"I dare you!" Amelia pointed a finger towards her younger sister, a mischievous twinkle in her sky-blue eyes.

Emily pulled her hand from Rosa's grasp, glancing back towards the snoozing governess.

Rosa rolled her eyes. "That's ridiculous."

"That's ridiculous," Amelia pressed her hands to her hips and rolled her slim shoulders back in imitation of their governess. Sunlight glinted off the top of her head, turning her blond hair into a halo.

"That's ridiculous," Emily laughed as she began pulling off her shoes and stockings, her chubby fingers stumbling over the laces.

Rosa took a step back, her feet tangling in the worn hem of her too-long hand-me-down gown. "Amelia Blair, I'm three years older. You cannot—"

"You're poor." Amelia stuck her perfectly pointed nose in the air. "You're father's a drunk."

Shame stabbed through Rosa. She could feel it like a physical sickness churning through her stomach.

"Fine!" she yelled. "Do whatever you want. I don't care anymore." And Rosa turned her back on her two cousins and the still waters of Loch Mackenzie.

"Rosa!"

Her eyes snapped open. A dark figure loomed over her.

A scream caught in her throat, and she lashed out. The blankets tangled around her hands, and the figure reached forward.

"You're safe. Ye were just dreaming."

"No, no!" She pushed herself upright, the blankets falling into her lap. "Where am I?"

The answer came back to her instantaneously. Fortress Doom with Laird McWilliam.

The laird stood by her bed, one hand on Rosa's shoulder, the other brushing loose strands of hair from her face.

"You're safe," he said again, his voice low, the words almost indistinguishable.

Safe. In Scotland. With the man who'd stolen her from police custody and had sworn a personal vendetta against her.

Right. But even as she was scoffing, Rosa felt her heartbeat slow and her breathing calm as her body settled back against the headboard. She was warm and well fed and safe. Despite everything—despite all their arguments and disagreements—McWilliam had always taken care of her.

Even now, when she'd woken screaming with the memory of Emily's death fresh in her mind, he was looking after her.

"How long was I screaming for?" she asked, under no misconception that he wouldn't have heard the first cry that had ripped from her mouth.

"Not long." He nudged her legs over, sitting on the edge of the bed facing her. "My room is just one over. I came as soon as I heard."

She could feel his thigh pressed against her own, even though the blankets. He was warm and big and strong.

He bowed his head as though causally dismissing her thanks. "Ye said her name again."

A whisper: "Emily?"

He gave a single nod and released her shoulder, his hand dropping to lie on top of the counterpane.

She stared down at it, his fingers just half an inch from her hip. The slightest movement would bring her close enough to touch.

Rosa tugged up the counterpane, tucking her hands under her arms to stop herself reaching out and brushing the tiny circular burn by the corner of his eye. Even in the darkness, she could see the mark that had come so close to damaging his beautiful, grey eye.

In fact, this close, she could see a ring of silver flecks circling his pulps. And his scent: she could smell a gentle mixture of wool, fire smoke and something woody that reminded her of the silver birch trees back in England

"I believe you," he murmured, his mouth barely moving.

Her heart skipped a beat. "You believe me, my lord Laird?"

This close she could feel the heat radiating off his body. She'd missed his heat these last few days apart, but she hadn't known it until this very moment. It was comfort. It was darkness. It was danger. It was fire, scorching hot. Almost too hot to touch.

And then he was kissing her. His lips strong and persistent against her own. And she welcomed him, parting her own lips, giving him untampered access to her mouth. He didn't hesitate, sweeping his tongue against her lower lip before plunging inside.

She shuddered, her hands wrapping around his neck, tugging him closer.

His body responded in kind. She felt the shudder rock him to his very core, and he gripped her to him with a possessiveness that nobody had ever before touched her with.

He jumped up and was halfway across the room before she could even open her eyes, the bed bouncing with his abrupt departure.

"I—" Fog had descended upon her brain, and she couldn't speak. She couldn't think, not about anything but the rush of heat that was flooding every inch of her body. She pressed her thighs together wanting...she didn't know what. Just...something more. Something only McWilliam could give her.

She swallowed the rush of desire that was making it almost impossible to think straight and cleared her throat. "You believe that I didn't steal your money?" she said, trying desperately to keep her voice calm.

"I believe your cousin, Emily, is dead." He spoke without feeling, his voice empty of anything but darkness.

"Oh." She ran a hand over her face. Her hair had fallen from its braid and had tangled around her shoulders, pooling at her waist.

McWilliam strode to the door, glancing back for a second as he grasped the handle. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have—it won't happen again."

