duty. He'd tried to divert her from what he'd clearly thought was an inappropriate activity for the lady of the house. She'd pretended not to understand and had kept going.

She was surprised to see Hamish. He'd always studiously avoided her-probably because he was the only servant who spoke English. She couldn't subvert people who didn't understand a word she said.

"Good morning, Mr. Macleish."

The angels had been remarkably deaf to her pleas of late. But perhaps they'd heard her last desperate prayer for escape.

"Good morning, my lady." He stepped closer. "It's gey stony soil for flowers. My Kate gave up."

Verity stood and wiped her hands on the faded apron that protected her skirts. "Mr. Macleish, will you help me?"

"Aye, my lady. Although ye ken it's a wee while since I've done any gardening."

She shook her head. "No, you misunderstand me." She took a deep breath and marshaled her courage. "I see you as a man of honor."

He met her eyes squarely-these Scottish rustics were remarkably free of their southern counterparts' sycophantic ways. "May the good Lord keep me so, my lady."

"A man who wouldn't stand by and allow a woman to be abducted and abused."

The man's expression became shuttered. "Ye ask me tae help ye get away," he said flatly.

She took a step closer and injected a pleading note into her voice. "The Duke of Kylemore stole me from my family. I'm here against my will. My heart is set on a virtuous life, yet he forces me to play his mistress. You must believe me. As a man of honor, you must assist me."

He shook his head. "No, my lady."

"But you must help me!" she cried desperately, reaching for his arm. Surely he couldn't just abandon her to her fate now that he knew what the duke had done to her.

"I serve His Grace tae the last breath in my body." He sounded regretful but immovable as he shook himself free of her clinging grip. "I feel for your troubles. But I cannae help ye. I gave my oath of obedience tae the duke."

Although she knew she wasted her time, she couldn't give up. This might be her only chance to persuade Hamish to her cause. If he failed her, where else could she turn?

Her voice shook with urgency. "I'll pay you. I'll pay you well. Take me back to my brother. I swear you'll be rewarded."

His frown indicated the offer offended him. "No, lassie, I dinna want your money."

She spread her hands in frantic appeal. "But your master commits a great wrong."

"No Macleish will gae against His Grace's word. Without the duke's favor, there wouldnae be Macleishes left in the Highlands. He saved us all from ruin and exile. So I'm sorry, my lady." His eyes sharpened on her face. "And don't ye be thinking of trying tae run off on your own. Folk die in these mountains, even folk who ken them. A wee lassie wouldnae ken what tae do when a fog came down or the rocks crumbled under her feet."

The picture was graphic enough and underlined what the duke had told her. It didn't necessarily mean it was true.

The man's weathered face grew more kindly, "Och, my lady, I've served His Grace since he was a bairn. I cannae break faith. All I can say is he'll have reasons for what he does."

Yes, lust and pique and anger, she felt like retorting.

But what would it serve? This was the second time she'd sought help from Kylemore's retainers, and she'd failed abysmally on both occasions. The selfish oaf had certainly surrounded himself with unhesitatingly loyal servants.

Hamish obviously felt he owed a debt to the duke. Feudal ties must still hold strong in this isolated corner of the kingdom, however iniquitous the particular lord of the manor.

Her shoulders slumped, and she turned away to hide a sudden rush of tears. It was starkly apparent the old man wouldn't help her. Defeated, she went back to grubbing at the weeds. If she was to escape, she was on her own.

Unexpectedly, Kylemore joined Verity for dinner in the parlor that also served as the house's dining room. When she found him waiting, it suddenly struck her how little time he spent in the house. She supposed he must pass the daylight hours revisiting childhood haunts.

Well, wherever he went and whatever he did, it didn't bring him ease. She recalled his bleak expression last night. Yet again, she wondered what torments lay beneath the duke's composure. His unnaturally self-assured facade would never deceive her again.

He turned from the window where he stood. The room faced the loch, and the evening sun glittered gold on the flat water behind him. "Verity."

"Your Grace."

Manners dictated that she curtsey. She ignored them. The small defiance bolstered her faltering confidence. A kidnapper didn't deserve observations due his rank.

She was unsure how to behave with him. Her usual sullen recalcitrance seemed misplaced after a night in his arms.

How she wished she'd never heard those terrible cries. It was impossible to treat the Duke of Kylemore as an inhuman monster when she'd glimpsed his inner agony.

He stepped forward to pull out her chair at the table where she usually ate in solitude. Although still dressed for the country, a buff coat covered his shirtsleeves and he wore a neckcloth tied in a simple knot.

"Hamish tells me you've taken up gardening."

He almost sounded conversational. She cast him a suspicious glance under her lashes. Had Mr. Macleish also told him she'd asked for help to run away? She studied his face as she sat down where he'd indicated, but she couldn't tell what he thought.

Nothing new there.

Kylemore sat opposite her and reached out to pour the wine. The hunting box was well stocked with life's luxuries. For the first time, Verity reflected upon how such goods arrived. Surely not along that rough road over the mountains. There must be another way in. The loch perhaps.

"I find in my captivity, time hangs heavily on my hands," she said pointedly, although she'd long ago given up hope of awakening any guilt over his crimes against her.

"I've asked him to help you tomorrow." He shook his napkin out of its folds and placed it on his lap.

"Are you worried I'll dig my way out unless you place a guard over me?" she asked acidly.

Kylemore's affability made her nervous. She much preferred their unambiguously open conflict. He lifted his glass and leaned back with a negligent grace that tugged at her senses. Her determination to escape hardened. If she stayed and let her unwilling attraction have its way, she'd be lost forever.

Kate Macleish came in with a tureen of soup. When they were alone once more, Verity returned to hostilities. A sharp tongue hid the growing softness within, a softness she had every intention of stifling.

"Or perhaps you're afraid I'll come after you with a spade if you're reckless enough to put gardening tools within reach."

He put down his spoon. "Verity, you have a choice," he said gently. "We eat, we talk, we pass the evening with an attempt at civility. Or we fuck. It's up to you."

Kylemore watched as her remarkable gray eyes widened. He'd have said that nothing could shock Soraya. But Verity was much less hardened by the life she'd led.

Hell, now even he was doing it. He had to stop thinking of her as two different people. He'd quickly guessed on the journey to the glen that in her mind she divided herself into separate entities. Soraya, the notorious courtesan. And Verity, the woman who preserved an odd air of innocence whatever debaucheries he'd committed on her body.

Over the last few days, avoiding this cursed house had given him hours alone in the fresh air to puzzle over his captive.

He must have been out of his mind with thwarted lust when he'd found her in Whitby, or he would have realized immediately that she believed the virtuous widow was much closer to her real self than the glittering demimondaine was.

He'd abducted her to get his fascinating mistress back and to make her pay for her betrayal. Now the problem was that while he wanted to find Soraya in Verity, he also wanted to find Verity in Soraya.

God knew why. Soraya offered him all a sensible man wished for. A willing partner in bed. A sophisticated companion. No inconvenient emotional storms.