"No!" Rosa kicked out with her feet, twisting back around towards the disappearing coaching inn. Dark rain clouds still hid the sun from view so that everything lay under a blanket of water and shadows. "I'm an escaped criminal!"

"Shut it," he said but without much force. The men Mistress Thomas had managed to gather together hadn't bothered to pursue them, most likely because they didn't have horses of their own. Their escape had gone better than expected.

"I've been kidnapped!" Rosa dove to the side, attempting to throw herself from Mist.

McWilliam hauled her upright, her lithe body easily manipulated. Her fear had apparently evaporated in the face of a possible rescue.

She hissed in the most unladylike fashion, digging an elbow into his stomach.

He grunted but didn't relent. Her elbows were boney, but the jab had little strength behind it. To him, she was tiny. A will o' the wisp; almost insubstantial. And yet, her back pressed against this chest certainly wasn't an apparition, nor was the smooth curve from waist to hip. Traitorous heat rippled through him.

Rain drops splattered her face, darkening her bronze hair almost black.

"Let go of me." She flashed a scowl over her shoulder. "I've had enough of this. You cannot take me across the border."

Strands had fallen loose from her simple braid and stuck to her forehead and cheeks in wet clumps, framing her face. Her half-moon birthmark was clear to his sight, even partially covered by the folds of her mantle.

Clenching his teeth, McWilliam trained his eyes on the side of her face. "That's funny," he said, barely moving his mouth, "because we should be crossing the border late this evening."

"No. No, no!" Again she tried to throw herself from Mist. Her efforts made little progress; his arm locked around her waist meant she wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. "You're..."

Her mouth opened and closed as she struggled to find the sourest epithet. She was play-acting of course. A thief of her caliber surely knew a few choice words for a situation like this. Even if she had been brought up in her uncle's household, with a drunk for a father and fellow criminals as associates, Rosa couldn't possibly be as innocent as she pretended.

"Bastard?" he suggested.

She sucked in a quiet breath.

For a second he thought she wouldn't take the bait, but then she flicked her braid over her shoulder, slapping him in the face with its wet tail. "Bastard."

"Now that's the first true thing you've ever said to me." The corner of his mouth twitched up. Rosa might have thought a simple promise to always tell him the truth would be enough to make him believe in her innocence, but she'd chosen the wrong man to mess with. Scots were notoriously stubborn and his family even more so than usual. She wouldn't be able to wear him down.

He brought his mouth to her ear, "You don't fool me, Thistle," he murmured.

The smell of lavender bathwater brushed his senses and something else. It was a scent he couldn't quite put his finger one, something he'd never smelt before. Something entirely Rosa Blair.

"You made me a promise, now I'm making you one. You'll admit you stole that money from me. And you'll admit to your theft before Whitsunday." Twelve days hence.

Aye, he'd make Rosa confess to her crime, and, when that moment happened, he'd pounce. She wasn't the ordinary governess she claimed to be. She had her secrets. Last night's nightmare had shown him a glimpse of her dark past.

"Bastard," she breathed again, her voice almost lost to the rain.

Silent laugher rumbled through his chest. It wouldn't take much to crack Rosa Blair.

* * *

Rosa's ear tingled from the closeness of his mouth, the hair on the back of her neck rising. She'd never admit to having stolen his money because the instant that she did, he'd lock her away. Not to mention the fact that she actually was innocent. She'd never stolen anything in her whole life; not a single length of satin ribbon let alone 3,000 pounds.

But he wasn't going to give up. She now knew that about him. His callused hand on her waist, his determination to keep her on his horse and his flat-out refusal to believe she spoke the truth all pointed to a single-mindedness of character she'd rarely come across before. He was like the rain currently soaking its way through the layers of her clothing: persistent and relentless. Combined with the sheer strength of his body, it was a miracle she hadn't given in to him already.

Rosa straightened her shoulders, her back rubbing against the iron block of his chest. She couldn't give in. She couldn't abandon Amelia.

What can you do against the strength of the Scot? a voice hissed at the back of her mind. You're nothing more than a governess.

A governess, yes but not a thief. She clung to that thought like it was a lifeline. She'd survived two years with the Wrights, and their three boys certainly hadn't been little angels by any stretch of the imagination. If she could survive two years of mud in her bed, snails in her shoes and rocks in her pockets for less than two guineas a month, she could survive thirteen days in the company of a Scotsman.

Twelve days now.

She turned her head to the right until she could see his face in her periphery. He had a warrior's physique—well over six feet, with broad shoulders, a wide chest and long muscular limbs. He didn't conform to English fashion with his hair cut short and not covered by a wig, and his belted plaid was unlike anything worn in London, or even Bradford for that matter.

Yesterday, thirteen days had seemed like a lifetime, today it felt like the sand was slipping through her fingers. If she was going to beat McWilliam at his own game, then she'd need every minute she could muster to argue her defence.

"How actually was I supposed to have stolen your money, my lord?" she asked as the horse slowed to a trot.

"Nice try." Blunt and boorish.

"Why don't you be a gentleman for just one moment and answer my question?" She would have more of a chance to prove her innocence if she actually knew what she was supposed to have done. The letter threatening Amelia's life if Rosa didn't take complete responsibility for the heist had given few particulars, listing only the date and time that the robbery had taken place. And while she'd done a little research about his estate, details had been scarce.

"I'm no gentleman."

A trill of something like fear and excitement rippled down Rosa's spine.

I'm no gentlemen.

It sounded more like warning than threat. If she was smart, Rosa thought, she'd keep her mouth shut, but she'd just decided to stand her ground, and she wasn't going to give up so easily. "Humor me."

Silence descended. Then she heard a creak as though he was grinding his teeth.