She shook her head. He'd already promised her it wouldn't happen again, but it had. And she desperately wanted it to happen again. "It was a mistake. I know."

He stared at her for a moment, his face completely unreadable and then he opened the door. "I'm sorry Emily died."

"I know." He was sorry Emily was dead; he just wasn't sorry enough to believe in Rosa's innocence.

He stepped into the hallway.

"I'm sorry your father died," she whispered after him.

Silence met her words, and the door swung shut. The lock clicked.

* * *

True sleep evaded Rosa for the rest of the night. She tossed and turned, the bed suddenly lumpy and unwelcoming when compared with McWilliam's encompassing embrace.

She pressed the crook of her elbow against her eyes, trying to block out the first light touches of dawn that were creeping in between the boarded-up window, but Emily's face drifted in and out of view. Her chubby nose and flushed cheeks were a little blurred as if Rosa's memory couldn't quite conjure up her image.

"What were you thinking!" the governess yelled, her face purple with anger. "You shouldn't have let her near the water."

"I didn't— I tried." Rosa stepped towards her uncle. His head rested in his hands, his elbows on his knees. Amelia sat on the ground between his legs, one arm wrapped around his ankle as though she were still three, not fifteen.

Tears stained her cheeks and she looked up at Rosa through swollen eyes.

"I didn't know," Amelia said, her voice hoarse. "I didn't know."

Her father ran a hand down her damp hair. "It wasn't your fault," he murmured, his mouth barely moving, his eyes shining with unshed tears. "It wasn't your fault."

And he looked up, straight at Rosa.

"No!" She sat bolt upright. It wasn't her fault, no matter what anyone else said.

"Whoa," McWilliam struggled to his feet, his eyes blinking in the early morning light.

Rosa jumped. From the look of the crumbled clothes, he'd been sleeping in the chair by her cold fireplace. "How long have you been there?"

"You kept talking in your sleep every time I tried to leave," he said, settling back down. He sat low in the chair with his arms crossed loosely over his chest. With his legs outstretched, he practically reached halfway across the room. She could easily have curled up in his lap.

The belted plaid had fallen to one side, leaving his legs bare from his knees down. A light scattering of dark hair covered his legs, but her eyes were drawn to his knees.

Rosa had never seen a man's knees before she'd met McWilliam. And they were beautiful.

Heat burned her face. It was peculiarly reassuring to know that the knees of the first man who'd ever kissed her were beautiful.

Hurriedly, she returned her gaze to his face. He'd kissed her. Those lips—her eyes rested on his mouth—had kissed her with such an ardent need it had seemed to hang heavy in the air.

Her toes curled as heat sped down her body to her most intimate parts.

His own gaze seemed to be drifting as well. His mouth was open a fraction, his breathing loud enough to hear.

She pulled the blankets up to her chin.

He looked back up at her face. "I've seen it all before." He nodded towards her white shift.

In sleep, it had slipped from one shoulder.

"That's beside the point," she said, conjuring up, from goodness only knew, her most disapproving governess tone. "It's not proper, Lord Laird." And she pulled the sleeve back up over her shoulder.

"Nothing about this is proper." He frowned. "Why are you wearing your shift, anyway?"

She shrugged. With any other man she would have been mortified, but McWilliam's directness suggested that she had no choice but to answer. Besides, he was right, he had seen it all. He'd even seen her in the bath.

A new thrill raced down her spine.

"I wasn't given a nightdress," she said. And they'd left her dirt-splattered one back at Mistress Thomas's hostile establishment.

Silence for a moment, then "Right." He stood up. "I've got work to do." And he left her alone once more.

* * *

Morning was well underway before Rosa pulled herself from bed. She hadn't fallen back to sleep, but had tossed the counterpane over her head, pressed her eyes tight closed and tried to picture Emily's face. It had been so easy to remember what she looked like when Rosa had been talking to McWilliam yesterday. But mere hours later, Rosa could see nothing clearer than a blurry silhouette of a girl-child in braids and a knee-length day dress. And the harder Rosa tried, the blurrier she become.

Even with her late morning start, Rosa had washed from the small basin beside her bed and was dressed before the housekeeper made her first appearance.

She looked older than normal, her frizzy hair sticking to her face with sweat, her white cap skewed.

Rosa pressed her lips together and moved back to the window to keep out of Fenella's way.

The housekeeper placed Rosa's breakfast tray on the desk and then motioned for a maid to enter.

"Himself ordered that we bring up a couple more things for your room," Mrs Fenella said, her eyes fixed on a spot just above Rosa's right shoulder.

The maid, a younger woman who could only have been Mrs Fenella's granddaughter judging by her equally untamable hair, placed a pile of extra clothes on Rosa's bed. She then ducked back outside only to return with extra coal for the fire.

