A Highland Duchess by Karen Ranney Page A

errand, and your discretion.”
    The young man nodded. “You have it, sir.”
    “Off you go, then.”
    After Jim left the room, Ian indulged in a moment of self-congratulation and tried to ignore the fact that it was tempered with regret.
    T he rain had lasted all day, the intensity of the storm varying depending upon the hour. Darkness came early, with the clouds obscuring the last of the sun and thunder heralding the approach of night.
    Emma left the dinner tray untouched, feeling very much like a prisoner indeed. She stood, leaving the bed where she’d finally become interested in Jane Eyre . Perhaps there was too much of a resemblance between the two of them. She was as lonely as poor Jane and just as certain that the condition would never be rectified.
    She opened the door, glorying in the fresh breeze from the rain-drenched air. The sconces on the other side of the building had already been lit and appeared blurry through the curtain of rain.
    Several windows were lit on the first floor, and a door open as well, almost as if it were an invitation.
    If she had any sense, she would simply close the door and retreat to Jane Eyre’s world, one that seemed—even deprived and sad—safer than her own.
    She’d been sensible all day. Besides, she had an acceptable reason to seek out Ian. She needed to discover if he’d heard from her uncle.
    The staircase was slippery, wet from the rain, and she held tightly to the banister on her descent. She loved storms, loved the majesty of them, the sheer power of God and nature. When the ground trembled from the thunder, she halted on the steps, looking toward the garden. A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky like the claw marks of some atmospheric monster.
    Storms made her conscious of her own humanity, of her infinitesimal ranking in the world. She had no power, was as subject as any person to disease or death. Religion taught her that she was prone to sin, frail by the nature of humanity. Yet the same realization of her weaknesses made her conscious of her strengths. She had survived a great many things, from illness as a child, to the death of her parents, to the horror of her husband and his entertainments. She’d persevered even when she’d doubted her own capacity to do so.
    The light flickered, caught by the increasing wind, as if the storm overhead was as suddenly anxious as she felt. Her anxiety was fueled not by fear but anticipation, a shiny soap bubble ready to burst.
    The voice of her conscience, her keeper, whispered warnings. She ignored them.
    A few minutes later Emma stood in the doorway of the strangest room she’d ever seen. Two long oak tables stood parallel to each other in the middle of the room. On the table at the farthest end was a series of glass boxes, each large enough to hold one of her bonnets. The table closest to the door bore several beakers and jars made of glass, a mortar and pestle, a large leather book, and a peculiar structure made of brass standing nearly two feet high that she guessed was a microscope.
    Seated in front of it on a tall stool was her brigand. This afternoon he was neither abductor nor thief but a scientist. Two of the four wall sconces were lit, creating pools of flickering light and shadow. Beside him sat another lamp, tall enough that it rained light down on him.
    For several moments she watched him. His face was tight in concentration. He would periodically press his eye to a long cylindrical tube, then frown, sit back, and make a notation in a small notebook at his side. Twice, he did this, each time adjusting a knob on the side of the eyepiece.
    Finally, he reached up to pull the lamp closer and saw her.
    For long seconds neither one of them said a word. She should have asked if he minded the interruption. Or perhaps she should have inquired as to his study. Instead, Emma was frozen to the spot, overwhelmed by the sheer masculine beauty of him. He sat ringed by light, his dark hair a little unkempt, the intensity