"My father warned me that trading with the English would get us into trouble," he said, eventually. The calmness of his voice suddenly seemed for show, as though there were deep things beneath the surface. "But I disagreed. We needed the money and trading in England was so much faster than sending a shipment to France or Spain."

"A shipment of what?"

"Wool." He ran his free hand down the side of his woolen plaid. "We have a couple of large flocks on the estate. Everyone's livelihood is linked with my family's business. Most of my clansman are shepherds, shearers and weavers. Wool provides us with food, shelter and warmth."

"What happened?"

He grunted in annoyance but answered anyway. "We received word that the ship carrying a year's worth of cargo had sunk."

"But that can hardly be my fault." She let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. No magistrate, English or Scottish, could convict her for the sinking of a ship. It wasn't like she could control the waves. The ocean was more unfathomable than any laird.

"But the ship didn't sink. You know it didn't." The arm around her waist tightened. She doubted even an earthquake could knock her from the horse. "That was all a lie. The ship reached port at London, and the money from the sale was stolen."

"How do you know?" The sea was a dangerous place. The newspapers were always reporting tragic shipping accidents.

"Two of my own men were on that ship. Murray was killed, but Rodd made it back. He was badly wounded from a sword cut to his arm, but he told me about the English thieves who'd attacked him." His tone of voice made it perfectly clear he thought Rosa completely and utterly responsible.

"Me? I didn't attack him. I couldn't hurt anyone." She raised an arm, indicating the lack of muscle needed to kill and injure two burly Scotsman.

"If you want to name your accomplices, I'm sure the magistrate will be very pleased to issue a warrant for their arrest."

"I don't have any accomplices. I didn't steal your precious money."

"Then tell me why a woman matching your description was seen at the docks just after the sale was made?"

She shook her head. She'd never been to the docks. She hadn't even been in London during the heist. She'd been in Bradford looking after the Wright boys.

"I wasn't there," she said, shaking her head more firmly.

"Bull."

"What about the man who made it back to Scotland? He could have easily lied about seeing me there."

"My clan doesn't lie." The fire had returned. He burnt hot and hard. Rosa swallowed. It wasn't just his voice the fire claimed, his whole body seemed to burn against her back. His anger: palpable.

"Alright. I can't be the only woman in all of England with brown hair and..." she waved a hand at her body, "last season's clothes."

"Bronze," he returned quickly, as though the words had been unthinking.

"What?"

"Your hair is bronze."

She didn't know why the distinction was important. "All right. I can't be the only woman in all of England with bronze hair and last season's—"

"Aye, wee lass, it was you. He could describe your birthmark." He brushed hot fingers against the side of her neck.

That wasn't possible. The likelihood of someone else sporting the same birthmark in the same place was almost incalculably small.

Which would mean only one thing: someone had gone to great lengths to set her up. Probably the same person who'd written the threatening letter and kidnapped Amelia.

She clenched her fists. The culprit had always planned, from the very beginning, to have Rosa take the blame for their crime.

But what had she ever done to make them hate her so much? She didn't know any thieves. And she'd never ventured into society. Neither the daughters of drunks nor governesses were very welcome by the ton.

"It's obviously a set-up." She struggled down from the horse, and this time McWilliam let her. She turned to face him as his own feet touched ground. "Someone has set me up, my lord. Don't you think I would have hidden my birthmark if I hadn't wanted to have been recognized?"

"It was dark. You probably thought it was worth the risk." He let out a hard and fast huff of air. "It's not like you expected any Scotsmen to survive to tell the tale."

"I can't believe you think I'm lying." Why wasn't he listening to her? Why couldn't he see she spoke the truth? "If I'm guilty then why did I hand myself in to the Runner?" She poked an accusatory finger to his hard chest.

He didn't budge. "You didn't hand yourself in."

"I did." A tight ball of anger was growing in her chest. Breathing was becoming hard, and her mouth ached as if she'd been clenching her jaw. "Ask Runner Smith," she demanded.

"And how am I going to do that?" he raised an eyebrow, apparently finding her anger amusing.

"This isn't funny." She was innocent, and she was going to make him see that.

"It's heading that way." He crossed his arms, a ghost of a smile now tugging at his lips.

"Take me back. We can find Smith, and he'll collaborate my story."

"We're not going back to the Bow Street Runners."

"Fine. Take me back, and I'll prove to you that my cousin was kidnapped."

"Nay."

"Yes."

"Nay."

"Come on." She grabbed at the horse, trying to turn her around. "My uncle will be devastated by Amelia's kidnapping. Send him a message, and he'll verify her disappearance." Proving Amelia's disappearance would prove Rosa had always been telling the truth, and when McWilliam realized that, he'd know she was innocent. "He lives near Manchester. That's not too far from here. It wouldn't take us long to reach him."

The horse flicked her ears. Without reins or a saddle, she seemed even less inclined to do as Rosa instructed as the last time.

"Thistle." He grabbed her hand, his fingers practically swallowing her own. "No matter how often or how forcefully you protest, I will take you across that border."

"Don't touch me." She tugged her hand backwards, and he relented with another teasing raise of an eyebrow.

Fury raged through her. "You're baiting me!"

"I don't know that you mean." This time he didn't even bother suppressing his smile.

"You're trying to make me say things that aren't true by making me angry." She poked his chest again. "I'll never say what you want me to because I didn't steal your money."

"You're being unreasonable. The sooner you admit—"

"No." She didn't bother letting him finish. She stamped her foot. And she never stamped her foot. Not once in two years as a governess. "You listen to me, Anndrais McWilliam. You're obviously a man who's used to getting his own way. Well, not this time. You've kidnapped the wrong woman. I will get to Leeds before time is up, and I will save my cousin."

He leant forward, his forehead almost brushing her own, and whispered a single heartless word: "Liar."