Rosa raised an eyebrow. The fire hadn't been lit since her first night. Mrs Fenella obviously preferring to let Rosa suffer in the cold. Luckily, the weather had been relatively clement, except for the occasional shower of rain.

Without another word, the housekeeper and maid departed.

Rosa sorted through the clothes. There was an extra complete outfit including a gown and shift, stays, stockings, stomacher, petticoats, garters, a pair of worn kid-leather boots as well as a nightdress and night-rail. Secondhand and a couple of years out of fashion, they were as good as any of the clothes she'd ever been given as a governess, and certainly nicer than anything her father, had he been sober enough, had bought for her.

In fact, come to think of it, the entire room was more comfortable than her tiny room back at the Wright's townhouse, with or without a fire. She'd been too focused on planning her escape that the luxury of having her own four-poster double-bed—even if canopy was a little moth-eaten—had completely passed her by.

What was McWilliam's deal? Why had he given her such a lovely room? She was within hearing of his younger sister, for goodness sake. This wasn't exactly a dungeon or prison, and it certainly wasn't anything like the lifeless coaching inn Runner Smith had put her in on their way to Leeds.

Was this comfortable room all part of his plan to persuade her to admit her guilt? Of course, that must be it. He'd taken her to see the grave of his recently deceased father and he'd given her a room amongst his family to make her feel guilty. He thought that if she saw his family and all the harm losing that money had caused them she'd admit to being the thief.

And was that why he'd kissed her? Was it all a game to him—see how long Rosa could hold out against his kisses and his heated looks and the promise of so much more?

She straightened her shoulders. She wasn't admitting to anything she hadn't done, unless it was to save Amelia.

This was one governess McWilliam wasn't going to get the better of.

With new determination flowing through her veins, Rosa pressed one eye to the gap in the window boards, staring down at the portcullis. From here, she could almost see the man standing guard, sword and dagger tucked into his belt.

She was getting out of this prison once and for all. And first up was working out how to get out of this room and through that gate.

* * *

"What do you think you're doing?" Cameron slammed the door shut behind him as he entered McWilliam's office.

"What have I done now?" McWilliam looked up from the accounts he'd been reading. His uncle looked unusually angry. His eyes were narrowed, his lips pressed tight closed and his hair ruffled as though he'd continually run his fingers through it.

"You took her to your father's grave." Cameron stopped so close to the desk, his legs pressed against the lip of the tabletop.

"I wanted her to see the consequences of her actions."

"Your father's grave is sacred. Your father's grave is his last resting place. It's—"

"I know perfectly well where my father is buried." McWilliam took a swig of whiskey and stood up. His uncle was family, but he wasn't going to let anyone dictate to him how and what he should be doing with Rosa. She was his responsibility and his alone.

Cameron's eyes narrowed, if possible, even further. "What are you doing? She's a sassenach. She's a criminal. She should be locked away, not given a room in the family's quarter."

"You've been talking with Rhona." He should have guessed they'd team up against him. When Rhona had something in her sights she never let it go. She wouldn't be happy until she saw Rosa punished. Well, she wouldn't have to wait too long.

McWilliam wasn't letting Rosa get away with anything.

"She's grieving. She's heartbroken."

"And I'm not?"

"Well, obviously you are. You wouldn't be acting like this otherwise."

"I know exactly what I'm doing. It's not grief. It's not anything other than a desire to protect my tenants."

"Regardless of your good intentions," Cameron said, taking a small step back and lowering his voice, "you're doing nobody a favor by waiting for her to admit her guilt. She's a born liar. She'll say anything to save herself."

"I know she lies. But she will admit to the truth."

"No." Cameron tugged at his hair again. "This crusade isn't worth it the stress you're putting Rhona through. We all know she's the criminal. Put her to trial now. Punish her now."

"Rhona's grief isn't going to disappear as soon as Rosa's been issued her punishment. She needs closure. She needs to hear Rosa admit—"

"She doesn't need anything of the sort."

McWilliam frowned. It wasn't like Cameron to argue against him so ferociously. It seemed Rosa was getting under everyone's skin. "Rhona hasn't been coping very well since father died," he continued, keeping his voice level. "In fact, I really think she ought to see a physician."

Cameron shook his head. "I had Duncan examine her when she first sprained her ankle. She's perfectly healthy."

"She didn't seem very well to me when I talked with her yesterday."

"She's fine." Cameron backed towards the door. "And McWilliam, don't take the sassenach back to Hearn's grave." He pulled open the door, rolling his eyes. "For God's sake, why can't you just hurry up and get her out of your system? Just fuck her."