A Highland Duchess by Karen Ranney Page B

on his face fading to something like caution. His eyes were unreadable but they weren’t cold. Instead, they seemed to blaze with emotion.
    She’d never before considered that a man might be viewed as more than he was because of his actions. Did she see him as more handsome because he had been kind? Because he had been decent and honorable, was he more attractive? No, Ian would be considered handsome by any female, even viewing him the first time.
    “I’ve sent a footman to your house,” he said. “But he hasn’t returned yet.”
    There, the answer to the question, the reason she’d searched him out. Now she could return to her borrowed chamber. She didn’t move.
    “Is there no one else with whom you could live?” he asked. “A friend? A relative? Anyone who wouldn’t strike you?”
    Surprised, she could only stare at him for a moment.
    “Must you return to that house?”
    “I have no friends,” she said, “and my uncle is my only relative.”
    “Must you live with him? Couldn’t you set up your own establishment?”
    “My uncle controls my funds. I have a quarterly allowance but little else.”
    “How did that come about?”
    She shrugged. “I’m not certain if it was Anthony’s wish or if my uncle simply assumed that role.”
    “He hasn’t evinced a great deal of interest in your well-being, Emma. Nor can I forget that he struck you. Does he do it often?”
    “Not often,” she said. She’d learned to avoid her uncle when he was in one of his tempers.
    The anger in Ian’s eyes didn’t frighten her because she knew it wasn’t directed toward her.
    “I have no right to be concerned for you,” he said. “But I am.”
    His voice was low, warm, and too alluring. But, then, so was the man himself.
    “Thank you,” she said. No one had been concerned about her for a very long time, and for that alone she was grateful to him.
    “But you have no intention of doing anything else but returning to Alchester Square.”
    There was nothing else she could do. Her uncle, for all his flaws, was not as hideous a companion as Anthony, and she’d endured him for four years.
    She only shook her head.
    He blew out a breath, obviously exasperated. Her brigand was evidently free to do what he wanted when he wanted. Were all Scots the same?
    “I’ve been wondering what you’ve been doing all day,” he said finally.
    “Reading,” she said, grateful that he’d changed the subject. “But, then, the rain made me melancholy.”
    “I told myself not to seek you out. It wouldn’t be wise. And here you are, come to my lair.”
    “Ah, the infamous lair. I was blindfolded once, to prevent my knowing its location.” How very easy it was to smile at him.
    She took a few steps into the room, placed her fingers on the edge of the table at the corner. A good six feet separated them. Neither moved to close the gap.
    “I think it’s a laboratory, instead,” she said, looking around her. “Tell me, do you bring all your prisoners here?”
    He laughed, charming her. “I’ve only had one,” he said. “And she’s more a guest than prisoner. Still, I wouldn’t want to bore her.”
    Emma shook her head. “I doubt the work you do would bore anyone. The men last night seemed fascinated, at least from what I heard.”
    “Yes, but they are easily fascinated. Give them a speck of a germ, and they can pontificate on it for hours.” He stood. “I, on the other hand, have been fixated on something else all day.”
    “Have you?”
    A dozen sensations, each one of them startling, seemed to drift over her like fog. Awareness, not only of herself, but of him. Heat, from his look and her own body. Confusion, that she should be able to feel such things. Fear, that she might have changed in the last four years, become a creature instead of a being. Loneliness, that seemed to make a mockery of anything else.
    “You should go,” he said, coming toward her.
    Yes, she should. Oh, yes, she should.
    She stretched out her hand,