He kissed her and loved her in utter silence. Nothing else existed but this twilit room with Beth under him—not Hart, not Fellows, not the murders.

He sensed her trying to make him look straight into her eyes, but he evaded her. If Ian looked directly at her, he’d get lost, and he didn’t want to distract himself from the physical reality of thrusting into her.

He loved her until the sky brightened, the short night rushing past. She smiled sleepily at him as he withdrew the final time, and he kissed her before dropping onto the bed beside her.

He slid his arm around her warm abdomen and spooned her back against him. Her shapely backside fit nicely against his hips, giving him ideas for the next round of loving. He looked at his large, strong hand covering her slim waist, his arm brown against her white skin. Ian would keep her safe with him here, so safe she’d never, ever want to leave. When Beth woke, she found the covers pulled around her and Ian still with her. Before she could ask about breakfast, his smile turned predatory. He pressed her back into the pillows and made love to her again, swift and hard, until she was breathless with it.

“We should get up now,” she whispered when he lay still again, on top of her, idly kissing her neck. “Why?”

“Won’t your brother expect us for breakfast?”

“I told Curry to serve us in here.”

Beth stroked his cheek. “I certainly hope you pay Curry high wages.”

“He doesn’t complain.”

“He stayed in the asylum with you?”

“Cameron sent him to look after me when I was fifteen. Cam decided I needed someone to shave me and look after my clothes. He was right. I was a mess.”

Curry came in at that moment bearing a tray heavy with silver and porcelain. Ian didn’t get up, but made sure Beth was covered while Curry pulled a table to the bed and set the tray on it.

As he had in Paris, Curry pretended he couldn’t see Beth as he set out the breakfast and poured fragrant tea into the waiting cups. He’d even brought newspapers from both London and Edinburgh, which he folded beside the plates.

He also deposited a few letters.

Beth felt like a decadent lady, lolling about in bed while a servant brought her food and drink. Mrs. Barrington never held with breakfast in bed, even in her last, weak days. Curry left them with a quick grin at Ian, and Ian decided he’d rather feed Beth in bed than have them rise and sit at the table.

He was quite good at it, giving her bits of bread and butter and feeding her eggs from a fork. She tried to take the fork from him and started laughing when he refused to give it to her.

Ian smiled, too, and then let Beth feed him. He liked her straddling his lap while she did it.

The whole day was like this—Ian making love to her, then the two of them lounging in the bed reading the newspapers while Curry brought them meals and drink and took away the remains.

“I like being an aristocratic lady,” Beth said as the afternoon wore on. “I’m still getting used to not having to rise at dawn and wait on someone else.”

“My servants will wait on you now.”

“They seem very cheerful about it.” The red-haired maids who’d come in to lay a fire and straighten the room had smiled broadly when Beth thanked them. Sunny, happy smiles, not sneering ones.

“They like you,” Ian said.

“They don’t know anything about me. I might be a termagant and scold them all hours of the day and night.” “Would you?”

“Of course not, but how do they know? Unless Curry has read them my dossier.”

“They trust Curry’s opinion.”

“Everyone does, it seems.”

“The family has served the Mackenzies forever. They’re clan Mackenzie themselves and have always worked on our land. Fought beside us and looked after us for generations.” “There is so much I must get used to.”

Ian said nothing, distracting her from chatter by sliding his hands under her br**sts and kissing her.

Later that afternoon, Ian took her to his collection room. Beth had the feeling of being ushered into a shrine. Shallow shelves with glass fronts had been built around the walls of the huge room, and more glass-shielded shelves ran through the middle. Ming bowls of all sizes and colors rested on small pedestals on the shelves, all labeled as to approximate year, maker, and other details. Some of the shelves were empty, waiting for the collection to grow.

“It’s like a museum.” Beth wandered the room in wonder.

“Where are the ones you bought in London?”

The shelves all looked the same to her, but Ian walked unerringly to one and extracted the red-painted bowl he’d bought from Mather.

She thought all the bowls pretty, but she wasn’t quite sure what it was about them that made Ian want to have a hundred. And he kept them so lovingly. Ian replaced the piece, walked to another seemingly random shelf, and removed another bowl. This one was flushed jade green and had three green-gray dragons around the outside. Beth clasped her hands. “How lovely.”

“It is yours.”

She stilled. “What?”

His gaze moved away, though his hands were rock steady.

“I give it to you. A wedding present.”

Beth stared at the bowl, a fragile piece of the past, such a delicate object in Ian’s large, blunt ringers. “Are you certain?” “Of course I’m certain.” His frown returned. “Do you not want it?”

“1 do want it,” Beth said hastily. She held her hands out for it. “I’m honored.”