In the Bed of a Duke by Cathy Maxwell Page A

finger.
    Charlotte was the first to break the silence. “Is it always like that?” she asked, her voice lazy with sleepiness.
    “It’s never been like that,” Phillip said honestly.
    She lifted her head, her palm flat against his chest. “Truly?”
    He smoothed her hair back before saying, “Making love to you is like touching the hand of God.”
    She laughed, pleased but not quite believing him. It didn’t matter. Her long lashes brushed his skin as she closed her eyes.
    Phillip buttoned his breeches, holding her close. He thought her asleep, but then she asked, “What does happen if your brother lives?”
    He smiled. “Always curious,” he accused.
    “It’s my besetting sin,” she confessed.
    Phillip chuckled, valuing the wit and friendship he was discovering in this woman, before confessing soberly, “I don’t know what will happen. I only pray that whatever it is, I can make it right.”
    “You will. You’re the duke.”
    But even dukes could be wrong .
    “I believe,” he said wearily, “that tomorrow we’ll both return to the English garrison at Fort William. I can’t do this alone. I shouldn’t.”
    She stirred. Her eyes still closed, “If you find your brother, what of your right to the title?”
    He hadn’t thought that far. It was the one question he avoided, even in his own mind. “It’s his by right,” he whispered.
    Against his chest, her lips curved into a smile. “It’s the honorable thing to do,” she murmured as if pleased. She fell asleep.
    However, Phillip couldn’t quiet his mind. He thought of a brother he’d never known, a historyof Scottish intrigue…and a woman he wanted to trust.
    It was a long time before he fell asleep.
     
    Charlotte had never slept so well.
    Cool air roused her. It tickled her nose, which she rubbed against warm flesh. Memories came rushing back. Colster. No wonder she felt so content.
    She would have put her arms around him for a good morning hug, except his arm came over her first, but not in a lover’s embrace.
    It was a warning that something was wrong.
    At the same moment, a strange, male voice said, “Good morning, Your Grace.”
    Charlotte opened her eyes and discovered a party of some eight rough-looking men crowded around them in the hayrick. They had beards and hair reaching down to their shoulders. They wore leather breeches and boots, swords and pistols. They could be robbers or rebels.
    Their leader, a lean man approaching thirty with a hawkish nose, golden hair and beard, and green eyes so piercing they could have been shards of glass, stood over them holding the dress she and Colster had left hanging by the stream last night. “I can see the two of you enjoyed a romp in the hay.” His deep voice held a rich, rolling brogue, every syllable Scottish.
    Thankfully Charlotte had slept under her coat, and her modesty was still somewhat intact. Colster grabbed the dress out of the golden-haired man’s hand. “Who are you?” he demanded with all the authority of a duke.
    A gleam of derision appeared in the Scot’s eyes. “Gordon Lachlan, kinsman to the MacKenna. He sent me to find you—” His gaze dropped to Charlotte. “—And Miss Cameron.”
    “You’ve found us,” Colster said coldly. “We have no need of your assistance.”
    The corner of Mr. Lachlan’s mouth curled into a smile. “I can see that, Your Grace,” he said politely in his soft burr. “However, it is the wishes of my cousin that you return with us. As you have already learned, this is MacKenna country, and there is more than one here who carries a grudge against you. The laird fears for your safety.”
    The stern, stoic faces of the men behind Mr. Lachlan added an element of truth to his warning.
    Charlotte knew Colster wanted to wish the man to the devil. However, when he spoke, his voice betrayed no emotion. “Give us a moment to dress,” he said.
    “As you wish, Your Grace,” Mr. Lachlan said, his manner more mocking than respectful. With only the